His mind went back to Kiyan, and the nights of music and stories and gossip he had spent in her wayhouse, far away to the south. He wondered what she was doing tonight, what music filled the warm air and competed with the murmur of the river.
When the last note had faded to silence, the crowd applauded, yelped, and howled their appreciation. Otah made his way to the singer-he was shorter than Otah had thought-and took his hand. The keeper beamed and blushed when Otah told him how good the music had been.
"We've had a few years practice, and there's only so much to do when the days are short," the keep said. "The winter choirs in Machi make us sound like street beggars."
Otah smiled, regret pulling at him that he would never hear those songs, and a moment later he heard his name being spoken.
"Itani Noygu's what he was calling himself," one of the merchants said. "Played a courier for House Siyanti."
"I think I met him," a man said whom Otah had never met. "I knew there was something odd about the man."
"And the poet ... the one that had his belly opened for him? He's picking the other Siyanti men apart like they were baked fish. The upstart has to wish that job had been done right the first time."
"Sounds as if I've missed something," Otah said, putting on his most charming smile. "What's this about a poet's belly?"
The merchant frowned at the interruption until Otah motioned to the keep's wife and bought bowls of hot wine for the table. After that, the gossip flowed more freely.
Maati Vaupathai had been attacked, and the common wisdom held that Otah had arranged it. The most likely version was that the upstart had been passing as a courier, but others said that he had made his way into the palaces dressed as a servant or a meat seller. There was no question, though, that the Khai had sent out runners to all the winter cities asking for the couriers and overseers of House Siyanti to attend him at court. Amiit Foss, the man who'd been the upstart's overseer in tldun, was being summoned in particular. It wasn't clear yet whether Siyanti had knowingly backed the Otah Machi, but if they had, it would mean the end of their expansion into the north. Even if they hadn't, the house would suffer.
"And they're sure he was the one who had the poet killed?" Otah asked, using all the skill the gentleman's trade had taught him to hide his deepening despair and disgust.
"It seems they were in Saraykeht together, this poet and the upstart. That was just before Saraykeht fell."
The implications of that hung over the room. Perhaps Otah Machi had somehow been involved with the death of Heshai, the poet of Saraykeht. Who knew what depravity the sixth son of the Khai Machi might sink to? It was a ghost story for them; a tale to pass a night on the road; a sport to follow.
Otah remembered the old, frog-mouthed poet, remembered his kindness and his weakness and his strength. He remembered the regret and the respect and the horrible complicity he'd felt in killing him, all those years ago. It had been so complicated, then. Now, they said it so simply and spoke as if they understood.
"There's rumor of a woman, too. They say he had a lover in Udun."
"If he was a courier, he's likely got a woman in half the cities of the Khaiem. The gods know I would."
"No," the merchant said, shaking his head. He was more than half drunk. "No, they were very clear. All the Siyanti men say he had a lover in Udun and never took another. Loved her like the world, they said. But she left him for another man. I say it's that turned him evil. Love turns on you like ... like milk."
"Gentlemen," the keep's wife said, her voice powerful enough to cut through any conversation. "It's late, and I'm not sleeping until these rooms are cleaned, so get you all to bed. I'll have bread and honey for you at sunrise."
The guests slurped down the last of the wine, ate the last mouthfuls of dried cherries and fresh cheese, and made their various ways toward their various beds. Otah walked down the inner stairs to the stables and the goat yard, then out through a side door and into the darkness. His body felt like he'd just run a race, or else like he was about to.
Kiyan. Kiyan and the wayhouse her father had run. Old Mani. He had set the dogs on them, and that he hadn't intended to would count for nothing if his brothers found her. Whatever happened, whatever they did, it would be his fault.
He found a tall tree and sat with his back against it, looking out at the stars nearest the horizon. The air had the bite of cold in it. Winter never left this place. It made a little room for summer, but it never left. He thought of writing her a letter, of warning her. It would never reach her in time. It was ten days walk back to Machi, six days forward to Cetani, and his brothers' forces would already be on the road south. He could send to Amiit Foss, beg his old overseer to take Kiyan in, to protect her. But there too, word would reach him too late.
Despair settled into his belly, too deep for tears. He was destroying the woman he loved most in the world simply by being who he was, by doing what he'd done. He thought of the boy he had been, marching away from the school across the western snows. He remembered his fear and the warmth of his rage at the poets and his parents and all in the world that treated boys so unfairly. What a pompous little ass he'd been, young and certain and alone. He should have taken the Dal-kvo's offer and become a poet. He might have tried to bind an andat, and maybe failed and paid the price, dying in the attempt. And then Kiyan would never have met him. She would be safe.
There's still a price, he thought, as clear as a voice speaking in his head. You could still pay it.
Machi was ten days' walk, perhaps as little as four and a half days' ride. If he could turn all eyes back to Mach], Kiyan might have at least the chance to escape his idiocy. And what would she matter, if no one need search for him. He could take a horse from the stables now. After all, if he was an upstart and a poisoner and a man turned evil by love, it hardly mattered being a horse thief as well. He closed his eyes, an angry bark of a laugh forcing its way from his throat.
Everything you have won, you've won by leaving, he thought, remembering a woman whom he had known almost well enough to join his life with though he had never loved her, nor she him. Well, Maj, perhaps this time I'll lose.
THE NIGHT CANDLE WAS PAST ITS MIDDLE MARK; TFIK AIR WAS FILLEI) WITH the songs of crickets. Somewhere in the course of things, the pale mist of netting had been pulled from the bed, and the room looked exposed without it. Cehmai could feel Stone-Made-Soft in the back of his mind, but the effort of being truly aware of the andat was too much; his body was thick and heavy and content. Focus and rigor would have their place another time.
Idaan traced her fingertips across his chest, raising gooseflesh. He shivered, took her hand and folded it in his own. She sighed and lay against him. Her hair smelled of roses.
"Why do they call you poets?" she asked.
"It's an old Empire term," Clehmai said. "It's from the binding."
"The andat are poems?" she said. She had the darkest eyes. Like an animal's. He looked at her mouth. The lips were too full to be fashionable. With the paint worn off, he could see how she narrowed them. He raised his head and kissed them again, gently this time. His own mouth felt bruised from their coupling. And then his head grew too heavy, and he let it rest again.
"They're ... like that. Binding one is like describing something perfectly. Understanding it, and expanding it ... I'm not saying this well. Have you ever translated a letter? Taken something in the Khaiate tongues and tried to say the same thing in Westland or an east island tongue?"
"No," she said. "I had to take something from the Empire and rewrite it for a tutor once."
Cchmai closed his eyes. He could feel sleep pulling at him, but he fought against it a hit. He wasn't ready to let the moment pass.
"That's near enough. You had to make choices when you did that. Tiff', could mean take or it could mean give or it could mean exchangeit's yours to choose, depending on how it's used in the original document. And so a letter or a poem doesn't have a set translation. You could have any number of ways that y
ou say the same thing. Binding the andat means describing them-what the thought of them is-so well that you can translate it perfectly into a form that includes will and volition. Like translating a Galtic contract so that all the nuances of the trade are preserved perfectly."
"But there's any number of ways to do that," she said.
"There are very few ways to do it perfectly. And if a binding goes wrong ... Existing isn't normal for them. If you leave an imprecision or an inaccuracy, they escape through it, and the poet pays a price for that. Usually it comes as some particularly gruesome death. And knowing what an andat is can be subtle. Stone-Made-Soft. What do you mean by stone? Iron comes from stone, so is it stone? Sand is made of tiny stones. Is it stone? Bones are like stone. But are they like enough to be called the same name? All those nuances have to be balanced or the binding fails. Happily, the Empire produced some formal grammars that were very precise."
"And you describe this thing...."
"And then you hold that in your mind until you die. Only it's the kind of thought that can think back, so it's wearing sometimes."
"Do you resent it?" Idaan asked, and something in her voice had changed. Cehmai opened his eyes. Idaan was looking past him. Her expression was unfathomable.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"You have to carry this thing all your life. Do you ever wish that you hadn't been called to do it?"
"No," he said. "Not really. It's work, but it's work that I like. And I get to meet the most interesting women."
Her gaze cooled, flickered over him, and then away.
"Lucky to be you," she said as she sat up. He watched her as she pulled her robes from the puddle of cloth on the floor. Cehmai sat up. "I have meetings in the morning. I'll need to be in my own rooms to be ready anyway. I might as well go now."
"I might say fewer things that angered you if you talked to me," Cehmai said, gently.
Idaan's head snapped around to him like a hunting cat's, but then her expression softened to chagrin, and she took an apologetic pose.
"I'm overtired," she said. "'T'here are things that I'm carrying, and I don't do it as gracefully as you. I don't mean to take them out on you."
"Why do you do this, Idaan-kya? Why do you come here? I don't think it's that you love me."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No," Cehmai said. "I don't. But if you choose to, that will be fine as well."
"'That's flattering," she said, sarcasm thick in her voice.
"Are you doing this to be flattered?"
He was awake again now. He could see something in her expression pain, anger, something else. She didn't answer him now, only knelt by the bed and felt beneath it for her hoots. He put his hand on her arm and drew her up. He could sense that she was close to speaking, that the words were already there, just below the surface.
"I don't mind only being your bed mate," he said. "I've known from the start that Adrah is the man you plan to be with, and that I couldn't be that for you even if you wanted it. I assume that's part of why you've chosen me. But I am fond of you, and I would like to be your friend."
"You'd be my friend?" she said. "That's nice to hear. You've bedded me and now you'll condescend to be a friend?"
"I think it's more accurate to say you bedded me," Cehmai said. "And it seems to me that people do what we've done quite often without caring about the other person. Or even while wishing them ill. I'll grant that we haven't followed the usual order-I understand people usually know each other first and then fall into bed afterwards-hut in a way that means you should take me more seriously."
She pulled hack and took a pose of query.
"You know I'm not just saying it to get your robes open," he said. "When I say I want to be someone you can speak with, it's truth. I've nothing to gain by it but the thing itself."
She sighed and sat on the bed. The light of the single candle painted her in shades of orange.
"Do you love me, Cehmai-kya?" she asked.
Cehmai took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. He had reached the gate. Her thoughts, her fears. Everything that had driven this girl into his bed was waiting to be loosed. All he would have to do was tell one, simple, banal lie. A lie thousands of men had told for less reason. He was badly tempted.
"Idaan-kya," he said, "I don't know you."
To his surprise, she smiled. She pulled on her hoots, not bothering to lace the bindings, leaned over and kissed him again. Her hand caressed his cheeks.
"Lucky to be you," she said softly.
Neither spoke as they walked down the corridor to the main rooms. The shutters were closed against the night, and the air felt stuffy and thick. He walked with her to the door, then through it, and sat on the steps, watching her vanish among the trees. The crickets still sang. The moon still hung overhead, bathing the night in blue. He heard the high squeak of bats as they skimmed the ponds and pools, the flutter of an owl's wings.
"You should be sleeping," the low, gravel voice said from behind him.
"Yes, I imagine so."
"First light, there's a meeting with the stone potters."
"Yes, there is."
Stone-Made-Soft stepped forward and lowered itself to sit on the step beside him. The familiar bulk of its body rose and fell in a sigh that could only be a comment.
"She's up to something," Cehmai said.
"She might only find herself drawn to two different men," the andat said. "It happens. And you're the one she couldn't build a life with. The other boy ..."
"No," Cehmai said, speaking slowly, letting the thoughts form as he gave them voice. "She isn't drawn to me. Not one."
"She could be flattered that you want her. I've heard that's endearing."
"She's drawn to you."
The andat shifted to look at him. Its wide mouth was smiling.
"That would be a first," it said. "I'd never thought of taking a lover. I don't think I'd know what to do with her."
"Not like that," Cehmai said. "She wants me because of you. Because I'm a poet. If I weren't, she wouldn't be here."
"Does that offend you?"
A gnat landed on the back of Cehmai's hand. The tiny wings tickled, but he looked at it carefully. A small gray insect unaware of its danger. With a puff of breath, he New it into the darkness. The andat waited silently for an answer.
"It should," Cehmai said at last.
"Perhaps you can work on that."
"Being offended?"
"If you think you should be."
The storm in the back of him mind shifted. The constant thought that was this thing at his side moved, kicking like a babe in the womb or a prisoner testing the walls of its cell. Cehmai chuckled.
"You aren't trying to help," he said.
"No," the andat agreed. "Not particularly."
"Did the others understand their lovers? The poets before me?"
"How can I say? They loved women, and were loved by them. They used women and were used by them. You may have found a way to put me on a leash, but you're only men."
THE IRONY WAS THAT, HIS WOUND NOT FULLY HEALED, MAATI SPENT MORE time in the library than he had when he had been playing at scholarship. Only now, instead of spending his mornings there, he found it a calm place to retire when the day's work had exhausted him; when the hunt had worn him thin. It had been fifteen days now since Itani Noygu had walked away from the palaces and vanished. Fourteen days since the assassin had put a dagger in Maati's own guts. Thirteen days since the fire in the cages.
He knew now as much as he was likely to know of Itani Noygu, the courier for House Siyanti, and almost nothing of Otah-kvo. Irani had worked in the gentleman's trade for nearly eight years. He had lived in the eastern islands; he was a charming man, decent at his craft if not expert. He'd had lovers in "Ian-Sadar and tltani, but had broken things off with both after he started keeping company with a wayhouse keeper in Udun. His fellows were frankly disbelieving that this could be the rogue Otah Machi, night-gaunt that h
aunted the dreams of Machi. But where he probed and demanded, where he dug and pried, pleaded and coddled and threatened, there was no sign of Otah-kvo. Where there should have been secrecy, there was nothing. Where there should have been meetings with high men in his house, or another house, or somebody, there was nothing. There should have been conspiracy against his father, his brothers, the city of his birth. There was nothing.
All of which went to confirm the conclusion that Maati had reached, bleeding on the paving stones. Otah was not scheming for his father's chair, had not killed Biitrah, had not hired the assassin to attack him.
And yet Otah was here, or had been. Maati had written to the Daikvo, outlining what he knew and guessed and only wondered, but he had received no word hack as yet and might not for several weeks. By which time, he suspected, the old Khai would be dead. That thought alone tired him, and it was the library that he turned to for distraction.
He sat back now on one of the thick chairs, slowly unfurling a scroll with his left hand and furling it again with his right. In the space between, ancient words stirred. The pale ink formed the letters of the Empire, and the scroll purported to be an essay by Jaiet Khai-a man named the Servant of Memory from the great years when the word Khai had still meant servant. The grammar was formal and antiquated, the tongue was nothing spoken now. It was unlikely than anyone but a poet would be able to make sense of it.
'T'here are two types of impossibility in the andat, the man long since dust had written. The first of these are those thoughts which cannot be understood. Time and Mind arc examples of this type; mysteries so profound that even the wise cannot do more than guess at their deepest structure. These bindings may someday become possible with greater understanding of the world and our place within it. For this reason they are of no interest to me. The second type is made up of those thoughts by their nature impossible to bind, and no greater knowledge shall ever permit them. Examples of this are Imprecision and Freedom-FromBondage. Holding Time or Mind would be like holding a mountain in your hands. Holding Imprecision would be like holding the backs of your hands in your palms. One of these images may inspire awe, it is true, but the other is interesting.
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