"You can state your case to l)anat-cha as eloquently as you could to

me," the Khai said.

"There'll be no point if Otah dies of cold or throws himself out the

tower window before then," Maati said. "Let me take him food and a thick

robe. Let me talk with him."

"It's hopeless," the Khai said.

"Then there's nothing lost but my effort, and it will keep me from

troubling you further."

"Your work here is complete, isn't it? Why are you bothering me,

Maati-cha? You were sent to find Otah. He's found."

"I was sent to find if he was behind the death of Biitrah, and if he was

not, to discover who was. I have not carried out that task. I won't

leave until I have."

The Khai's expression soured, and he shook his head. His skin had grown

thinner, the veins at his temples showing dark. When he leaned forward,

tapping the howl of his pipe against the side of the iron brazier with a

sound like pebbles falling on stone, his grace could not hide his

discomfort.

"I begin to wonder, Maati-cha, whether you have been entirely honest

with me. You say that there is no great love between you and my upstart

son. You bring him to me, and for that reason alone, I believe you.

Everything else you have done suggests the other. You argue that it was

not he who arranged Biitrah's death, though you have no suggestion who

else might have. You ask for indulgences for the prisoner, you appeal to

the Dai-kvo in hopes ..

A sudden pain seemed to touch the old man's features and one

nearskeletal hand moved toward his belly.

"There is a shadow in your city," Maati said. "You've called it by

Utah's name, but none of it shows any connection with Otah: not Biitrah,

not the attack on me, not the murder of the assassin. None of the other

couriers of any house report anything that would suggest he was more

than he appeared. By his own word, he'd fled the city before the attack

on me, and didn't return before the assassin was killed. How is it that

he arranged all these things with no one seeing him? No one knowing his

name? How is it that, now he's trapped, no one has offered to sell him

in trade for their own lives?"

"Who then?"

"I don't ..."

"Who else gained from these things?"

"Your son, Danat," Maati said. "He broke the pact. If all this talk of

Otah was a ploy to distract Kaiin from the real danger, then it worked,

most high. Danat will be the new Khai Machi."

"Ask him when he comes. He will be the Khai Machi, and if he has done as

you said, then there's no crime in it and no reason that he should hide it."

"A poet was attacked-"

"And did you die? Are you dying? No? Then don't ask sympathy from me.

Go, Maati-cha. Take the prisoner anything you like. Take him a pony and

let him ride it around his cell, if that pleases you. Only don't return

to me. Any business you have with me now, you have with my son.

The Khai took a pose of command that ended the audience, and Maati

stood, took a pose of gratitude that he barely felt, and withdrew from

the meeting room. He stalked along the corridors of the palace seething.

Back in his apartments, he took stock. He had gathered together his

bundle even before he'd gone to the audience. A good wool robe, a rough

cloth hag filled with nut breads and dry cheeses, and a flask of fresh

water. Everything that he thought the Khai's men would permit. He folded

it all together and tied it with twine.

At the base of the great tower, armsmcn stood guard at the platform-a

metalwork that ran on tracks set into the stone of the tower, large

enough to carry twelve men. The chains that held it seemed entirely too

thin. Maati identified himself, thinking his poet's robe, reputation,

and haughty demeanor might suffice to make the men do as he instructed.

Instead, a runner was sent to the Khai's palace to confirm that Maati

was indeed permitted to see the prisoner and to give him the little

gifts that he carried. Once word was brought back, Maati climbed on the

platform, and the signalman on the ground blew a call on a great

trumpet. The chains went taut, and the platform rose. Maati held onto

the rail, his knuckles growing whiter as the ground receded. Wind

plucked at his sleeves as the roofs of even the greatest palaces fell

away below him. The only things so high as he was were the towers, the

birds, and the mountains. It was beautiful and exhilarating, and all he

could think the whole time was what would happen if a single link in any

of the four chains gave way. When he reached the open sky doors at the

top, the captain of the armsmen took him solidly by his arm and helped

him step in.

"First time, eh?" the captain said, and his men chuckled, but not

cruelly. It was a journey each of them risked, Maati realized, every

day. These men were more likely to die for the vanity of Machi than he.

He smiled and nodded, stepping away from the open space of the sky door.

"I've come to see the prisoner," he said.

"I know," the captain said. "The trumpet said as much, if you knew to

listen for it. But understand, if he attacks you-if he tries to bargain

your life for his freedom-I'll send your body down. You make your choice

when you go in there. I can't be responsible for it."

The captain's expression was stern. Maati saw that he thought this

possible, the danger real. Maati took a pose of thanks, hampered

somewhat by the bundle under his arm. The captain only nodded and led

him to a huge wooden door. Four of his men drew their blades as he

unbarred it and let it swing in. Maati took a deep breath and stepped

through.

Otah was huddled in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees. He

looked up and then back down. Maati heard the door close behind him,

heard the bar slide home. All those men to protect him from this

half-dead rag.

"I've brought food," Maati said. "I considered wine, but it seemed too

much like a celebration."

Otah chuckled, a thick phlegmy sound.

"It would have gone to my head too quickly anyway," he said, his voice

weak. "I'm too old to go drinking without a good meal first."

Maati knelt and unfolded the robe and arranged the food he'd brought. It

seemed too little now, but when he broke off a corner of nut bread and

held it out, Otah nodded his gratitude and took it. Maati opened the

flask of water, put it beside Otah's feet, and sat back.

"What news?" Otah asked. "I don't hear much gossip up here."

"It's all as straightforward as a maze," Maati said. "House Siyanti is