the Dai-kvo takes no sides in matters of succession. But if you were to

let it be known that you favored some particular house, without taking

any formal position, it would make things easier."

"Only if I backed a house that was prepared to win," Cehmai said. "If I

chose poorly, I'd throw some poor unprepared family in with the pit hounds."

"My family is ready. We are well respected, we have partners in all the

great trading houses, and the silversmiths and ironworkers are closer to

us than to any other family. Idaan is the only blood of the old Khai

remaining in the city. Her brothers will never be Khai Machi, but

someday, her son might."

Cehmai considered. Here was a man asking his help, asking for political

backing, unaware that Cehmai knew the shape and taste of his lover's

body as well as he did. It likely was in his power to elevate Adrah

Vaunyogi to the ranks of the Khaiem. He wondered if it was what Idaan

would want.

"That may be wise," Cehmai said. "I would need to think about it, of

course, before I could act."

Adrah put his hand on Cehmai's knee, familiar as if they were brothers.

The andat moved first, ambling toward the door, and then Cehmai stood

and adopted a pose appropriate to parting. The amusement coming from

Stone-Made-Soft was like constant laughter that only Cehmai could hear.

When they had made their farewells, Cehmai started cast again, toward

the burning bodies and the priests. His mind was a jumbleconcern for

Idaan, frustration at not finding her, unease with Adrah's proposal, and

at the hack, stirring like something half asleep, a dread that seemed

wrapped tip with Maati Vaupathai staring drunk into the fire.

One of them, Maati had said, meaning the high families of the utkhaiem.

One of them would benefit. Unless Cehmai took a hand and put his own

lover's husband in the chair. That wasn't the sort of thing that could

have been planned for. No scheme for power could include the supposition

that Cehmai would fall in love with Idaan, or that her husband would ask

his aid, or that his guilt and affection would drive him to give it. It

was the kind of thing that could come from nowhere and upset the perfect

plan.

If it wasn't Otah Machi who had engineered all this bloodletting, then

some other viper was in the city, and the prospect of Adrah Vaun yogi

taking the prize away by marrying Idaan and wooing the poets would drive

the killer mad. And even if it was Otah Machi, he might still hope to

take his father's place. Adrah's rise would threaten that claim as well.

"You're thinking too hard," the andat said.

"Thinking never hurt anyone."

"So you've all said," the andat sighed.

She wasn't at the ceremony. She wasn't at her quarters. Cehmai and

Stone-Made-Soft walked together through the gardens and pavilions, the

courtyards and halls and passages. Mourning didn't fill the streets and

towers the way celebration had. The dry music of the funeral drums

wasn't taken up in the teahouses or gardens. Only the pillar of smoke

blotting out the stars stood testament to the ceremony. 'twice, Cehmai

took them past his own quarters, hoping that Idaan might be there

waiting for him, but without effect. She had vanished from the city like

a bird flying up into darkness.

His OLD NOTES WERE GONE, I?F'I' IN A PACKET IN HIS ROOMS. KAIIN AND

Danat were forgotten, and instead, Maati had fresh papers spread over

the library table. Lists of the houses of the utkhaicm that might

possible succeed in a bid to become the next Khai. Beside them, a fresh

ink brick, a pen with a new bronze nib, and a pot of tea that smelled

rich, fresh cut, and green. Summer tea in the winter cities. Maati

poured himself a bowl, then blew across the pale surface, his eyes going

over the names again.

According to Baarath, who had accepted his second apology with a grace

that had surprised him, the most likely was Kamau-a family that traced

its bloodline back to the Second Empire. They had the wealth and the

prestige. And, most important, an unmarried son in his twenties who was

well-respected and active in the court. "Then the Vaunani, less wealthy,

less prestigious, but more ruthless. Or possibly the Radaani, who had

spent generations putting their hands into the import and export trade

until almost every transaction in the city fed their coffers. They were

the richest of the utkhaiem, but apparently unable to father males.

There were seventeen daughters, and the only candidates for the Khai's

chair were the head of the house, his son presently overseeing a trading

venture in Yalakeht, and a six-year-old grandson.

And then there were the Vaunyogi. Adrah Vaunyogi was a decent candidate,

largely because he was young and virile, and about to be married to

Idaan Machi. But the rumors held that the family was underfunded and not

as well connected in court. Maati sipped his tea and considered whether

to leave them on his list. One of these housesmost likely one of these,

though there were certainly other possibilities-had engineered the

murder of the Khai Machi. They had placed the blame on Otah. They had

spirited him away, and once the mourning was finished with ...

Once the mourning was finished, the city would attend the wedding of

Adrah Vaunyogi to Idaan. No, no, lie would keep the Vaunyogi on his

list. It was such a convenient match, and the timing so apt.

Others, of course, put the crimes down to Otah-kvo. A dozen hunting

packs had gone out in the four days since the bloody morning that killed

the Khai and Danat both. The utkhaiem were searching the low towns for

Otah and those who had aided his escape, but so far no one had

succeeded. It was Maati's task now to solve the puzzle before they found

him. He wondered how many of them had guessed that he alone in the city

was working to destroy all their chances. If someone else had done these

things ... if he could show it ... Otah would still be able to take his

father's place. He would become Khai Machi.

And what, Maati wondered, would Liat think of that, once she heard of

it? He imagined her cursing her ill judgment in losing the ruler of a

city and gaining half a poet who hadn't proved worth keeping.

"Maati," Baarath said.

Maati jumped, startled, and spilled a few drops of tea over his papers.

Ink swirled into the pale green as he blotted them with a cloth. Baarath

clicked his teeth and hurried over to help.

"My fault," the librarian said. "I thought you had noticed me. You were

scowling, after all."

Maati didn't know whether to laugh at that, so he only took a pose of

gratitude as Baarath blew across the still damp pages. The damage was

minor. Even where the ink had smudged, he knew what he had meant.