alive. Annoyance and anger flared brief as a firefly, and then faded,

replaced by something deeper and more humane. Amusement, pleasure, and

even a kind of pride in the young poet. We arc men beneath these robes,

he thought, and we do what we must.

SINJA SPUN, TIIE THICK WOODEN CUDGEL HISSING TIIROUGII THE AIR. OTAH

stepped inside the blow, striking at the man's wrist. He missed, his own

rough wooden stick hitting Sinja's with a clack and a shock that ran up

his arm. Sinja snarled, pushed him back, and then ruefully considered

his weapon.

"That was decent," Sinla said. "Amateur, granted, but not hopeless."

Otah set his stick down, then sat-head between his knees-as he fought to

get his breath back. His ribs felt as though he'd rolled down a rocky

hill, and his fingers were half numb from the shocks they'd absorbed.

And he felt good-exhausted, bruised, dirty, and profoundly hack in

control of his own body again, free in the open air. His eyes stung with

sweat, his spit tasted of blood, and when he looked up at Sinja, they

were both grinning. Otah held out his hand and Sinja hefted him to his feet.

"Again?" Sinja said.

"I wouldn't ... want to ... take advantage ... when you're ... so tired."

Sinja's face folded into a caricature of helplessness as he took a pose

of gratitude. They turned back toward the farmhouse. "l'he high summer

afternoon was thick with gnats and the scent of pine resin. The thick

gray walls of the farmhouse, the wide low trees around it, looked like a

painting of modest tranquility. Nothing about it suggested court

intrigue or violence or death. That, Otah supposed, was why Amur had

chosen it.

They had gone out after a late breakfast. Otah had felt well enough, he

thought, to spar a bit. And there was the chance that this would all

come to blades before it was over, whether he chose it or not. He'd

never been trained as a fighter, and Sinja was happy to offer a day's

instruction. There was an easy camaraderie that Otah had enjoyed on the

way out. The work itself reminded him that Sinja had slaughtered his

last comrades, and the walk back was somehow much longer than the one

out had been.

"A little practice, and you'd be a decent soldier," Sinja said as they

walked. "You're too cautious. You'll lose a good strike in order to

protect yourself, and that's a vice. You'll need to be careful of it."

"I'm actually hoping for a life that doesn't require much blade work of me."

"I wasn't only talking about fighting."

When they reached the farmhouse, the stables had four unfamiliar horses

in them, hot from the road. An armsman of House Siyanti-one Otah

recognized, but whose name he'd never learned-was caring for them. Sinja

traded a knowing look with the man, then strode up the stairs to the

main rooms. Otah followed, his aches half-forgotten in the mingled

curiosity and dread.

Amiit Foss and Kiyan were sitting at the main table with two other men.

One-an older man with heavy, beetled brows and a hooked nose-wore robes

embroidered with the sun and stars of House Siyanti. The other, a young

man with round cheeks and a generous belly, wore a simple blue robe of

inexpensive cloth, but enough rings on his fingers to pay for a small

house. Their conversation stopped as Otah and Sinja entered the room.

Amiit smiled and gestured toward the benches.

"Well timed," Amiit said. "We've just been discussing the next step in

our little dance."

"What's the issue?" Sinja asked.

"The mourning's ending. Tomorrow, the heads of all the houses of the

utkhaiem meet. I expect it will take them a few days before the

assassinations start, but within the month it'll be decided who the new

Khai is to be."

"We'll have to act before that," Otah said.

"True enough, but that doesn't mean we'd be wise to act now," Amiit

said. "We know, or guess well enough, what power is behind all thisthe

Galts. But we don't know the mechanism. Who are they backing? Why? I

don't like the idea of moving forward without that in hand. And yet,

time's short."

Amiit held out his open hands, and Otah understood this choice was being

laid at his door. It was his life most at risk, and Amiit wasn't going

to demand anything of Otah that he wasn't prepared to do. Otah sat,

laced his fingers together, and frowned. It was Kiyan's voice that

interrupted his uncertainty.

"Either we stay here or we go to Machi. If we stay here, we're unlikely

to be discovered, but it takes half a day for us to get news, and half a

day at least to respond to it. Amiit-cha thinks the safety might be

worth it, but Lamara-cha," she gestured to the hook-nosed man, "has been

arguing that we'll want the speed we can only have by being present.

He's arranged a place for us to stay-in the tunnels below the palaces."

"I have an armsman of the Saya family in my employ," the hooknosed

Lamara said. His voice was a rough whisper, and Otah noticed for the

first time a long, deep, old scar across the man's throat. "The Saya are

a minor family, but they will be at the council. We can keep clear on

what's said and by whom."

"And if you're discovered, we'll all be killed," Sinja said. "As far as

the world's concerned, you've murdered a Khai. It's not a precedent

anyone wants set. Especially not the other Khaiem. Bad enough they have

to watch their brothers. If it's their sons, too...."

"I understand that," Otah said. Then, to Amiit, "Are we any closer to

knowing who the Galts are backing?"

"We don't know for certain that they're backing anyone," Amiit said.

"That's an assumption we've made. We can make some educated guesses, but

that's all. It may be that their schemes are about the poets, the way

you suggested, and not the succession at all."

"But you don't believe that," Otah said.

"And the poets don't either," the round-checked man said. "At least not

the new one."

"Shojen-cha is the man we set to follow Maati Vaupathai," Amiit said.

"He's been digging at all the major houses of the utkhaiem," Shojen

said, leaning forward, his rings glittering in the light. "In the last

week, he's had audiences with all the highest families and half the low

ones. And he's been asking questions about court politics and money and

power. He hasn't been looking to the Galts in particular, but it's clear

enough he thinks some family or families of the utkhaiem are involved in

the killings."

"What's he found out?" Otah asked,

"We don't know. I can't say what he's looking for or what he's found,