decision.
He left the bathhouse, following a broad, low tunnel to the east where
it would join a larger passage, one of the midwinter roads, which in
turn ran beneath the trees outside the poet's house before it broke into
a thousand maze-like corridors running under the old city. Along the
length of the passage, men and women stood or sat, some talking, some
singing. An old man, his dog lying at his feet, sold bread and sausages
from a hand cart. The girls he'd seen in the bathhouse had been joined
by young men, joking and posing in the timeless rituals of courtship.
Stone-Made-Soft was kneeling by the wall, looking out over all of it,
silently judging what it would take to bring the roof down and bury them
all. Cehmai reached out with his will and tugged at the andat. Still
smiling, Stone-Made-Soft rose and ambled over.
"I think the one on the far left was hoping to meet you," it said,
gesturing to the knot of young men and women as it drew near. "She was
watching you all the time we were in the baths."
"Perhaps it was Baraath she was looking at," Cehmai said.
"You think so?" the andat said. "I suppose he's a decent looking man.
And many women are overcome by the romance of the librarian. No doubt
you're right."
"Don't," Cehmai said. "I don't want to play that game again."
Something like real sympathy showed in the andat's wide face. The
struggle at the back of Cehmai's mind neither worsened nor diminished as
Stone-Made-Soft's broad hand reached out to rest on his shoulder.
"Enough," it said. "You did what you had to do, and whipping yourself
now won't help you or her. Let's go meet that girl. Talk to her. We can
find someone selling sweetcakes. Otherwise we'll only go back to the
rooms and sulk away another night."
Cehmai looked over, and indeed, the girl farthest to the left-her long,
dark hair unbound, her robes well cut and the green of jadecaught his
eyes, and blushing, looked away. He had seen her before, he realized.
She was beautiful, and he did not know her name.
"Perhaps another day," he said.
"There are only so many other days," the andat said, its voice low and
gentle. "I may go on for generations, but you little men rise and fall
with the seasons. Stop biting yourself. It's been months."
"One more day. I'll bite myself for one more day at least," Cehmai said.
"Come on."
The andat sighed and dropped its hand to its side. Cehmai turned east,
walking into the dim tunnels. He felt the temptation to look back, to
see whether the girl was watching his departure and if she was, what
expression she wore. He kept his eyes on the path before him and the
moment passed.
THE KHAI MACHI HAD NO OTHER NAME NOW THAT HE HAI) TAKEN HIS FAther's
office. It had been stripped from him in formal ceremony. He had
renounced it and sworn before the gods and the Emperor that he would be
nothing beyond this trust with which he had been charged. Otah had
forced his way through the ceremony, bristling at both the waste of time
and the institutional requirement that he lie in order to preserve
etiquette. Of Itani Noygu, Otah Machi, and the Khai Machi, the last was
the one least in his heart. But he was willing to pretend to have no
other self and the utkhaiem and the priests and the people of the city
were all willing to pretend to believe him. It was all like some
incredibly long, awkward, tedious game. And so when the rare occasion
arose when he could do something real, something with consequences, he
found himself enjoying it more perhaps than it deserved.
The emissary from Galt looked as if he were trying to convince himself
he'd misunderstood.
"Most high," he said, "I came here as soon as our ambassadors sent word
that they'd been expelled. It was a long journey, and winter travel's
difficult in the north. I had hoped that we could address your concerns
and ..."
Otah took a pose that commanded silence, then sat back on the black
lacquer chair that had grown no more comfortable in the months since
he'd first taken it. He switched from speaking in the Khaiate tongue to
Galtic. It seemed, if anything, to make the man more uncomfortable.
"I appreciate that the generals and lords of Gait are so interested in
... what? Addressing my concerns? And I thank you for coming so quickly,
even when I'd made it clear that you were not particularly welcome."
"I apologize, most high, if I've given offense."
"Not at all," Otah said, smiling. "Since you've come, you can do me the
favor of explaining again to the High Council how precarious their
position is with me. The Dai-kvo has been alerted to all I've learned,
and he shares my opinion and my policy."
"But I-"
"I know the role your people played in the succession. And more than
that, I know what happened in Saraykeht. Your nation survives now on my
sufferance. If word reaches me of one more intervention in the matters
of the cities of the Khaiem or the poets or the andat, I will wipe your
people from the memory of the world."
The emissary opened his mouth and closed it again, his eyes darting
about as if there was a word written somewhere on the walls that would
open the floodgates of his diplomacy. Otah let the silence press at him.
"I don't understand, most high," he managed at last.
"Then go home," Otah said, "and repeat what I've told you to your
overseer and then to his, and keep doing so until you find someone who
does. If you reach the High Council, you'll have gone far enough."
"I'm sure if you'll just tell me what's happened to upset you, most
high, there must be something I can do to make it right."
Otah pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. For a moment, he
remembered Saraykeht-the feel of the poet's death struggles tinder his
own hand. He remembered the fires that had consumed the compound of the
Vaunyogi and the screams and cries of his sister as her husband and his
father met their ends.
"You can't make this right," he said, letting his weariness show in his
voice. "I wish that you could."
"But the contracts ... I can't go back without some agreement made, most
high. If you want me to take your message back, you have to leave me
enough credibility that anyone will hear it."
"I can't help you," Otah said. "Take the letter I've given you and go
home. Now."
As he turned and left the room, the letter in his hand sewn shut and
sealed, the Galt moved like a man newly awakened. At Otah's gesture, the
servants followed the emissary and pulled the great bronze doors closed
behind them, leaving him alone in the audience chamber. The pale silk
banners shifted in the slight breath of air. The charcoal in the iron
braziers glowed, orange within white. He pressed his hands to his eyes.
He was tired, terribly tired. And there was so much more to be done.
He heard the scrape of the servant's door behind him, heard the soft,
careful footsteps and the faintest jingling of mail. He rose and turned,
his robes shifting with a sound like sand on stone. Sinja took a pose of
greeting.
"You sent for me, most high?"
"I've just sent the Galts packing again," Otah said.
"I heard the last of it. Do you think they'll keep sending men to bow
and scrape at your feet? I was thinking how gratifying it must be, being
able to bully a whole nation of people you've never met."
"Actually, it isn't. I imagine news of it will have spread through the
city by nightfall. More stories of the Mad Khai."
"You aren't called that. Upstart's still the most common. After the
wedding, there was a week or so of calling you the shopkeeper's wife,
but I think it was too long. An insult can only sustain a certain number
of syllables."
"Thank you," Otah said. "I feel much better now."
"You are going to have to start caring what they think, you know. These
are people you're going to be living with for the rest of your life.
Starting off by proving how disrespectful and independent you can be is
only going to make things harder. And the Galts carry quite a few
contracts," Sinja said. "Are you sure you want me away just now? It's
traditional to have a guard close at hand when you're cultivating new
enemies.
"Yes, I want you to go. If the utkhaiem are talking about the Galts,
they may talk less about Idaan."
"You know they won't forget her. It doesn't matter what other issues you
wave at them, they'll come back to her."
"I know. But it's the best I can do for now. Are you ready?"
"I have everything I need prepared. We can do it now if you'd like."
"I would."
THREE ROOMS HAI) BEEN HER WORLD. A NARROW BED, A CHEAP IRON BRAzier, a
night pot taken away every second day. The armsmen brought her bits of
candle-stubs left over from around the palaces. Once, someone had
slipped a book in with her meal-a cheap translation of Westland court
poems. Still, she'd read them all and even started com posing some of
her own. It galled her to be grateful for such small kindnesses,
especially when she knew they would not have been extended to her had
she been a man.
The only breaks came when she was taken out to walk down empty tunnels,
deep under the palaces. Armsmen paced behind her and before her, as if
she were dangerous. And her mind slowly folded in on itself, the days
passing into weeks, the ankle she'd cracked in her fall mending. Some
days she felt lost in dreams, struggling to wake only to wish herself
back asleep when her mind came clear. She sang to herself. She spoke to
Adrah as if he were still there, still alive. As if he still loved her.
She raged at Cehmai or bedded him or begged his forgiveness. All on her
narrow bed, by the light of candle stubs.
She woke to the sound of the bolt sliding open. She didn't think it was
time to be fed or walked, but time had become a strange thing lately.
When the door opened and the man in the black and silver robes of the
Khai stepped in she told herself she was dreaming, half fearing he had
come to kill her at last, and half hoping for it.
The Khai Machi looked around the cell. His smile seemed forced.
"You might not think it, but I've lived in worse," he said.
"Is that supposed to comfort me?"
"No," he said.
A second man entered the room, a thick bundle under his arm. A soldier,
by his stance and by the mail that he wore under his robes. Idaan sat
up, gathering herself, preparing for whatever came and desperate that
the men not turn and close the door again behind them. The Khai Machi
hitched up his robes and squatted, his hack against the stone wall as if
he was a laborer at rest between tasks. His long face was very much like
Biitrah's, she saw. It was in the corners of his eyes and the shape of
his jaw.
"Sister," he said.
"Most high," she replied.
He shook his head. The soldier shifted. She had the feeling that the two
movements were the continuation of some conversation they had had, a
subtle commentary to which she was not privileged.
"This is Sinja-cha," the Khai said. "You'll do as he says. If you fight
hire, he'll kill you. If you try to leave him before he gives you
permission, he'll kill you."
"Are you whoring me to your pet thug then?" she asked, fighting to keep
the quaver from her voice.
"What? No. Gods," Otah said. "No, I'm sending you into exile. He's to
take you as far as Cetani. He'll leave you there with a good robe and a
few lengths of silver. You can write. You have numbers. You'll be able
to find some work, I expect."
"I am a daughter of the Khaiem," she said bitterly. "I'm not permitted
to work."
"So lie," Otah said. "Pick a new name. Noygu always worked fairly well
for me. You could be Sian Noygu. Your mother and father were merchants
in ... well, call it Udun. You don't want people thinking about Machi if
you can help it. They died in a plague. Or a fire. Or bandits killed
them. It isn't as if you don't know how to lie. Invent something."
Idaan stood, something like hope in her heart. To leave this hole. To
leave this city and this life. To become someone else. She hadn't
understood how weary and exhausted she had become until this moment. She
had thought the cell was her prison.
The soldier looked at her with perfectly empty eyes. She might have been
a cow or a large stone he'd been set to move. Otah levered himself back