Daniel Abraham - THE

"You know what Maati looks like," he said. "You have the experience of

living among low towns and hiding who you are. You understand poets as

well as anyone alive, I'd guess."

"And I know what I'm looking for," she said, her voice light and

conversational. "Anyone else, and you'd have to bring them into your

confidence. Explain what you wanted to know and why. Well, Sinja-cha

perhaps, but you've sent him off the other direction."

This is madness, Otah thought but didn't say. She is a killer. She was

born without a conscience. However she may seem now, she slaughtered her

brothers and the father she loved. She's got the eyes of a pit hound and

the heart of a butcher.

"Will you do it?" he said aloud.

Idaan didn't answer at once. A gust of wind pushed at her sleeve and

drew a lock of gray hair out behind her like a banner from the mast of a

fighting ship. Otah's hands ached, and he forced his fists to open by an

act of will.

"Maati hunted me once," she said, hardly louder than the wind. "It only

seems fair to return the favor."

Otah closed his eyes. Perhaps it was an empty task. Eiah might very well

have nothing to do with Maati's schemes. She might truly be working with

some low-town physician, hoping through her own hard work to atone for

her father's misdeeds. For his misdeeds. When he looked up, his sister

was considering him with hooded eyes.

"I will have a cart and driver ready for you in the morning," he said.

"You'll be able to take whatever fresh horses or food you need along the

way. I've written the orders up already."

"All the horses and food we need along the way?" Idaan said. "You're

right. Being Emperor must be raw hell."

He didn't answer her. She finished the rice and fish. The clouds behind

her had gone dark, and since neither had called for candles or torches,

the only light was the cold blue moon and the fiery embers in the

brazier. Idaan took a pose that accepted his charge.

"You don't want to negotiate payment?" he said.

"I'm just pleased you've decided to do the thing. I was afraid you'd put

it off until it was too late," Idaan said. "One question, though. If I

find her, and she is the one, what action should I take?"

Meaning should Idaan kill her, kill Maati and as many of the other

fledgling poets as she could to prevent them from accomplishing their aims.

Do what needs doing.

"Nothing," Otah said, nerve failing. "Do nothing. There will be couriers

in Pathai. You can send the fastest of them back. I'll give you a cipher."

"You're sure?" Idaan said. "It's a lot of time on the road, sending me

out and then someone else back. And then waiting while you make your way

to Pathai or wherever the trail leads."

"If you find her, send word," Otah said. "You aren't to act against her."

Idaan's smile was crooked with meanings he couldn't quite follow. Otah

felt anger growing in his spine, only it wasn't rage so much as dread.

"I'll do as you say, Most High," Idaan said. "I'll go at first light."

"Thank you," he said.

Idaan rose and walked back toward the arches. He heard her pause for a

moment and then go on. The stars had come out, glimmering in the

darkness like gems thrown on black stone. Otah sat in silence until he

was sure he could walk, and then went down to his rooms. The servants

had left him a bowl of candied fruit, but he couldn't stand the prospect.

A fire burned in the grate, protecting the air from even the slightest

chill and tainting it with tendrils of pine smoke. The summer cities had

always been overly vigilant of cold. Thin blood. Everything south of

Udun was plagued by thinness of the blood. Otah came from the winter

cities, and he threw open the shutters, letting in what cold there was.

He didn't notice that Danat was there until the boy spoke.

"Father."

Otah turned. Danat stood in the doorway that led to the inner chambers.

He wore the same robe that he had before, but the cloth sagged like an

unmade bed. Danat's eyes were rimmed with red.

"Danat-kya," Otah said. "What's happened?"

"I've done as you said. Shija and I went to the rose pavilion. Just the

two of us. I ... spoke with her. I broke things off."

"Ah," Otah said. He walked back from the open windows and sat on a couch

before the fire. Danat came forward, his eyes glittering with unfallen

tears.

"This is my fault, Papa-kya. In a different world, I might have ... I

have been careless with her. I've hurt her."

Was I ever as young as this? Otah thought, and immediately pressed it

away. Even if the question was fair, it was unkind. He held out his

hand, and his son-his tall, thick-shouldered son-sat beside him, curled

into Otah's shoulder the way he had as a boy. Danat sobbed once.

"I only ... I know you and Issandra-cha were relying on me and . .

Otah hushed the boy.

"You've taken a willing girl to bed," Otah said. "You aren't who she

hoped you might be, and so she's disappointed. Yes?"

Danat nodded.

"There are worse things." Otah saw again the darkness of Idaan's eyes.

He was sending the woman behind those eyes after his Eiah, his little

girl. The ghost of nausea touched him and he stroked Danat's hair.

"People have done worse."

14

Maati frowned at the papers before him. A small fire crackled in the

brazier on his desk, and he was more than half-tempted to drop the pages

onto the flames. Eiah, sitting across from him, looked no more pleased.

"You're right," he said. "We're moving backward."

"What's happened?" Eiah asked, though she knew as well as he did.

The few weeks that had passed since Vanjit's successful binding had only

grown more difficult. To start, the other students excepting Eiah were

more distracted. The mewling and cries of the andat disrupted any

conversation. Its awkward crawling seemed capable of entrancing them for

a full morning. Perhaps he had known too much of the andat, but he held

the growing impression that it was perfectly aware of the effect its

toothless smile could have. And that it was especially cultivating the

admiration of Ashti Beg.

Added to that, Vanjit herself had come almost disconnected from the

rest. She would sit for whole days, the andat in her lap or at her

breast, staring at water or empty air. Maati had some sympathy for that.

She had shown him the most compelling of the wonders her new powers had

uncovered, and he had been as delighted as she was. But her little

raptures meant that she wasn't engaged in the work at hand: Eiah, and

the binding of Wounded.

"There is something we can do," Eiah said. "If we set the classes in the

mornings, just after the first meal, we won't have had a full day behind

us. We could come at it fresh each time."

Maati nodded more to show he'd heard her than from any real agreement.

His fingertips traced the lines of the binding again, tapping the page

each time some little infelicity struck him. He had seen bindings falter

this way before. In those first years when Maati had been a new poet,

the Dai-kvo had spoken of the dangers of muddying thoughts by too much

work. One sure way to fail was to build something sufficient and then

not stop. With every small improvement, the larger structure became less

tenable, until eventually the thing collapsed under the weight of too

much history.

He wondered if they had gone too far, corrected one too many things

which were not truly problems so much as differences of taste.