Daniel Abraham - THE

rehearsing it in their minds and conversations. The event, of course,

was nothing like what they'd planned.

When word came, Calin was with his tutor, an ancient man from Acton,

working complex sums. They were seated in the sunlight of the spring

garden. Almond blossoms turned the tree branches white even before the

first leaves had ventured out. Calin frowned at the wax tablet on his

knees, trying not to count on his fingers. Hesitating, he lifted his

stylus and marked his answer. His tutor made a noncommittal sound in the

back of his throat and Gaber appeared at the end of the arcade, running

full out.

"It's here!" she screamed. "It's here!"

Before any adult could object, Calin joined her flight. Tablet, stylus,

and sums were forgotten in an instant. They ran past the pavilions that

marked palaces from merchants' compounds, the squares and open markets

that showed where the great compound gave way to the haunts of common

labor. The streets were thick with humanity, and Calin threaded his way

through the press of bodies aided by his youth, the quality of his

robes, and the boyish instinct that saw all obstacles as ephemeral.

He reached the Emperor's platform just before the caravan arrived. Wide

plumes of smoke and steam stained the southern sky, and the air smelled

of coal. Danat and Ana were already there, seated in chairs of carved

stone with silk cushions. Otah Machi-the Emperor himselfsat on a raised

dais, his hands resting like fragile claws on the arms of a black

lacquer chair. Calin's grandfather looked over as he arrived and smiled.

Danat's expression was distracted in a way that reminded Calin of doing

sums. His mother was craning her neck and trying not to seem that she was.

It hardly mattered. The crowd that pressed and seethed around the yard

at the caravan road's end had eyes only for the great carts speeding

toward them, faster than horses at full gallop. Calin sat at his

mother's feet, his intended perch nearest his friends forgotten. The

first of the carts came near enough to make out the raised dais, twin of

his grandfather's, and the stiff-backed white-haired woman sitting atop

it. Calin's mother left all decorum, and stood, waving and calling to

her mother.

Calin felt his father's hand on his shoulder and turned.

"Watch this," Danat said. "Pay attention. That caravan reached us in

half the time even a boat could have. What you're seeing right now is

going to change everything."

Calin nodded solemnly as if he understood.

It is true that the world is renewed. It is also true that that renewal

comes at a price.

CEHMAI TYAN SAT ACROSS THE MEETING TABLE FROM THE HIGH COUNCIL'S special

envoy. The man was nondescript, his clothing of Galtic cut and

unremarkable quality. Cehmai didn't like the envoy, but he respected

him. He'd known too many dangerous men in his life not to.

The envoy read the letters-ciphered and sent between a fictional

merchant in Obar State and Cehmai himself here in Utani. They outlined

the latest advance in the poetmaster's rebuilding of the lost libraries

of Machi, which also had not happened. Cehmai sipped tea from an iron

bowl and looked out the window. He couldn't see the steam caravan from

here, but he had a good view of the river. It was at the point he liked

it most, the water freed by the thaw, the banks not yet overgrown by

green. No matter how many years passed, he still felt a personal

affinity with earth and stone.

The envoy finished reading, his mouth in a smile that would have seemed

pleasant and perhaps a bit simple on someone else.

"Is any of this true?" the envoy asked.

"Danat-cha did send a dozen men into the foothills north of Machi,"

Cehmai said, "and Maati-kvo and I did spend a winter there. Past that,

nothing. But it should keep Eddensea's attention on sneaking through to

search for it themselves. And we're in the process of forging books that

we can then `recover' in a year or so."

The envoy tucked the letters into a leather pouch at his belt. He didn't

look up as he spoke.

"That brings a question," the man said. "I know we've talked about this

before, but I'm not sure you've fully grasped the advantages that could

come from leaning a little nearer the truth. Nothing that would be

effective. We all understand that. But our enemies all have scholars

working at these problems. If they were able to come close enough that

the bindings cost them, if they paid the andat's price-"

Cehmai took a pose of query. "Wouldn't that be doing your work for you?"

he asked.

"My job is to see they don't succeed," the envoy said. "A few

mysterious, grotesque deaths would help me find the people involved."

"It would give away too much," Cehmai said. "Bringing them near enough

to be hurt by the effort would also bring them near to succeed„ ing.

The envoy looked at him silently. His placid eyes conveyed only a mild

distrust.

"If you have a threat to make, feel free," Cehmai said. "It won't do you

any good."

"Of course there's no threat, Cehmai-cha," the envoy said. "We're all on

the same side here."

"Yes," the poetmaster said, rising from his chair with a pose that

called the meeting to its close. "Try to keep it in mind."

His apartments were across the palaces. He made his way along the

pathways of white and black sand, past the singing slaves and the

fountain in the shape of the Galtic Tree that marked the wing devoted to

the High Council. The men and women he passed nodded to him with

deference, but few took any formal pose. A decade of joint rule had led

to a thousand small changes in etiquette. Cehmai supposed it was

smallminded of him to regret them.

Idaan was sitting on the porch of their entranceway, tugging at a length

of string while a gray tomcat worried the other end. He paused, watching

her. Unlike her brother, she'd grown thicker with time, more solid, more

real. He must have made some small sound, because she looked up and

smiled at him.

"How was the assassin's conference?" she asked.

The tomcat forgot his string and trotted up to Cehmai, already purring

audibly. He stopped to scratch its fight-ragged ears.

"I wish you wouldn't call it that," he said.

"Well, I wish my hair were still dark. It is what it is, love. Politics

in action."

"Cynic," he said as he reached the porch.

"Idealist," she replied, pulling him down to kiss him.

Far to the east, an early storm fell from clouds dark as bruises, a veil

of gray. Cehmai watched it, his arm around his lover's shoulder. She

leaned her head against him.

"How was the Emperor this morning?" he asked.

"Fine. Excited to see Issandra-cha again as much as anything about the

caravan. I think he's more than half infatuated with her."

"Oh please," Cehmai said. "This will be his seventy-ninth summer? His

eightieth?"

"And you won't still want me when you've reached the age?"

"Well. Fair point."

"His hands bother him most," Idaan said. "It's a pity about his hands."

Lightning flashed on the horizon, less that a firefly. Idaan twined her

fingers with his and sighed.

"Have I mentioned recently how much I appreciate you coming to find me?

Back when you were an outlaw and I was still a judge, I mean," she asked.

"I never tire of hearing it," Cehmai said.

The tomcat leaped on his lap, dug its claws into his robe twice,

kneading him like bread dough, and curled up.