know he posessed. His palm moved out by its own accord and slapped

Baarath's jaw hard enough to snap the man's head to the side. He put a

hand on Baarath's chest, pinning him firmly to the bench. Baarath yelped

in surprise and Maati saw the shock and fear in his face. Maati kept his

voice calm.

"We aren't friends. Let's not be enemies. It would distract me, and you

may have perfect faith that it would destroy you. I am here on the

Dai-kvo's work, and no matter who becomes Khai Mach], he'll have need of

the poets. Standing beside that, one too-clever librarian can't count

for much."

Outrage shone in Baarath's eyes as he pushed Maati's hand away. Maati

stepped back, allowing him to rise. The librarian pulled his disarrayed

robes back into place, his features darkening. Maati's rage began to

falter, but he kept his chin held high.

"You're a bully, Maati-cha," Baarath said, then he took a pose of

farewell and marched proudly out of the library. His library. Maati

heard the door slam closed and felt himself deflate.

It galled him, but he knew he would have to apologize later. He should

never have struck the man. If he had borne the insults and insinuations,

he could have forced contrition from Baarath, but he hadn't.

He looked at his scattered notes. Perhaps he was a bully. Perhaps there

was nothing to be found in all this. After all, Otah would die

regardless. Danat would take his father's place, and Maati would go back

to the Dai-kvo. He would even be able to claim a measure of success.

Otah was starving to death in the high air above Machi thanks to him,

after all. And what was that if not victory? One small mystery left

unsolved could hardly matter in the end.

He pulled his papers together, stacking them, folding them, tucking the

packet away into his sleeve. "There was nothing to be done here. He was

tired and frustrated, ashamed of himself and in despair. There was a

city of wine and distraction that would welcome him with open arms and

delighted smiles.

He remembered Heshai-kvo-the poet of Saraykeht, the controller of

Removing-the-Part-That-Continues who they'd called Seedless. He

remembered his teacher's pilgrimages to the soft quarter with its drugs

and gambling, its wine and whores. Heshai had felt this, or something

like it; Maati knew he had.

He pulled the brown leather-bound book from his sleeve, where it always

waited. He opened it and read Heshai's careful, beautiful handwriting.

The chronicle and examination of his errors in binding the andat. He

recalled Seedless' last words. He's forgiven you.

Maati turned back, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and dread. He put the

hook back into his sleeve and pulled out his notes. He rearranged them

on the table. He began again, and the night stretched out endlessly

before him.

THE PALACES WERE DRUNKEN AND DIZZY AND LOST IN THE RELIEF THAT comes

when a people believe that the worst is over. It was a celebration of

fratricide, but of all the dancers, the drinkers, the declaimers of

small verse, only Idaan seemed to remember that fact. She played her

part, of course. She appeared in all the circles of which she had been

part back before she'd entered this darkness. She drank wine and tea,

she accepted the congratulations of the high families on her joining

with the house of Vaunyogi. She blushed at the ribald comments made

about her and Adrah, or else replied with lewder quips.

She played the part. The only sign was that she was more elaborate when

she painted her face. Even if people noticed, what would they think but

that the colors on her eyelids and the plum-dark rouge on her lips were

a part of her celebration. Only she knew how badly she needed the mask.

The night candle was just past its middle mark when they broke away, she

and Adrah with their arms around each other as if they were lovers. No

one they saw had any question what they were planning, and no one would

object. Half of the city had paired off already and slunk away to find

an empty bed. It was the night for it. They laughed and stumbled toward

the high palaces-her father's.

Once, when they were hidden behind a high row of hedges and it wasn't a

performance for anyone, Adrah kissed her. He smelled of wine and the

warm, musky scent of a young man's skin. Idaan kissed him back, and for

that moment-that long silent, sensual moment-she meant it. "Then he

pulled away and smiled, and she hated him again.

The celebrations in the halls and galleries of the Khai's palace were

the nearest to exhaustion-everyone from the highest family of the

utkhaiem to the lowest firekeeper had dressed in their finest robes and

set out to stain them with something. The days of revelry had taken

their toll, and with the night half-passed, the wildest celebrations

were over. Music and song still played, people still danced and talked,

drew one another away into alcoves and corners. Old men talked gravely

of who would benefit from Danat's survival and promotion. But the sense

was growing that the time was drawing near when the city would catch its

breath and rest a while.

She and Adrah made their way through to the private wings of the palace,

where only servants and slaves and the wives of the Khai moved freely.

They made no secret of their presence. There was no need. Idaan led the

way up a series of wide, sweeping staircases to apartments on the south

side of the palace. A servant-an old man with gray hair, a limp, and a

rosy smile-greeted them, and Idaan instructed him that they were not to

be disturbed for any reason. The old man took a solemn expression and a

pose of acknowledgment, but there was merriment in his eyes. Idaan let

him believe what she, after all, intended him to. Adrah opened the great

wooden doors, and he also closed them behind her.

"They aren't the best rooms, are they?" Adrah said.

"They'll do," Idaan said, and went to the windows. She pulled open the

shutters. The great tower, Otah Machi's prison, stood like a dark line

inked in the air. Adrah moved to stand beside her.

"One of us should have gone with them," she said. "If the upstart's

found safely in his cell come morning . . ."

"He won't be," Adrah said. "Father's mercenaries are competent men. He

wouldn't have hired them for this if he hadn't been sure of them."

"I don't like using hired men," Idaan said. "If we can buy them, so can

anyone.

"They're armsmen, not whores," Adrah said. "They've taken a contract,

and they'll see it through. It's how they survive."

There were five lanterns, from small glass candleboxes to an oil lamp

with a wick as wide as her thumb and heavy enough to require both of

them to move it. They pulled them all as near the open window as they