asking for the couriers and overseers of House Siyanti to attend him at

court. Amiit Foss, the man who'd been the upstart's overseer in tldun,

was being summoned in particular. It wasn't clear yet whether Siyanti

had knowingly backed the Otah Machi, but if they had, it would mean the

end of their expansion into the north. Even if they hadn't, the house

would suffer.

"And they're sure he was the one who had the poet killed?" Otah asked,

using all the skill the gentleman's trade had taught him to hide his

deepening despair and disgust.

"It seems they were in Saraykeht together, this poet and the upstart.

That was just before Saraykeht fell."

The implications of that hung over the room. Perhaps Otah Machi had

somehow been involved with the death of Heshai, the poet of Saraykeht.

Who knew what depravity the sixth son of the Khai Machi might sink to?

It was a ghost story for them; a tale to pass a night on the road; a

sport to follow.

Otah remembered the old, frog-mouthed poet, remembered his kindness and

his weakness and his strength. He remembered the regret and the respect

and the horrible complicity he'd felt in killing him, all those years

ago. It had been so complicated, then. Now, they said it so simply and

spoke as if they understood.

"There's rumor of a woman, too. They say he had a lover in Udun."

"If he was a courier, he's likely got a woman in half the cities of the

Khaiem. The gods know I would."

"No," the merchant said, shaking his head. He was more than half drunk.

"No, they were very clear. All the Siyanti men say he had a lover in

Udun and never took another. Loved her like the world, they said. But

she left him for another man. I say it's that turned him evil. Love

turns on you like ... like milk."

"Gentlemen," the keep's wife said, her voice powerful enough to cut

through any conversation. "It's late, and I'm not sleeping until these

rooms are cleaned, so get you all to bed. I'll have bread and honey for

you at sunrise."

The guests slurped down the last of the wine, ate the last mouthfuls of

dried cherries and fresh cheese, and made their various ways toward

their various beds. Otah walked down the inner stairs to the stables and

the goat yard, then out through a side door and into the darkness. His

body felt like he'd just run a race, or else like he was about to.

Kiyan. Kiyan and the wayhouse her father had run. Old Mani. He had set

the dogs on them, and that he hadn't intended to would count for nothing

if his brothers found her. Whatever happened, whatever they did, it

would be his fault.

He found a tall tree and sat with his back against it, looking out at

the stars nearest the horizon. The air had the bite of cold in it.

Winter never left this place. It made a little room for summer, but it

never left. He thought of writing her a letter, of warning her. It would

never reach her in time. It was ten days walk back to Machi, six days

forward to Cetani, and his brothers' forces would already be on the road

south. He could send to Amiit Foss, beg his old overseer to take Kiyan

in, to protect her. But there too, word would reach him too late.

Despair settled into his belly, too deep for tears. He was destroying

the woman he loved most in the world simply by being who he was, by

doing what he'd done. He thought of the boy he had been, marching away

from the school across the western snows. He remembered his fear and the

warmth of his rage at the poets and his parents and all in the world

that treated boys so unfairly. What a pompous little ass he'd been,

young and certain and alone. He should have taken the Dal-kvo's offer

and become a poet. He might have tried to bind an andat, and maybe

failed and paid the price, dying in the attempt. And then Kiyan would

never have met him. She would be safe.

There's still a price, he thought, as clear as a voice speaking in his

head. You could still pay it.

Machi was ten days' walk, perhaps as little as four and a half days'

ride. If he could turn all eyes back to Mach], Kiyan might have at least

the chance to escape his idiocy. And what would she matter, if no one

need search for him. He could take a horse from the stables now. After

all, if he was an upstart and a poisoner and a man turned evil by love,

it hardly mattered being a horse thief as well. He closed his eyes, an

angry bark of a laugh forcing its way from his throat.

Everything you have won, you've won by leaving, he thought, remembering

a woman whom he had known almost well enough to join his life with

though he had never loved her, nor she him. Well, Maj, perhaps this time

I'll lose.

THE NIGHT CANDLE WAS PAST ITS MIDDLE MARK; TFIK AIR WAS FILLEI) WITH the

songs of crickets. Somewhere in the course of things, the pale mist of

netting had been pulled from the bed, and the room looked exposed

without it. Cehmai could feel Stone-Made-Soft in the back of his mind,

but the effort of being truly aware of the andat was too much; his body

was thick and heavy and content. Focus and rigor would have their place

another time.

Idaan traced her fingertips across his chest, raising gooseflesh. He

shivered, took her hand and folded it in his own. She sighed and lay

against him. Her hair smelled of roses.

"Why do they call you poets?" she asked.

"It's an old Empire term," Clehmai said. "It's from the binding."

"The andat are poems?" she said. She had the darkest eyes. Like an

animal's. He looked at her mouth. The lips were too full to be

fashionable. With the paint worn off, he could see how she narrowed

them. He raised his head and kissed them again, gently this time. His

own mouth felt bruised from their coupling. And then his head grew too

heavy, and he let it rest again.

"They're ... like that. Binding one is like describing something

perfectly. Understanding it, and expanding it ... I'm not saying this

well. Have you ever translated a letter? Taken something in the Khaiate

tongues and tried to say the same thing in Westland or an east island

tongue?"

"No," she said. "I had to take something from the Empire and rewrite it

for a tutor once."

Cchmai closed his eyes. He could feel sleep pulling at him, but he

fought against it a hit. He wasn't ready to let the moment pass.

"That's near enough. You had to make choices when you did that. Tiff',

could mean take or it could mean give or it could mean exchangeit's

yours to choose, depending on how it's used in the original document.

And so a letter or a poem doesn't have a set translation. You could have

any number of ways that you say the same thing. Binding the andat means

describing them-what the thought of them is-so well that you can