here. All these years, I wish I had been able to talk to you. To someone.

"I'm sorry...."

Maati raised a hand to stop him.

"My son," Maati said, then his voice thickened, and he coughed and began

again. "Liat and I parted ways. My low status among the poets didn't

have the air of romance for her that I saw in it. And ... there were

other things. Raising my son called for money and time and I had little

to spare of either. My son is thirteen summers. Thirteen. She was

carrying him before we left Saraykeht."

Otah felt the words as if he'd been struck an unexpected blow-a

sensation of shock without source or location, and then the flood. Maati

glanced over at him and read his thoughts from his face, and he nodded.

"I know," Maati said. "She told me about bedding you that one time after

you came back, before you left again. Before Heshai-kvo died and

Seedless vanished. I suppose she was afraid that if I discovered it

someday and she hadn't said anything it would make things worse. She

told me the truth. And she swore that my son was mine. And I believe her."

"Do you?"

"Of course not. I mean, some days I did. When he was young and I could

hold him in one arm, I was sure that he was mine. And then some nights I

would wonder. And even in those times when I was sure that he was yours,

I still loved him. That was the worst of it. The nights I lay awake in a

village where women and children aren't allowed, in a tiny cell that

stank of the disapproval of everyone I had ever hoped to please. I knew

that I loved him, and that he wasn't mine. No, don't. Let me finish. I

couldn't be a father to him. And if I hadn't fathered him either, what

was there left but watching from a distance while this little creature

grew up and away from me without even knowing my heart was tucked in his

sleeve."

Maati wiped at his eyes with the back of one hand.

"Liat said she was tired of my always mourning, that the boy deserved

some joy; that she did too. So after that I didn't have them, and I

didn't have the respect of the people I saw and worked beside. I was

eaten by guilt over losing them, and having taken her from you. I

thought that she would have been happy with you. That you would have

been happy with her. If only I hadn't broken faith with you, the world

might have been right after all. And you might have stayed.

"And that has been my life until the day they called on me to hunt you.

"I see," Otah said.

"I have missed your company so badly, Otah-kya, and I have never hated

anyone more. I have been waiting for years to say that. So. Now I have,

what was it you wanted from me?"

Otah caught his breath.

"I wanted your help," he said. "There's a woman. She was my lover once.

When I told her ... when I told her about my family, my past, she turned

me out. She was afraid that knowing me would put her and the people she

was responsible for in danger."

"She's wise, then," Maati said.

"I hoped you would help me protect her," Otah said. His heart was a lump

of cold lead. "Perhaps that was optimistic."

Maati laughed. The sound was hollow.

"And how would I do that?" Maati asked. "Kill your brothers for you?

Tell the Khai that the Dai-kvo had decreed that she was not to be

harmed? I don't have that power. I don't have any power at all. This was

my chance at redemption. They called upon me to hunt you because I knew

your face, and I failed at that until you walked into the palaces and

asked to speak with me."

"Go to my father with me. I refused the brand, but I won't now. I'll

renounce my claim to the chair in front of anyone he wants, only don't

let him kill me before I do it."

Maati looked across at him. The sparrow returned for a moment to perch

between them.

"It won't work," he said. "Renunciation isn't a simple thing, and once

you've stepped outside of form, stepping back in ..."

"But ..."

"They won't believe you. And even if they did, they'd still fear you

enough to see you dead."

Otah took a deep breath, and then slowly let it out, letting his head

sink into his hands. The air itself seemed to have grown heavier,

thicker. It had been a mad hope, and even in its failure, at least Kiyan

would be safe. It was past time, perhaps, that people stopped paying

prices for knowing him.

He could feel himself shaking. When he sat, his hands were perfectly

still, though he could still feel the trembling in them.

"So what are you going to do?" Otah asked.

"In a moment, I'm going to call in the armsmen that are waiting outside

that door," Maati said, his voice deceptively calm. He was trembling as

well. "I am going to bring you before the Khai, who will at some point

decide either that you are a murderer who has killed his son Biitrah and

put you to the sword, or else a legitimate child of Machi who should be

set loose for one of your older brothers to kill. I will speak on your

behalf, and any evidence I can find that suggests Biitrah's murder

wasn't your work, I will present."

"Well, thank you for that, at least."

"Don't," Maati said. "I'm doing it because it's true. If I thought you'd

arranged it, I'd have said that."

"Loyalty to the truth isn't something to throw out either."

Maati took a pose that accepted the gratitude, and then dropped his

hands to his sides.

"There's something you should know," Otah said. "It might ... it seems

to be your business. When I was in the islands, after Saraykeht, there

was a woman. Not Maj. Another woman. I shared a bed with her for two,

almost three years."

"Otah-kvo, I admire your conquests, but . .

"She wanted a child. From me. But it never took. Almost three years, and

she bled with the moon the whole time. I heard that after I left, she

took up with a fisherman from it tribe to the north and had a baby girl."

"I see," Maati said, and there was something in his voice. A brightness.

"Thank you, Otah-kvo."

"I missed you as well. I wish we had had more time. Or other circumstances."

"As do I. But it isn't ours to choose. Shall we do this thing?"

"I don't suppose I could shave first?" Otah asked, touching his chin.

"I don't see how," Maati said, rising. "But perhaps we can get you some