The servant stopped before the elm-and-oak-inlaid door that led, Maati remembered, to a meeting chamber. He scratched it twice to announce them, then opened the door and motioned Maati in. Maati breathed deeply as a man preparing to dive from a cliff into shallow water and entered.
The Dai-kvo was sitting at his table. He had not had hair since Maati had met him twenty-three summers before when the Dai-kvo had only been Tahi-kvo, the crueler of the two teachers set to sift through the discarded sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem for likely candidates to send on to the village. His brows had gone pure white since he’d become the Dai-kvo, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. His black eyes were just as alive.
The other two men in the room were strangers to Maati. The thinner one sat at the table across from the Dai-kvo, his robes deep blue and gold, his hair pulled back to show graying temples and a thin white-flecked beard. The thicker - with both fat and muscle, Maati thought - stood at the window, one foot up on the thick ledge, looking into the gardens, and Maati could see where his clean-shaven jaw sagged at the jowl. His robes were the light brown color of sand, his boots hard leather and travel worn. He turned to look at Maati as the door closed, and there was something familiar about him - about both these new men - that he could not describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the school.
‘I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo.’
The Dai-kvo grunted and gestured to him for the benefit of the two strangers.
‘This is the one,’ the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him, graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati imagined what they saw him for - a man of thirty summers, his forehead already pushing back his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft man in a poet’s robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two men.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe we have met before, or if we have, I apologize that I don’t recall it.’
‘We haven’t met,’ the thicker one said.
‘He isn’t much to look at,’ the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Maati found himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.
‘Sit down, Maati-cha,’ the Dai-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. ‘Have a bowl of tea. There’s something we have to discuss. Tell me what you’ve heard of events in the winter cities.’
Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.
‘I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most high. There’s trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven’t heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi . . .’
Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar; who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.
‘The Khai Machi is dying,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘His belly’s gone rotten. It’s a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered. Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?’
‘That it was poor form,’ Maati said. ‘That no one has seen the Khaiem resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one . . . Gods! You two are . . .’
‘You see?’ the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. ‘No, not much to look at, but a decent stew between his ears. Yes, Maati-cha. The man scraping my windowsill with his boots there is Danat Machi. This is his eldest surviving brother, Kaiin. And they have come here to speak with me instead of waging war against each other because neither of them killed their elder brother Biitrah.’
‘So they . . . you think it was Otah-kvo?’
‘The Dai-kvo says you know my younger brother,’ the thickset man - Danat - said, taking his own seat at the only unoccupied side of the table. ‘Tell me what you know of Otah.’
‘I haven’t seen him in years, Danat-cha,’ Maati said. ‘He was in Saraykeht when . . . when the old poet there died. He was working as a laborer. But I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Do you think he was satisfied by that life?’ the thin one - Kaiin - asked. ‘A laborer at the docks of Saraykeht hardly seems like the fate a son of the Khaiem would embrace. Especially one who refused the brand.’
Maati picked up the bowl of tea, sipping it too quickly as he tried to gain himself a moment to think. The tea scalded his tongue.
‘I never heard Otah speak of any ambitions for his father’s chair,’ Maati said.
‘And is there any reason to think he would have spoken of it to you?’ Kaiin said, the faintest sneer in his voice. Maati felt the blush creeping into his cheeks again, but it was the Dai-kvo who answered.
‘There is. Otah Machi and Maati here were close for a time. They fell out eventually over a woman, I believe. Still, I hold that if Otah had been bent on taking part in the struggle for Machi at that time, he would have taken Maati into his confidence. But that is hardly our concern. As Maati here points out, it was years ago. Otah may have become ambitious. Or resentful. There’s no way for us to know that—’
‘But he refused the brand—’ Danat began, and the Dai-kvo cut him off with a gesture.
‘There were other reasons for that,’ the Dai-kvo said sharply. ‘They aren’t your concern.’
Danat Machi took a pose of apology and the Dai-kvo waved it away. Maati sipped his tea again. This time it didn’t burn. To his right, Kaiin Machi took a pose of query, looking directly at Maati for what seemed the first time.
‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’
‘Yes,’ Maati said. ‘I would.’
‘You sound certain of it.’
‘I am, Kaiin-cha.’
The thin man smiled. All around the table a sense of satisfaction seemed to come from his answer. Maati found it unnerving. The Dai-kvo poured himself more tea, the liquid clicking into his bowl like a stream over stones.
‘There is a very good library in Machi,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘One of the finest in the fourteen cities. I understand there are records there from the time of the Empire. One of the high lords was thinking to go there, perhaps, to ride out the war, and sent his books ahead. I’m sure there are treasures hidden among those shelves that would be of use in binding the andat.’
‘Really?’ Maati asked.
‘No, not really,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘I expect it’s a mess of poorly documented scraps overseen by a librarian who spends his copper on wine and whores, but I don’t care. For our purposes, there are secrets hidden in those records important enough to send a low-ranking poet like yourself to sift though. I have a letter to the Khai Machi that will explain why you are truly there. He will explain your presence to the utkhaiem and Cehmai Tyan, the poet who holds Stone-Made-Soft. Let them think you’ve come on my errand. What you will be doing instead is discovering whether Otah killed Biitrah Machi. If so, who is backing him. If not, who did, and why.’
‘Most high—’ Maati began.
‘Wait for me in the gardens,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘I have a few more things to discuss with the sons of Machi.’
The gardens, like the apartments, were small, well kept, beautiful, and simple. A fountain murmured among carefully shaped, deeply fragrant pine trees. Maati sat, looking out. From the side of the mountain, the world spread out before him like a map. He waited, his head buzzing, his heart in turmoil. Before long he heard the steady grinding sound of footsteps on gravel, and he turned to see the Dai-kvo making his way down the path toward him. Maati stood. He had not known the Dai-kvo had started walking with a cane. A serv
ant followed at a distance, carrying a chair, and did not approach until the Dai-kvo signaled. Once the chair was in place, looking out over the same span that Maati had been considering, the servant retreated.
‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ the Dai-kvo said.
Maati, unsure whether he meant the view or the business with the sons of Machi, didn’t reply. The Dai-kvo looked at him, something part smile, part something less congenial on his lips. He drew forth two packets - letters sealed in wax and sewn shut. Maati took them and tucked them in his sleeve.
‘Gods. I’m getting old. You see that tree?’ the Dai-kvo asked, pointing at one of the shaped pines with his cane.
‘Yes, most high.’
‘There’s a family of robins that lives in it. They wake me up every morning. I always mean to have someone break the nest, but I’ve never quite given the order.’
‘You are merciful, most high.’
The old man looked up at him, squinting. His lips were pressed thin, and the lines in his face were black as charcoal. Maati stood waiting. At length, the Dai-kvo turned away again with a sigh.
‘Will you be able to do it?’ he asked.
‘I will do as the Dai-kvo commands,’ Maati said.
‘Yes, I know you’ll go there. But will you be able to tell me that he’s there? You know if he is behind this, they’ll kill him before they go on to each other. Are you able to bear that responsibility? Tell me now if you aren’t, and I’ll find some other way. You don’t have to fail again.’
‘I won’t fail again, most high.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ the Dai-kvo said and went silent. Maati waited so long for the pose that would dismiss him that he wondered whether the Dai-kvo had forgotten he was there, or had chosen to ignore him as an insult. But the old man spoke, his voice low.
‘How old is your son, Maati-cha?’
‘Twelve, most high. But I haven’t seen him in some years.’
‘You’re angry with me for that.’ Maati began to take a pose of denial, but checked himself and lowered his arms. This wasn’t the time for court politics. The Dai-kvo saw this and smiled. ‘You’re getting wiser, my boy. You were a fool when you were young. In itself, that’s not such a bad thing. Many men are. But you embraced your mistakes. You defended them against all correction. That was the wrong path, and don’t think I’m unaware of how you’ve paid for it.’
‘As you say, most high.’
‘I told you there was no place in a poet’s life for a family. A lover here or there, certainly. Most men are too weak to deny themselves that much. But a wife? A child? No. There isn’t room for both what they require and what we do. And I told you that. You remember? I told you that, and you . . .’
The Dai-kvo shook his head, frowning in remembered frustration. It was a moment, Maati knew, when he could apologize. He could repent his pride and say that the Dai-kvo had indeed known better all along. He remained silent.
‘I was right,’ the Dai-kvo said for him. ‘And now you’ve done half a job as a poet and half a job as a man. Your studies are weak, and the woman took your whelp and left. You’ve failed both, just as I knew you would. I’m not condemning you for that, Maati. No man could have taken on what you did and succeeded. But this opportunity in Machi is what will wipe clean the slate. Do this well and it will be what you’re remembered for.’
‘Certainly I will do my best.’
‘Fail at it, and there won’t be a third chance. Few enough men have two.’
Maati took a pose appropriate to a student receiving a lecture. Considering him, the Dai-kvo responded with one that closed the lesson, then raised his hand.
‘Don’t destroy this chance in order to spite me, Maati. Failing in this will do me no harm, and it will destroy you. You’re angry because I told you the truth, and because what I said would happen, did. Consider while you go north whether that’s really such a good reason to hate me.’
The open window let in a cool breeze that smelled of pine and rain. Otah Machi, the sixth son of the Khai Machi, lay on the bed, listening to the sounds of water - rain pattering on the flagstones of the wayhouse’s courtyard and the tiles of its roof, the constant hushing of the river against its banks. A fire danced and spat in the grate, but his bare skin was still stippled with cold. The night candle had gone out, and he hadn’t bothered to relight it. Morning would come when it came.
The door slid open and then shut. He didn’t turn to look.
‘You’re brooding, Itani,’ Kiyan said, calling him by the false name he’d chosen for himself, the only one he’d ever told her. Her voice was low and rich and careful as a singer’s. He shifted now, turning to his side. She knelt by the grate - her skin smooth and brown, her robes the formal cut of a woman of business, one strand of her hair fallen free. Her face was thin - she reminded him of a fox sometimes, when a smile just touched her mouth. She placed a fresh log on the fire as she spoke. ‘I half expected you’d be asleep already.’
He sighed and sketched a pose of contrition with one hand.
‘Don’t apologize to me,’ she said. ‘I’m as happy having you in my rooms here as in the teahouse, but Old Mani wanted more news out of you. Or maybe just to get you drunk enough to sing dirty songs with him. He’s missed you, you know.’
‘It’s a hard thing, being so loved.’
‘Don’t laugh at it. It’s not a love to carry you through ages, but it’s more than some people ever manage. You’ll grow into one of those pinched old men who want free wine because they pity themselves.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of Old Mani. It’s just . . .’
He sighed. Kiyan closed the window and relit the night candle.
‘It’s just that you’re brooding,’ she said. ‘And you’re naked and not under the blankets, so you’re feeling that you’ve done something wrong and deserve to suffer.’
‘Ah,’ Otah said. ‘Is that why I do this?’
‘Yes,’ she said, untying her robes. ‘It is. You can’t hide it from me, Itani. You might as well come out with it.’
Otah held the thought in his mind. I’m not who I’ve told you I am. Itani Noygu is the name I picked for myself when I was a child. My father is dying, and brothers I can hardly recall have started killing each other, and I find it makes me sad. He wondered what Kiyan would say to that. She prided herself on knowing him - on knowing people and how their minds worked. And yet he didn’t think this was something she’d already have guessed.
Naked, she lay beside him, pulling thick blankets up over them both.
‘Did you find another woman in Chaburi-Tan?’ she asked, half-teasing. But only half. ‘Some young dancing girl who stole your heart, or some other bit of your flesh, and now you’re stewing over how to tell me you’re leaving me?’
‘I’m a courier,’ Otah said. ‘I have a woman in every city I visit. You know that.’
‘You don’t,’ she said. ‘Some couriers do, but you don’t.’
‘No?’
‘No. It took me half a year of doing everything short of stripping bare for you to notice me. You don’t stay in other cities long enough for a woman to chip through your reserve. And you don’t have to push away the blankets. You may want to be cold, but I don’t.’
‘Well. Maybe I’m just feeling old.’
‘A ripe thirty-three? Well, when you decide to stop running across the world, I’d always be pleased to hire you on. We could stand another pair of hands around the place. You could throw out the drunks and track down the cheats that try to slip away without paying.’
‘You don’t pay enough,’ Otah said. ‘I talk to Old Mani. I know what your wages are.’
‘Perhaps you’d get extra for keeping me warm at nights.’
‘Shouldn’t you offer that to Old Mani first? He’s been here longer than I have.’
Kiyan slapped his chest smartly, and then nestled into him. He found himself curling toward her, the warmth of her body drawing him like a familiar scent. Her fingers tr
aced the tattoo on his breast - the ink had faded over time, blurring lines that had once been sharp and clear.
‘Jokes aside,’ she said, and he could hear a weariness in her voice, ‘I would take you on, if you wanted to stay. You could live here, with me. Help me manage the house.’
He caressed her hair, feeling the individual strands as they flowed across his fingertips. There was a scattering of white among the black that made her look older than she was. Otah knew that they had been there since she was a girl, as if she’d been born old.
‘That sounds like you’re suggesting marriage,’ he said.
‘Perhaps. You wouldn’t have to, but . . . it would be one way to arrange things. That isn’t a threat, you know. I don’t need a husband. Only if it would make you feel better, we could . . .’
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