soon as the mourning's done."

"I know. And yes, I've decided."

"Would you mind if I asked why you chose to stay?"

Otah turned and let himself down into the room. He took two howls from

the cabinet and poured the deep red wine into both before he answered.

Sinja took the one he was offered and drank half at a swig. Utah sat on

the table, his feet on the scat of the bench and swirled the red of the

wine against the bone white of the bowl.

"Someone killed my father and nay brothers."

"You didn't know them," Sinja said. "Don't tell me this is love."

"They killed my old family. I)o you think they'd hesitate to kill my new

one?"

"Spoken like a man," Sinja said, raising his howl in salute. "The gods

all know it won't be easy. As long as the utkhaicm think you've done

everything you're accused of, they'll kill you first and crown you

after. You'll have to find who did the thing and feed them to the

crowds, and even then half of them will think you're guilty and clever.

But if you don't do the thing ... No, I think you're right. The options

are live in fear or take the world by the balls. You can be the Khai

Nlachi, or you can be the Khai Machi's victim. I don't see a third way."

"I'll take the first. And I'll be glad about it. It's only . .

"You mourn that other life, I know. It comes with leaving your boyhood

behind."

"I wouldn't have thought I was still just a boy."

"It doesn't matter what you've done or seen. Every man's a child until

he's a father. It's the way the world's made."

Otah raised his brows and took a pose of (Iuery only slightly hampered

by the bowl of wine.

"Oh yes, several," Sinja said. "So far the mothers haven't met one

another, so that's all for the best. But your woman? Kiyan-cha?"

Otah nodded.

"I traveled with her for a time," Sinja said. "I've never met another

like her, and I've known more than my share of women. You're lucky to

have her, even if it means freezing your prick off for half the year up

here in the north."

"Are you telling me you're in love with my lover?" Otah asked, half

joking, half serious.

"I'm saying she's worth giving up the sea for," Sinja said. He finished

the last of his wine, spun the bowl on the table, and then clapped

Otah's shoulder. Otah met his gaze for a moment before Sinja turned and

strode out. Otah looked into the wine bowl again, smelled the memory of

grapes hot from the sun, and drank it down. Outside, the sun broke

through, and the green of the trees and blue of the sky where it peeked

past the gray and white and yellow clouds showed vibrant as something

newly washed.

Their quarters were down a short corridor, and then through a thin

wooden door on leather hinges halfway to wearing through. Kiyan lay on

the cot, the netting pulled around her to keep the gnats and mosquitoes

off. Otah slipped through and lay gently beside her, watching her eyes

flutter and her lips take up a smile as she recognized him.

"I heard you talking," she said, sleep slurring the words.

"Sinja-cha came up."

"What was the matter?"

"Nothing," he said, and kissed her temple. "We were only talking about

the sea."

CEHMAI CLOSED THE DOOR OF THE POET'S HOUSE AGAIN AND STARTED PACing the

length of the room. The storm in the back of his mind was hardly a match

for the one at the front. Stone-Made-Soft, sitting at the empty, cold

brazier, looked up. Its face showed a mild interest.

"Trees still there?" the andat asked.

"Yes."

"And the sky?"

"And the sky."

"But still no girl."

Cehmai dropped onto the couch, his hands worrying each other, restless.

The andat sighed and went back to its contemplation of the ashes and

fire-black metal. Cehmai smelled smoke in the air. It was likely just

the forges, but his mind made the scent into Idaan's father and brother

burning. He stood tip again, walked to the door, turned back and sat

down again.

"You could go out and look for her," the andat said.

"And why should I find her now? The mourning week's almost done. You

think if she wanted me, there wouldn't have been word? I just ... I

don't understand it."

"She's a woman. You're a man."

"Your point being?"

The andat didn't reply. It might as well have been a statue. Cehmai

probed at the connection between them, at the part of him that was the

binding of the andat, but Stone-Made-Soft was in retreat. It had never

been so passive in all the years Cehmai had held it. The quiet was a

blessing, though he didn't understand it. He had enough to work through,

and he was glad not to have his burden made any heavier.

"I shouldn't have been angry with Nlaati-kvo," Cehmai said. "I shouldn't

have confronted him like that."

"No?"

"No. I should have gone hack to the Master of 'f'ides and told him what

Maati-kvo had said. Instead, I promised him five days, and now three of

them have passed and I can't do anything but chew at the grass.

"You can break promises," the andat said. "It's the definition, really.

A promise is something that can be broken. If it can't, it's something

else."

"You're singularly unhelpful," Cehmai said. The andat nodded as if

remembering something, and then was still again. Cehmai stood, went to

the shutters, and opened them. The trees were still lush with summer-the

green so deep and rich he could almost see the autumn starting to creep

in at the edge. In winter, he could see the towers rising up to the sky

through the bare branches. Now he only knew they were there. He turned

to look at the path that led hack to the palaces, then went to the door,

opened it, and looked down it, willing someone to be there. Willing

Idaan's dark eyes to greet his own.

"I don't know what to do about Adrah Vaunyogi. I don't know if I should

back him or not."

"For something you consider singularly unhelpful, I seem to receive more

than my share of your troubles."

"You aren't real," Cehmai said. "You're like talking to myself."

The andat seemed to weigh that for a moment, then took a pose that

conceded the point. Cehmai looked out again, then closed the door.