the band of sky above him allowed. A rat, surprised by him, scuttled

through an iron grating and away. The thin alley branched, and Maati

paused, looked down the two new paths, and then glanced back. The path

behind him was blocked. A dark cloak, a raised hood, and shoulders so

broad they touched both walls. Maati hesitated, and the man behind him

didn't move. Maati felt the skin at the back of his neck tighten. He

picked one turning of the alleyway and walked down it briskly until the

dark figure reached the intersection as well and turned after him. Then

Maati ran. The alley spilled out into another street, this less

populous. The smoke of the forges made the air acrid and hazy. Maati

raced toward them. There would be men there-smiths and tradesmen, but

also firekeepers and armsmen.

When he reached the mouth where the street spilled out onto a major

throughway, he looked back. The street behind him was empty. His steps

slowed, and he stopped, scanning the doorways, the rooftops. There was

nothing. His pursuer-if that was what he had been-had vanished. Maati

waited there until he'd caught his breath, then let himself laugh. No

one was coming. No one had followed. It was easy to see how a man could

be eaten by his fears. He turned to the metalworkers' quarter.

The streets widened here, with shops and stalls facing out, filled with

the tools of the metal trades as much as their products. The forges and

smith's houses were marked by the greened copper roofs, the pillars of

smoke, the sounds of yelling voices and hammers striking anvils. The

businesses around them-sellers of hammers and tongs, suppliers of ore

and wax blocks and slaked lime-all did their work loudly and

expansively, waving hands in mock fury and shouting even when there was

no call to. Maati made his way to a teahouse near the center of the

district where sellers and workers mixed. He asked after House Siyanti,

where their couriers might be found, what was known of them. The brown

poet's robes granted him an unearned respect, but also wariness. It was

three hands before he found an answer-the overseer of a consortium of

silversmiths had had word from House Siyanti. The courier had said the

signed contracts could be delivered to House Nan, but only after they'd

been sewn and sealed. Maati gave the man two lengths of silver and his

thanks and had started away before he realized he would also need better

directions. An older man in a red and yellow robe with a face round and

pale as the moon overheard his questions and offered to guide him there.

"You're Maati Vaupathai," the moon-faced man said as they walked. "I've

heard about you."

"Nothing scandalous, I hope," Maati said.

"Speculations," the man said. "The Khaiem run on gossip and wine more

than gold or silver. My name is Oshai. It's a pleasure to meet a poet."

They turned south, leaving the smoke and cacophony behind them. As they

stepped into a smaller, quieter street, Maati looked back, half

expecting to see the looming figure in the dark robes. There was nothing.

"Rumor has it you've come to look at the library," Oshai said.

"That's truth. The Da]-kvo sent me to do research for him."

"Pity you've come at such a delicate time. Succession. It's never an

easy thing."

"It doesn't affect me," Maati said. "Court politics rarely reach the

scrolls on the back shelves."

"I hear the Khai has books that date back to the Empire. Before the war.

"He does. Some of them are older than the copies the Dai-kvo has.

Though, in all, the Dai-kvo's libraries are larger."

"He's wise to look as far afield as he can, though," Oshai said. "You

never know what you might find. Was there something in particular he

expected our Khai to have?"

"It's complex," Maati said. "No offense, it's just ..."

Oshai smiled and waved the words away. There was something odd about his

face-a weariness or an emptiness around his eyes.

"I'm sure there are many things that poets know that I can't

comprehend," the guide said. "Here, there's a faster way down through here."

Oshai moved forward, taking Maati by the elbow and leading him down a

narrow street. The houses around them were poorer than those near the

palaces or even the metalworkers' quarter. Shutters showed the splinters

of many seasons. The doors on the street level and the second-floor snow

doors both tended to have cheap leather hinges rather than worked metal.

Few people were on the street, and few windows open. Oshai seemed

perfectly at ease despite his heightened pace so Maati pushed his

uncertainty away.

"I've never been in the library myself," Oshai said. "I've heard

impressive things of it. The power of all those minds, and all that

time. It isn't something that normal men can easily conceive."

"I suppose not," Maati said, trotting to keep up. "Forgive me, Oshai-

cha, but are we near House Nan?"

"We won't be going much further," his guide said. "Just around this next

turning."

But when they made the turn, Maati found not a trading house's compound,

but a small courtyard covered in flagstone, a dry cistern at its center.

The few windows that opened onto the yard were shuttered or empty. Maati

stepped forward, confused.

"Is this ...... he began, and Oshai punched him hard in the belly. Maati

stepped back, surprised by the attack, and astounded at the man's

strength. Then he saw the blade in the guide's hand, and the blood on

it. Maati tried to hack away, but his feet caught the hem of his robe.

Oshai's face was a grimace of delight and hatred. He seemed to jump

forward, then stumbled and fell.

When his hands-out before him to catch his fall-touched the ground, the

flagstone splashed. Oshai's hands vanished to the wrist. For a moment

that seemed to last for days, Maati and his attacker both stared at the

ground. Oshai began to struggle, pulling with his shoulders to no

effect. Maati could hear the fear in the muttered curses. The pain in

his belly was lessening, and a warmth taking its place. He tried to

gather himself, but the effort was such that he didn't notice the

darkrobed figures until they were almost upon him. 'l'he larger one had

thrown back its hood and the wide, calm face of the andat considered

him. The other form-smaller, and more agitated-knelt and spoke in

Cehmai's voice.

"Maati-kvo! You're hurt."

"Be careful!" Maati said. "He's got a knife."

Cehmai glanced at the assassin struggling in the stone and shook his

head. The poet looked very young, and yet familiar in a way that Maati

hadn't noticed before. Intelligent, sure of himself. Maati was struck by