his feet.

At the entrance to her rooms, she sent her servants away. She did not

wish to be attended. They would assume she smelled of sex, and best that

she let them. Adrah peered at her, earnest as a puppy, she thought. She

could see the distress in his eyes.

"You had to," he said, and she wondered if he meant to comfort her or

convince himself. She took a pose of agreement. He stepped forward, his

arms curving to embrace her.

"Don't touch me," she said, and he stepped hack, paused, lowered his

arms. Idaan saw something die behind his eyes, and felt something wither

in her own breast. So this is what we are, she thought.

"Things were good once," he said, as if willing her to say and they will

be again. The most she could give him was a nod. They had been good

once. She had wanted and admired and loved him once. And even now, a

part of her might love him. She wasn't sure.

The pain in his expression was unbearable. Idaan leaned forward, kissed

him briefly on the lips, and went inside to wash the day off her skin.

She heard his footsteps as he walked away.

Her body felt wrung out and empty. There were dried apples and sugared

almonds waiting for her, but the thought of food was foreign. Gifts had

arrived throughout the day-celebrations of her being sold off. She

ignored them. It was only after she had bathed, washing her hair three

times before it smelled more of flowers than smoke, that she found the note.

It rested on her bed, a square of paper folded in quarters. She sat

naked beside it, reached out a hand, hesitated, and then plucked it

open. It was brief, written in an unsteady hand.

Daughter, it said. I had hoped that you might be able to spend some part

of this happy day with me. Instead, I will leave this. Know that you

have my blessings and such love as a weary old man can give. You have

always delighted me, and I hope for your happiness in this match.

When her tears and sobbing had exhausted her, Idaan carefully gathered

the scraps of the note together and placed them together under her

pillow. Then she bowed and prayed to all the gods and with all her heart

that her father should die, and die quickly. That he should die without

discovering what she was.

MAATI WAS LOST FOR A TIME IN PAIN, THEN DISCOMFORT, AND THEN PAIN again.

He didn't suffer dreams so much as a pressing sense of urgency without

goal or form, though for a time he had the powerful impression that he

was on a boat, rocked by waves. His mind fell apart and reformed itself

at the will of his body.

He came to himself in the night, aware that he had been half awake for

some time; that there had been conversations in which he had

participated, though he couldn't say with whom or on what matters. The

room was not his own, but there was no mistaking that it belonged to the

Khai's palace. No fire burned in the grate, but the stone walls were

warm with stored sunlight. The windows were shuttered with shaped stone,

the only light coming from the night candle that had burned almost to

its quarter mark. Maati pulled back the thin blankets and considered the

puckered gray flesh of his wound and the dark silk that laced it closed.

He pressed his belly gently with his fingertips until he thought he knew

how delicate he had become. When he stood, tottering to the night pot,

he found he had underestimated, but that the pain was not so

excruciating that he could not empty his bladder. After, he pulled

himself back into bed, exhausted. He intended only to close his eyes for

a moment and gather his strength, but when he opened them, it was morning.

He had nearly resolved to walk from his bed to the small writing table

near the window when a slave entered and announced that the poet Cehmai

and the andat Stone-Made-Soft would see him if he wished. Maati nodded

and sat up carefully.

The poet arrived with a wide plate of rice and river fish in a sauce

that smelled of plums and pepper. The andat carried a jug of water so

cold it made the stone sweat. Maati's stomach came to life with a growl

at the sight.

"You're looking better, Maati-kvo." the young poet said, putting the

plate on the bed. The andat pulled two chairs close to the bed and sat

in one, its face calm and empty.

"I looked worse than this?" Maati asked. "I wouldn't have thought that

possible. How long has it been?"

"Four days. The injury brought on a fever. But when they poured onion

soup down you, the wound didn't smell of it, so they decided you might

live after all."

Maati lifted a spoon of fish and rice to his mouth. It tasted divine.

"I think I have you to thank for that," Maati said. "My recollection

isn't all it could be, but ..."

"I was following you," Cehmai said, taking a pose of contrition. "I was

curious about your investigations."

"Yes. I suppose I should have been more subtle."

"The assassin was killed yesterday."

Maati took another bite of fish.

"Executed?"

"Disposed of," the andat said and smiled.

Cehmai told the story. The fire in the tunnels, the deaths of the

guards. The other prisoners said that there had been three men in black

cloaks, that they had rushed in, killed the assassin, and vanished. Two

others had choked to death on the smoke before the watchmen put the fire

out.

"The story among the utkhaiem is that you discovered Utah Machi. The

Master of Tides' assistant said that you'd been angry with him for being

indiscreet about your questions concerning a courier from Udun. Then the

attack on you, and the fire. They say the Khai Machi sent for you to

hunt his missing son, Utah."

"Part true," Maati said. "I was sent to look for Otah. I knew him once,

when we were younger. But I haven't found him, and the knife man was ...

something else. It wasn't Otah."

"You said that," the andat rumbled. "When we found you, you said it was

someone else."

"Otah-kvo wouldn't have done it. Not that way. He might have met me

himself, but sending someone else to do it? No. He wasn't behind that,"

Maati said, and then the consequence of that fell into place. "And so I

think he must not have been the one who killed Biitrah."

Cehmai and his andat exchanged a glance and the young poet drew a bowl

of water for Maati. The water was as good as the food, but Maati could

see the unease in the way Cehmai looked at him. If he had ached less or

been farther from exhaustion, he might have been subtle.

"What is it?" Maati asked.