Baarath fumbled in his sleeve and drew out a letter, its edges sewn in

green silk.

"It's just come for you," he said. "The I)ai-kvo, I think?"

Maati took it. The last he had reported, Otah had been found and turned

over to the Khai Machi. It was a faster response than he had ex peered.

He turned the letter over, looking at the familiar handwriting that

formed his name. Baarath sat across the table from him, smiling as if he

were, of course, welcome, and waiting to see what the message said. It

was one of the little rudenesses to which the librarian seemed to feel

himself entitled since Nlaati's apology. Maati had the uncomfortable

feeling Baarath thought they were becoming friends.

He tore the paper at the sewn scams, pulled the thread free, and

unfolded it. The chop was clearly the Dai-kvo's own. It began with the

traditional forms and etiquette. Only at the end of the first page did

the matter become specific to the situation at hand.

ihith Otah discovered and given over to the Khai, your work in Machi is

completed. Your suggestion that he be accepted again as a poet is, of

course, impossible but the sentiment is commendable. I am quite pleased

with you, and trust that this will mark a change in your work. %here are

many tasks that a man in your position might take on to the benefit of

all-we shall discuss these opportunities upon your return.

The critical issue now is that you withdraw, from Mllachi. Me have

performed our service to the Khai, and your continued presence would

only serve to draw attention to the fact that he and whichever of his

sons eventually takes his place were unable to discover the plot without

aid. It is dangerous for the poets to involve themselves with the

politics of the courts.

For this reason, I now recall you to my side. You are to announce that

you have found the citations in the library that I had desired, and must

now return them to me. I will expect you within five weeks....

It continued, though Maati did not. Baarath smiled and leaned forward in

obvious interest as Nlaati tucked the letter into his own sleeve. After

a moment's silence, Baarath frowned.

"Fine," he said. "If it's the sort of thing you have to keep to

yourself, I can certainly respect that."

"I knew you could, Baarath-cha. You're a man of great discretion."

"You needn't flatter me. I know my proper place. I only thought you

might want someone to speak with. In case there were questions that

someone with my knowledge of the court could answer for you."

"No," Maati said, taking a pose that offered thanks. "It's on another

matter entirely."

Maati sat with a pleasant, empty expression until Baarath huffed, stood,

took a pose of leave-taking, and walked deeper into the galleries of the

library. Maati turned hack to his notes, but his mind would not stay

focused on them. After half a hand of frustration and distress, he

packed them quietly into his sleeve and took himself away.

The sun shone bright and clear, but to the west, huge clouds rose white

and proud into the highest reaches of the sky. There would be storms

later-if not today, in the summer weeks to come. Maati imagined he could

smell the rain in the air. He walked toward his rooms, and then past

them and into a walled garden. The cherry trees had lost their flowers,

the fruits forming and swelling toward ripeness. Netting covered the

wide branches like a bed, keeping the birds from stealing the harvest.

Maati walked in the dappled shade. The pangs from his belly were fewer

now and farther between. The wounds were nearly healed.

It would be easiest, of course, to do as he was told. The Dai-kvo had

taken him back into his good graces, and the fact that things had gone

awry since his last report could in no way be considered his

responsibility. He had discovered Otah, and if it was through no skill

of his own, that didn't change the result. He had given Otah over to the

Khai. Everything past that was court politics; even the murder of the

Khai was nothing the [)ai-kvo would want to become involved with.

Maati could leave now with honor and let the utkhaiem follow his

investigations or ignore them. The worst that would happen was that Otah

would be found and slaughtered for something he had not done and an evil

man would become the Khai Machi. It wouldn't be the first time in the

world that an innocent had suffered or that murder had been rewarded.

The sun would still rise, winter would still become spring. And Maati

would be restored to something like his right place among the poets. He

might even be set over the school, set to teach boys like himself the

lessons that he and Otah-kvo and Heshai-kvo and Cehmai had all learned.

It would be something worth taking pride in.

So why was it, he wondered, that he would not do as he was told? Why was

the prospect of leaving and accepting the rewards he had dreamed of less

appealing than staying, risking the Dai-kvo's displeasure, and

discovering what had truly happened to the Khai Machi? It wasn't love of

justice. It was more personal than that.

Maati paused, closed his eyes, and considered the roiling anger in his

breast. It was a familiar feeling, like an old companion or an illness

so protracted it has become indistinguishable from health. He couldn't

say who he was angry with or why the banked rage demanded that he follow

his own judgment over anyone else's. He couldn't even say what he hoped

he would find.

He plucked the Dai-kvo's letter from his sleeve, read it again slowly

from start to finish, and began to mentally compose his reply.

Most high Dai-kvo, I hope you will forgive me, but the situation in

Machi is such that ...

Most high Dai-kvo, I am sure that, had you known the turns of event

since my last report ...

Most high, I must respectfully ...

Most high Dai-kvo, what have you ever done for me that I should do

anything you say? Why do I agree to be your creature when that agreement

has only ever caused inc pain and loss, and you still instruct me to

turn my hack on the people I care for most?

Most high Dai-kvo, I have fed your last letter to pigs....

"Maati-kvo!"

Maati opened his eyes and turned. Cehmai, who had been running toward

him, stopped short. Maati thought he saw fear in the boy's expression

and wondered for a moment what Cehmai had seen in his face to inspire

it. Maati took a pose that invited him to speak.

"Otah," Cehmai said. "'They've found him."

Too late, then, Maati thought. I've been too slow and come too late.