an irrational envy of the boy, and then noticed the blood on his own

hand. He looked down, and saw the wetness blackening his robes. There

was so much of it.

"Can you walk?" Cehmai said, and Maati realized it wasn't the first time

the question had been asked. He nodded.

"Only help me up," he said.

The younger poet took one arm and the andat the other and gently lifted

him. The warmth in Maati's belly was developing a profound ache in its

center. He pushed it aside, walked two steps, then three, and the world

seemed to narrow. He found himself on the ground again, the poet leaning

over him.

"I'm going for help," Cehmai said. "Don't move. Don't try to move. And

don't die while I'm gone."

Maati tried to raise his hands in a pose of agreement, but the poet was

already gone, pelting down the street, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Maati rolled his head to one side to see the assassin struggling in vain

and allowed himself a smile. A thought rolled through his mind, elusive

and dim, and he shook himself, willing a lucidity he didn't possess. It

was important. Whatever it was bore the weight of terrible significance.

If he could only bring himself to think it. It had something to do with

Otah-kvo and all the thousand times Maati had imagined their meeting.

The andat sat beside him, watching him with the impassive distance of a

statue, and Maati didn't know that he intended to speak to it until he

heard his own words.

"It isn't Otah-kvo," he said. The andat shifted to consider the captive

trapped by stone, then turned back.

"No," it agreed. "Too old."

"No," Maati said, struggling. "I don't mean that. I mean he wouldn't do

this. Not to me. Not without speaking to me. It isn't him."

The andat frowned and shook its massive head.

"I don't understand."

"If I die," Maati said, forcing himself to speak above a whisper, "you

have to tell Cehmai. It isn't Otah-kvo that did this. There's someone else."

The chamber was laid out like a temple or a theater. On the long,

sloping floor, representatives of all the high families sat on low

stools or cushions. Beyond them sat the emissaries of the trading

houses, the people of the city, and past them rank after rank of

servants and slaves. The air was rich with the smells of incense and

living bodies. Idaan looked out over the throng, though she knew proper

form called for her gaze to remain downcast. Across the dais from her,

Adrah knelt, his posture mirroring hers, except that his head was held

high. He was, after all, a man. His robes were deep red and woven gold,

his hair swept back and tied with bands of gold and iron like a child of

the Empire. He had never looked more handsome. Her lover. Her husband.

She considered him as she might a fine piece of metalwork or a

well-rendered drawing. As a likeness of himself.

His father sat beside him on a bench, dressed in jewels and rich cloth.

Daaya Vaunyogi was beaming with pride, but Idaan could see the unease in

the way he held himself. The others would sec only the patriarch of one

high family marrying his son into the blood of the Khaiem-it was reason

enough for excitement. Of all the people there, only Idaan would also

see a traitor against his city, forced to sit before the man whose sons

he conspired to slaughter and act as if his pet assassin was not locked

in a room with armsmen barring the way, his intended victim alive. Idaan

forced herself not to smirk at his weakness.

Her father spoke. His voice was thick and phlegmy, and his hands

trembled so badly that he took no formal poses.

"I have accepted a petition from House Vaunyogi. They propose that the

son of their flesh, Adrah, and the daughter of my blood, Idaan, be joined."

He waited while the appointed whisperers repeated the words, the hall

filled, it seemed, with the sound of a breeze. Idaan let her eyes close

for a long moment, and opened them again when he continued.

"This proposal pleases me," her father said. "And I lay it before the

city. If there is cause that this petition he refused, I would know of

it now.

The whisperers dutifully passed this new statement through the hall as

well. There was a cough from nearby, as if in preparation to speak.

Idaan looked over. There in the first rank of cushions sat Cehmai and

his andat. Both of them were smiling pleasantly, but Cehmai's eyes were

on hers, his hands in a pose of offering. It was the same pose he might

have used to ask if she wanted some of the wine he was drinking or a lap

blanket on a cold night. Here, now, it was a deeper thing. Would you

like me to stop this? Idaan could not reply. No one was looking at

Cehmai, and half the eyes in the chamber were on her. She looked down

instead, as a proper girl would. She saw the movement in the corner of

her eye when the poet lowered his hands.

"Very well," her father said. "Adrah Vaunyogi, come here before me."

Idaan did not look up as Adrah stood and walked with slow, practiced

steps until he stood before the Khai's chair. He knelt again, with his

head bowed, his hands in a pose of gratitude and submission. The Khai,

despite the grayness in his skin and the hollows in his cheeks, held

himself perfectly, and when he did move, the weakness did not undo the

grace of a lifetime's study. He put a hand on the boy's head.

"Most high, I place myself before you as a man before his elder," Adrah

said, his voice carrying the ritual phrases through the hall. Even with

his hack turned, the whisperers had little need to speak. "I place

myself before you and ask your permission. I would take Idaan, your

blood issue, to be my wife. If it does not please you, please only say

so, and accept my apology."

"I am not displeased," her father said.

"Will you grant me this, most high?"

Idaan waited to hear her father accept, to hear the ritual complete

itself. The silence stretched, profound and horrible. Idaan felt her

heart begin to race, fear rising up in her blood. Something had

happened; Oshai had broken. Idaan looked up, prepared to see armsmen

descending upon them. But instead, she saw her father bent close to

Adrah-so close their foreheads almost touched. There were tears on the

sunken cheeks. The formal reserve and dignity was gone. The Khai was

gone. All that remained was a desperately ill man in robes too gaudy for

a sick house.

"Will you make her happy? I would have one of my children be happy."

Adrah's mouth opened and shut like a fish pulled from the river. Idaan

closed her eyes, but she could not stop her ears.

"I ... most high, I will do ... Yes. I will."