Cehmai drew himself up, then sighed.

"You call him Otah-kvo."

"He was my teacher. At the school, he was in the black robes when I was

new arrived. He ... helped me."

"And you saw him again. When you were older."

"Did I?" Maati asked.

Cehmai took a pose that asked forgiveness. "The Dai-kvo would hardly

have trusted a memory that old. You were both children at the school. We

were all children there. You knew him when you were both men, yes?"

"Yes," Maati said. "He was in Saraykeht when ... when Heshai-kvo died."

"And you call him Otah-kvo," Cehmai said. "He was a friend of yours,

Maati-kvo. Someone you admired. He's never stopped being your teacher."

"Perhaps. But he's stopped being my friend. That was my doing, but it's

done."

"I'm sorry, Maati-kvo, but are you certain Otah-kvo is innocent because

he's innocent, or only because you're certain? It would be hard to

accept that an old friend might wish you ill ..."

Maati smiled and sipped the water.

"Otah Machi may well wish me dead. I would understand it if he did. And

he's in the city, or was four days ago. But he didn't send the assassin."

"You think he isn't hoping for the Khai's chair?"

"I don't know. But I suppose that's something worth finding out. Along

with who it was that killed his brother and started this whole thing

rolling."

He took another mouthful of rice and fish, but his mind was elsewhere.

"Will you let me help you?"

Maati looked up, half surprised. The young poet's face was serious, his

hands in a pose of formal supplication. It was as if they were back in

the school and Cehmai was a boy asking a boon of the teachers. The andat

had its hands folded in its lap, but it seemed mildly amused. Before

Maati could think of a reply, Cehmai went on.

"You aren't well yet, Maati-kvo. You're the center of all the court

gossip now, and anything you do will be examined from eight different

views before you've finished doing it. I know the city. I know the

court. I can ask questions without arousing suspicion. The Dai-kvo

didn't choose to take me into his confidence, but now that I know what's

happening-"

"It's too much of a risk," Maati said. "The Dal-kvo sent me because I

know Otah-kvo, but he also sent me because my loss would mean nothing.

You hold the andat-"

"It's fine with me," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Really, don't let me stop you.

"If I ask questions without you, I run the same risks, and without the

benefits of shared information," Cehmai said. "And expecting me not to

wonder would be unrealistic."

"The Khai Machi would expel me from his city if he thought I was

endangering his poet," Maati said. "And then I wouldn't be of use to

anyone.

Cehmai's dark eyes were both deadly serious and also, Maati thought,

amused. "This wouldn't be the first thing I've kept from him," the young

poet said. "Please, Maati-kvo. I want to help."

Maati closed his eyes. Having someone to talk with, even if it was only

a way to explore what he thought himself, wouldn't be so had a thing.

The Dai-kvo hadn't expressly forbidden that Cehmai know, and even if he

had, the secret investigation had already sent Otah-kvo to flight, so

any further subterfuge seemed pointless. And the fact was, he likely

couldn't find the answers alone.

"You have saved my life once already."

"I thought it would be unfair to point that out," Cehmai said.

Maati laughed, then stopped when the pain in his belly bloomed. He lay

back, blowing air until he could think again. The pillows felt better

than they should have. He'd done so little, and he was already tired. He

glanced mistrustfully at the andat, then took a pose of acceptance.

"Come back tonight, when I've rested," Maati said. "We'll plan our

strategy. I have to get my strength hack, but there isn't much time."

"May I ask one other thing, Maati-kvo?"

Maati nodded, but his belly seemed to have grown more sensitive for the

moment and he tried not to move more than that. It seemed laughing

wasn't a wise thing for him just now.

"Who are Liat and Nayiit?"

"My lover. Our son," Maati said. "I called out for them, did I? When I

had the fever?"

Cehmai nodded.

"I do that often," Maati said. "Only not usually aloud."

There were four great roads that connected the cities of the Khaiem, one

named for each of the cardinal directions. The North Road that linked

Cetani, Machi, and Amnat-Ian was not the worst, in part because there

was no traffic in the winter, when the snows let men make a road

wherever desire took them. Also the stones were damaged more by the

cycle of thaw and frost that troubled the north only in spring and

autumn. In high summer, it rarely froze, and for a third of the year it

did not thaw. The West Road-far from the sea and not so far south as to

keep the winters warm-required the most repair.

"They'll have crews of indentured slaves and laborers out in shifts,"

the old man in the cart beside Otah said, raising a finger as if his

oratory was on par with the High Emperor's, back when there had been an

empire. "They start at one end, reset the stones until they reach the

other, and begin again. It never ends."

Otah glanced across the cart at the young woman nursing her babe and

rolled his eyes. She smiled and shrugged so slightly that their orator

didn't notice the movement. The cart lurched down into and up from

another wide hole where the stones had shattered and not yet been replaced.

"I have walked them all," the old man said, "though they've worn me more

than I've worn them. Oh yes, much more than I've worn them."

He cackled, as he always seemed to when he made this observation. The

little caravan-four carts hauled by old horses-was still six days from

Cetani. Otah wondered whether his own legs were rested enough that he

could start walking again.

He had bought an old laborer's robe of blue-gray wool from a rag shop,

chopped his hair to change its shape, and let his thin beard start to

grow in. Once his whiskers had been long enough to braid, but the east

islanders he'd lived with had laughed at him and pretended to mistake

him for a woman. After Cetani, it would take another twenty days to