"Have some more wine," Maati said, clinking the envoy's bowl with his
own, but Cehmai shook his head and gestured toward the wooded path. A
slave girl was trotting toward them, her robes billowing behind her.
Athai put down his bowl and stood, pulling at his sleeves. Here was the
moment they had been awaiting-the call for Athai to join the caravan to
the East. Maati sighed with relief. Half a hand, and his library would
be his own again. The envoy took a formal pose of farewell that Maati
and Cehmai returned.
"I will send word as soon as I can, Maati-kvo," Athai said. "I am
honored to have studied with you."
Maati nodded uncomfortably; then, after a moment's awkward silence,
Athai turned. Maati watched until the slave girl and poet had both
vanished among the trees, then let out a breath. Cehmai chuckled as he
put the stopper into the flask of wine.
"Yes, I agree," Cehmai said. "I think the I)ai-kvo must have chosen him
specifically to annoy the Khai."
"Or he just wanted to be rid of him for a time," Maati said.
"I liked him," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Well, as much as I like anyone."
The three walked together into the poet's house. The rooms within were
neatly kept-shelves of books and scrolls, soft couches and a table laid
out with the black and white stones on their hoard. A lemon candle
burned at the window, but a fly still buzzed wildly about the corners of
the room. It seemed that every winter Maati forgot about the existence
of flies, only to rediscover them in spring. He wondered where the
insects all went during the vicious cold, and what the signal was for
them to return.
"He isn't wrong, you know," Cehmai said. "If you're right, it will be
the most important piece of analysis since the fall of the Empire."
"I've likely overlooked something. It isn't as though we haven't seen
half a hundred schemes to bring hack the glory of the past before now,
and there hasn't been one that's done it."
"And I wasn't there to look at the other ideas," Cehmai said. "But since
I was here to talk this one over, I'd say this is at least plausible.
That's more than most. And the Dai-kvo's likely to think the same."
"He'll probably dismiss it out of hand," Maati said, but he smiled as he
spoke.
Cehmai had been the first one he'd shown his theories to, even before
he'd known for certain what they were. It had been a curiosity more than
anything else. It was only as they'd talked about it that Maati had
understood the depths he'd touched upon. And Cehmai had also been the
one to encourage bringing the work to the Dai-kvo's attention. All
Athai's enthusiasm and hyperbole paled beside a few thoughtful words
from Cchmai.
Maati stayed awhile, talking and laughing, comparing impressions of
Athai now that he'd left. And then he took his leave, walking slowly
enough that he didn't become short of breath. Fourteen, almost fifteen
years ago, he'd come to Machi. The black stone roadways, the constant
scent of the coal smoke billowing up from the forges, the grandeur of
the palaces and the hidden city far beneath his feet had become his home
as no other place ever had before. He strode down pathways of crushed
marble, under archways that flowed with silken banners. A singing slave
called from the gardens, a simple melody of amazing clarity and longing.
He turned down a smaller way that would take him to his apartments
behind the library.
Nlaati found himself wondering what he would do if the I)ai-kvo truly
thought his discovery had merit. It was an odd thought. He had spent so
many years now in disgrace, first tainted by the death of his master
Heshai, then by his choice to divide his loyalty between his lover and
son on the one hand and the Dai-kvo on the other. And then at last his
entrance into the politics of the court, wearing the robes of the poet
and supporting Otah Machi, his old friend and enemy, to become Khai
Machi. It had been simple enough to believe that his promotion to the
ranks of the poets had been a mistake. He had, after all, been gifted
certain insights by an older boy who had walked away from the schooclass="underline"
Otah, before he'd been a laborer or a courier or a Khai. Maati had
reconciled himself to a smaller life: the library, the companionship of
a few friends and those lovers who would bed a disgraced poet halfway to
fat with rich foods and long, inactive hours.
After so many years of failure, the thought that he might shake off that
reputation was unreal. It was like a dream from which he could only hope
never to wake, too pleasant to trust in.
Eiah was sitting on the steps when he arrived, frowning intently at a
moth that had lighted on the back of her hand. Her face was such a clear
mix of her parents-Kiyan's high cheeks, Otah's dark eyes and easy smile.
Maati took a pose of greeting as he walked up, and when Eiah moved to
reply, the moth took wing, chuffing softly through the air and away. In
flight, the wings that had been simple brown shone black and orange.
"Athai's gone then?" she asked as Maati unlocked the doors to his
apartments.
"He's likely just over the bridge by now."
Maati stepped in, Eiah following him without asking or being asked. It
was a wide room, not so grand as the palaces or so comfortable as the
poet's house. A librarian's room, ink blocks stacked beside a low desk,
chairs with wine-stained cloth on the arms and hack, a small bronze
brazier dusted with old ash. Maati waved Eiah off as she started to
close the door.
"Let the place air out a bit," he said. "It's warm enough for it now.
And what's your day been, Eiah-kya?"
"Father," she said. "He was in a mood to have a family, so I had to stay
in the palaces all morning. He fell asleep after midday, and Mother said
I could leave."
"I'm surprised. I wasn't under the impression Otah slept anymore. He
always seems hip-deep in running the city."
Eiah shrugged, neither agreeing nor voicing her denial. She paced the
length of the room, squinting out the door at nothing. Maati folded his
hands together on his belly, considering her.
"Something's bothering you," he said.
The girl shook her head, but the frown deepened. Maati waited until,
with a quick, birdlike motion, Eiah turned to face him. She began to
speak, stopped, and gathered herself visibly.
"I want to be married," she said.
Maati blinked, coughed to give himself a moment to think, and leaned
forward in his chair. The wood and cloth creaked slightly beneath him.
Eiah stood, her arms crossed, her gaze on him in something almost like
accusation.
"Who is the boy?" Maati said, regretting the word boy as soon as it left
his mouth. If they were speaking of marriage, the least he could do was
say man. But Eiah's impatient snort dismissed the question.