spoke of sadness and isolation. And anger, she thought.
She had known when she arrived that she'd found the right apartments. It
hadn't been difficult to get directions to Machi's extra poet, and the
door had been open. She'd scratched at the doorframe, called out his
name, and when she'd stepped in, it was the scent that had been
familiar. Certainly there had been other things-the way the scrolls were
laid out, the ink stains on the arms of the chairs-that gave evidence to
Maati's presence. The faintest hint, a wisp of musk slight as pale
smoke, was the thing that had brought back the flood of memory. For a
powerful moment, she saw again the small house she'd lived in after she
and Maati had left Saraykeht; the yellow walls and rough, wooden floor,
the dog who had lived in the street and only ever been half tamed by her
offerings of sausage ends from the kitchen window, the gray spiders that
had built their webs in the corners. The particular scent of her old
lover's body brought back those rooms. She knew him better by that than
to see him again in the flesh.
But perhaps that wasn't true. When he blinked fast and uncertainly, when
his head leaned just slightly forward and a smile just began to bloom on
his lips, she could see him there, beneath that flesh. The man she had
known and loved. The man she'd left behind.
"Liat?" he said. "You ... you're here?"
She took a pose of affirmation, surprised to find her hands trembling.
Maati stepped forward slowly, as if afraid a sudden movement might
startle her into flight. Liat swallowed to loosen the knot in her throat
and smiled.
"I would have written to warn you I was coming," she said, "hut by the
time I knew I was, I'd have raced the letter. I'm ... I'm sorry if ..."
But he touched her arm, his fingers on the cloth just above her elbow.
His eyes were wide and amazed. As if it were natural, as if it had been
a week or a day and not a third of their lives, Liat put her arms around
him and felt him enclose her. She had told herself that she would hold
back, he careful. She was the head of House Kyaan, a woman of business
and politics. She knew how to be hardhearted and cool. There was no
reason to think that she would he safe here in the farthest city from
her home and facing again the two lovers of her childhood. The years had
worked changes on them all, and she had parted with neither of them on
good terms.
And yet the tears in her eyes were simple and sincere and as much joy as
sorrow, and the touch of Maati's body against her own-strange and
familiar both-wasn't awkward or unwelcome. She kissed his cheek and drew
back enough to see his still wonder-filled face.
"Well," she said at last. "It's been a while. It's good to see you
again, Maati-kya. I wasn't sure it would be, but it is."
"I thought I'd never see you again," he said. "I thought, after all this
time ... My letters ..."
"I got them, yes. And it's not as if court gossip didn't tell everyone
in the world where you were. The last succession of Machi was the
favorite scandal of the season. I even saw an epic made from it. The boy
who took your part didn't look a thing like you," she said, and then, in
a lower voice, "I meant to write hack to you, even if it was only to
tell you that I'd heard. That I knew. But somehow I never managed. I
regret that. I've always regretted that. It only seemed so ... complex."
"I thought perhaps ... I don't know. I don't know what I thought."
She stood silently in his arms the space of another breath, part of her
wishing that this moment might suffice; that the relief she felt at
Maati's simple, unconsidered acceptance might stand in for all that she
had still to do. He sensed the change in her thoughts and stepped hack,
his hands moving restlessly. She smoothed her hair, suddenly aware of
the streaks of gray at her temple.
"Can I get something for you?" Maati said. "It's simple enough to call a
servant in from the palaces. Or I have some distilled wine here."
"Wine will do," she said, and sat.
He went to a low cabinet beside the fire grate, sliding the wooden panel
back and taking out two small porcelain bowls and a stoppered bottle as
he spoke.
"I've had company recently. He's only just left. I don't usually live in
this disorder."
"I'm not sure I believe that," she said, wryly. Maati chuckled and shrugged.
"Oh, I don't clean it myself. It would he a hundred times worse than
this. Otah-kvo's been very kind in loaning me servants. He has more than
he has places for."
The name was like a cold breath, but Liat only smiled and accepted the
bowl that Nlaati held out to her. She sipped the wine-strong, peppery,
and warm in her throat-to give herself a moment. She wasn't ready yet
for the pleasure to end.
"The world's changed on us," she said. It was a platitude, but Maati
seemed to take some deeper meaning from it.
"It has," he said. "And it'll keep on changing, I think. When I was a
boy, I never imagined myself here, and I can't say for certain what I'll
be doing when next summer comes. The new Dal-kvo ..."
He shook his head slowly and sipped his wine for what Liat guessed was
much the same reason she had. The silence between them grew. Maati
cleared his throat.
"How is Nayiit?" he asked, careful, Liat noticed, to use the boy's name.
Not our son, but Nayiit.
She told him about the work of House Kyaan, and Nayiit's role as an
overseer. The stories of how he had made the transition from the child
of the head of the house to an overseer in his own right. His courtship,
his marriage, the child. Maati closed the door, lit a fire in the grate,
and listened.
It was odd that of all the subjects she had to bring to the table,
Nayiit should be the easiest. And Maati listened to it all, laughing or
rapt, delighted and also sorrowful, longing to have been part of
something that was already gone. Her words were like rain in a desert;
he absorbed them, cherished them. She found herself searching for
more-anecdotes of Nayiit and his friends, his early lovers, the city,
anything. She searched for them and offered them up, part apology, part
sacrifice. The candles had grown visibly shorter before he asked whether
Nayiit had stayed in Saraykeht, and Liat reluctantly shook her head.
"I've left him at the wayhouse," she said. "I wasn't certain how this
would go, between us. I didn't want him to be here if it was bad."
Mlaati's hands started to move toward some pose-a denial, perhaps-then
faltered. His eyes locked on hers. "There were decades in them. She felt
tears welling up.
"I'm sorry," she said. "If that's worth anything, I am sorry, Maatikya."
"For what?" he asked, and his tone said that he could imagine a number