"I am very sorry, Choya-cha. I was wrong to-"

"But that isn't all," the servant girl said. "A courier came this

morning from 'Ian-Sadar. He'd been riding for three weeks. Kaiin Machi

is dead. Your brother Danat killed him, and he's coming hack. The

courier guessed he might be a week behind him. I)anat Machi's going to

he the new Khai Machi. And Idaan-cha, he'll be back in the city in time

for your wedding!"

On one end, the chain ended at a cube of polished granite the color of

soot that stood as high as a man's waist. On the other, it linked to a

rough iron collar around Otah's neck. Sitting with his back to the

stone-the chain was not so long that he could stand-Otah remembered

seeing a brown bear tied to a pole in the main square of a low town

outside'lan-Sadar. Dogs had been set upon it three at a time, and with

each new wave, the men had wagered on which animal would survive.

Armsmen stood around him with blades drawn and leather armor, stationed

widely enough apart to allow anyone who wished it a good view of the

captive. Beyond them, the representatives of the utkhaiem in fine robes

and ornate jewelry crowded the floor and two tiers of the balconies that

rose up to the base of the domed ceiling far above him. The dais before

him was empty. Otah wondered what would happen if he should need to

empty his bladder. It seemed unlikely that they would let him piss on

the fine parquet floor, but neither could he imagine being led away

decorously. He tried to picture what they saw, this mob of nobility,

when they looked at him. He didn't try to charm them or play on their

sympathies. He was the upstart, and there wasn't a man or woman in the

hall who wasn't delighted to see him debased and humiliated.

The first of the servants appeared, filing out from a hidden door and

spacing themselves around the chair. Otah picked out the brown poet's

robe, but it was Cchmai with the bulk of his andat moving behind him.

Maati wasn't with him; Cehmai was speaking with a woman in the robes of

the Khaiem-Otah's sister, she would be. He wondered what her name was.

The last of the servants and counselors took their places, and the crowd

fell silent. The Khai Machi walked out, as graceful as a dying man could

be. His robes were lush and full, and served to do little more than show

how wasted his frame had become. Otah could see the rouge on his sunken

cheeks, trying to give the appearance of vigor long since gone.

Whisperers fanned out from the dais and into the crowd. The Khai took a

pose of welcome appropriate to the opening of a ritual judgment. Utah

rose to his knees.

"I am told that you are my son, Utah Machi, whom I gave over to the

poets' school."

The whisperers echoed it through the hall. It was his moment to speak

now, and he found his heart was so full of humiliation and fear and

anger that he had nothing to say. He raised his hands and took a pose of

greeting-a casual one that would have been appropriate for a peasant son

to his father. "There was a murmur among the utkhaiem.

"I am further told that you were once offered the poet's robes, and you

refused that honor."

Otah tried to rise, but the most the chain allowed was a low stoop. He

cleared his throat and spoke, pushing the words out clear enough to be

heard in the farthest gallery.

"That is true. I was a child, most high. And I was angry."

"And I hear that you have come to my city and killed my eldest child.

Biitrah Machi is dead by your hand."

"That is not true, father," Utah said. "I won't say that no man has ever

died by my hand, but I didn't kill I3iitrah. I have no wish or intention

to become the Khai Machi."

"Then why have you come here?" the Khai shouted, rising to his feet. His

face was twisted in rage, his fists trembled. In all his travels, Otah

had never seen the Khai of any city look more like a man. Otah felt

something like pity through his humiliation and rage, and it let him

speak more softly when he spoke again.

"I heard that my father was dying."

It seemed that the murmur of the crowds would never end. It rolled like

waves against the seashore. Otah knelt again; the awkward stooping hurt

his neck and hack, and there was no point trying to maintain dignity

here. They waited, he and his father, staring at each other across the

space. Otah tried to feel some bond, some kinship that would bridge this

gap, but there was nothing. The Khai Machi was his father by an accident

of birth, and nothing more.

He saw the old man's eyes flicker, as if unsure of himself. He couldn't

have always been this way-the Khaiem were inhumanly studied in ritual

and grace. It was the mark of their calling. Otah wondered what his

father had been when he was young and strong. He wondered what he would

have been like as a man among his children.

The Khai raised a hand, and the crowd's susurrus tapered down to

silence. Otah did not move.

"You have stepped outside tradition," he said. "Whether you took a hand

against my son is a question that has already gathered an array of

opinion. It is something I must think on.

"I have had other news this day. Danat Machi has won the right of

succession. He is returning to the city even now. I will consult with

him on your fate. Until then, you shall be confined in the highest room

in the great tower. I do not care to have your accomplices taking your

death in their own hands this time. Danat and I-the Khai Machi and the

Khai yet to come-shall decide together what kind of beast you are.

Otah took a pose of supplication. That he was on his knees only made the

gesture clearer. He was dead, whatever happened. He could see that now.

If there had been a chance of mercy-and likely there hadn't-having

father and son converse would remove it. But in the black dread, there

was this one chance to speak as himself-not as Itani Noygu or some other

mask. And if it offended the court, there was little worse they could do

to him than he faced now. His father hesitated, and Otah spoke.

"I have seen many of the cities of the Khaiem, most high. I have been

horn into the highest of families, and I have been offered the greatest

of honors. And if I am here to meet my death at the hands of those who

should by all rights love me, at least hear me out. Our cities are not

well, father. Our traditions are not well. You stand there on that dais

now because you killed your own. You are celebrating the return of

Danat, who killed his brother, and at the same time preparing to condemn

me on the suspicion that I did the same. A tradition that calls men to

kill their brothers and discard their sons cannot be-"

"Enough!" the Khai roared, and his voice carried. The whisperers were