reach the docks outside Amnat-tan. And then, if he could find a fishing

boat that would take him on, he would be among those men again, singing

songs in a tongue he hadn't tried out in years, explaining again, either

with the truth or outrageous stories, why his marriage mark was only

half done.

He would die there-on the islands or on the sea-under whatever new name

he chose for himself. Itani Noygu was gone. He had died in Machi.

Another life was behind him, and the prospect of beginning again, alone

in a foreign land, tired him more than the walking.

"Now, southern wood's too soft to really build with. The winters are too

warm to really harden them. Up here there's trees that would blunt a

dozen axes before they fell," the old man said.

"You know everything, don't you grandfather?" Otah said. If his

annoyance was in his voice, the old man noticed nothing, because he

cackled again.

"It's because I've been everywhere and done everything," the old man

said. "I even helped hunt down the Khai Amnat-Tan's older brother when

they had their last succession. "There were a dozen of us, and it was

the dead of winter. Your piss would freeze before it touched ground. Oh,

eh ..."

The old man took a pose of apology to the young woman and her babe, and

Otah swung himself out of the cart. It wasn't a story he cared to hear.

The road wound through a valley, high pine forest on either side, the

air sharp and fragrant with the resin. It was beautiful, and he pictured

it thick with snow, the image coming so clear that he wondered whether

he might once have seen it that way. When the clatter of hooves came

from the west, he forced himself again to relax his shoulders and look

as curious and excited as the others. Twice before, couriers on fast

horses had passed the 'van, laden with news, Otah knew, of the search

for him.

It had taken an effort of will not to run as fast as he could after he

had been discovered, but the search was for a false courier either

plotting murder or fleeing like a rabbit. No one would pay attention to

a plodding laborer off to stay with his sister's family in a low town

outside Cetani. And yet, as the horses approached, tension grew in his

breast. He prepared himself for the shock if one of the riders had a

familiar face.

There were three this time-utkhaiem to judge by their robes and the

quality of their mounts-and none of them men he knew. They didn't slow

for the 'van, but the armsmen of the 'van, the drivers, the dozen

hangers-on like himself all shouted at them for news. One of them turned

in his saddle and yelled something, but Otah couldn't make it out and

the rider didn't repeat it. Ten days on the road. Six more to Cetani.

The only challenge was not to be where they were looking for him.

They reached a wayhouse with the sun still three and a half hands above

the treetops. The building was of northern design: stone walls thick as

the span of a man's arm and stables and goat pen on the ground floor

where the heat of the animals would rise and help warm the place in the

winter. While the merchants and armsmen argued over whether to stop now

or go farther and sleep in the open, Otah ran his eyes over the windows

and walked around to the back, looking for all the signs Kiyan had

taught him to know whether the keeper was working with robbers or

keeping an unsafe kitchen. The house met all of her best marks. It

seemed safe.

By the time he'd returned to the carts, his companions had decided to

stay. After Otah had helped stable the horses, they shifted the carts

into a locked courtyard. The caravan's leader haggled with the keeper

about the rooms and came to an agreement that Otah privately thought

gave the keep the better half. Otah made his way up two flights of

stairs to the room he was to share with five armsmen, two drivers, and

the old man. He curled himself up in a corner on the floor. It was too

small a room, and one of the drivers snored badly. A little sleep when

things were quiet would only make the next day easier.

He woke in darkness to the sound of music-a drum throbbed and a flute

sighed. A man's voice and a woman's moved in rough harmony. He wiped his

eyes with the sleeve of his robe and went down to the main room. The

members of his 'van were all there and half a dozen other men besides.

The air smelled of hot wine and roast lamb, pine trees and smoke. Otah

sat at a rough, worn table beside one of the drivers and watched.

The singer was the keep himself, a pot-bellied man with a nose that had

been broken and badly set. He drew the deep heat from a skin and

earthenware drum as he sang. His wife was shapely as a potato with an

ugly face and a missing eye tooth, but their voices were well suited and

their affection for each other forgave them much. Otah found himself

tapping his fingertips against the table to match the drumbeats.

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