translate it perfectly into a form that includes will and volition. Like

translating a Galtic contract so that all the nuances of the trade are

preserved perfectly."

"But there's any number of ways to do that," she said.

"There are very few ways to do it perfectly. And if a binding goes wrong

... Existing isn't normal for them. If you leave an imprecision or an

inaccuracy, they escape through it, and the poet pays a price for that.

Usually it comes as some particularly gruesome death. And knowing what

an andat is can be subtle. Stone-Made-Soft. What do you mean by stone?

Iron comes from stone, so is it stone? Sand is made of tiny stones. Is

it stone? Bones are like stone. But are they like enough to be called

the same name? All those nuances have to be balanced or the binding

fails. Happily, the Empire produced some formal grammars that were very

precise."

"And you describe this thing...."

"And then you hold that in your mind until you die. Only it's the kind

of thought that can think back, so it's wearing sometimes."

"Do you resent it?" Idaan asked, and something in her voice had changed.

Cehmai opened his eyes. Idaan was looking past him. Her expression was

unfathomable.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"You have to carry this thing all your life. Do you ever wish that you

hadn't been called to do it?"

"No," he said. "Not really. It's work, but it's work that I like. And I

get to meet the most interesting women."

Her gaze cooled, flickered over him, and then away.

"Lucky to be you," she said as she sat up. He watched her as she pulled

her robes from the puddle of cloth on the floor. Cehmai sat up. "I have

meetings in the morning. I'll need to be in my own rooms to be ready

anyway. I might as well go now."

"I might say fewer things that angered you if you talked to me," Cehmai

said, gently.

Idaan's head snapped around to him like a hunting cat's, but then her

expression softened to chagrin, and she took an apologetic pose.

"I'm overtired," she said. "'T'here are things that I'm carrying, and I

don't do it as gracefully as you. I don't mean to take them out on you."

"Why do you do this, Idaan-kya? Why do you come here? I don't think it's

that you love me."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," Cehmai said. "I don't. But if you choose to, that will be fine as

well."

"'That's flattering," she said, sarcasm thick in her voice.

"Are you doing this to be flattered?"

He was awake again now. He could see something in her expression pain,

anger, something else. She didn't answer him now, only knelt by the bed

and felt beneath it for her hoots. He put his hand on her arm and drew

her up. He could sense that she was close to speaking, that the words

were already there, just below the surface.

"I don't mind only being your bed mate," he said. "I've known from the

start that Adrah is the man you plan to be with, and that I couldn't be

that for you even if you wanted it. I assume that's part of why you've

chosen me. But I am fond of you, and I would like to be your friend."

"You'd be my friend?" she said. "That's nice to hear. You've bedded me

and now you'll condescend to be a friend?"

"I think it's more accurate to say you bedded me," Cehmai said. "And it

seems to me that people do what we've done quite often without caring

about the other person. Or even while wishing them ill. I'll grant that

we haven't followed the usual order-I understand people usually know

each other first and then fall into bed afterwards-hut in a way that

means you should take me more seriously."

She pulled hack and took a pose of query.

"You know I'm not just saying it to get your robes open," he said. "When

I say I want to be someone you can speak with, it's truth. I've nothing

to gain by it but the thing itself."

She sighed and sat on the bed. The light of the single candle painted

her in shades of orange.

"Do you love me, Cehmai-kya?" she asked.

Cehmai took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. He had reached the

gate. Her thoughts, her fears. Everything that had driven this girl into

his bed was waiting to be loosed. All he would have to do was tell one,

simple, banal lie. A lie thousands of men had told for less reason. He

was badly tempted.

"Idaan-kya," he said, "I don't know you."

To his surprise, she smiled. She pulled on her hoots, not bothering to

lace the bindings, leaned over and kissed him again. Her hand caressed

his cheeks.

"Lucky to be you," she said softly.

Neither spoke as they walked down the corridor to the main rooms. The

shutters were closed against the night, and the air felt stuffy and

thick. He walked with her to the door, then through it, and sat on the

steps, watching her vanish among the trees. The crickets still sang. The

moon still hung overhead, bathing the night in blue. He heard the high

squeak of bats as they skimmed the ponds and pools, the flutter of an

owl's wings.

"You should be sleeping," the low, gravel voice said from behind him.

"Yes, I imagine so."

"First light, there's a meeting with the stone potters."

"Yes, there is."

Stone-Made-Soft stepped forward and lowered itself to sit on the step

beside him. The familiar bulk of its body rose and fell in a sigh that

could only be a comment.

"She's up to something," Cehmai said.

"She might only find herself drawn to two different men," the andat

said. "It happens. And you're the one she couldn't build a life with.

The other boy ..."

"No," Cehmai said, speaking slowly, letting the thoughts form as he gave

them voice. "She isn't drawn to me. Not one."

"She could be flattered that you want her. I've heard that's endearing."

"She's drawn to you."

The andat shifted to look at him. Its wide mouth was smiling.

"That would be a first," it said. "I'd never thought of taking a lover.

I don't think I'd know what to do with her."

"Not like that," Cehmai said. "She wants me because of you. Because I'm

a poet. If I weren't, she wouldn't be here."