where Eiah worked with her latest pet physician and pointedly ignored

all matters of politics and power, there might be frost in the mornings.

Here in Saraykeht, the change of seasons was only a difference of scent

and the surprise that the sun, which had so plagued them at summer's

height, could grow tired so early. He wrote a few more sentences, the

pen sounding like bird's feet against the paper, and then blew on the

ink to cure it, folded the letter, and put it in with all the others he

had written to her.

His eyes ached. His back ached. The joints of his hands were stiff, and

his spine felt carved from wood. For days, he had been poring over

records and agendas, letters and accountancy reports, searching for some

connection that would uncover Maati's suspected patron. There were

patterns to be looked for-people who had traveled extensively in the

past few years who might be moving with the poet, supplies that had

vanished with no clear destination, opposition to the planned alliance

with Galt. And, with that, Maati's boast of an ear in the palaces. And

the gods all knew there were patterns to be found. The courts of the

Khaiem were thick with petty intrigue. Flushing out any one particular

scheme was like plucking a particular thread from a tapestry.

To make matters worse, the servants and high families that Idaan had

chided him for not making better use of had no place here. Even if Maati

didn't have the well-placed spy he'd claimed, Otah still couldn't afford

the usual gossip. Maati had to be found and the situation resolved

before he managed to bind some new andat, and no one-Galt, Westlander,

no one-could hear of it for fear of the reaction it would bring.

That meant that the records and reports were brought to Otah's private

chambers. Crate after crate until they piled near the ceiling. And the

only eyes that he could trust to the task were his own and, through the

twisted humor that gods seemed to enjoy, Idaan's.

She was stretched out on a long silk divan now, half a month's lading

records from the harbor master's office arrayed about her. Her closed

eyes shifted beneath their lids, but her breath was as steady as the

tide. Otah found a thin wool blanket and draped it over her.

It had not particularly been his intention to embrace his exiled sister

and make her a part of the hunt for Maati, but the work was more than he

could manage on his own. The only other person who knew of the problem

was Sinja, and he was busy with Balasar and the creation of the unlikely

fleet whose mission was to save Chaburi-Tan. Idaan knew the workings of

the poets as well as any woman alive; she had been the enemy of one, the

lover of another. She knew a great deal about court intrigue and also

the mechanics of living an unobtrusive life. There was no one better

equipped for the investigation.

He did not trust her, but had resolved to behave as if he did. At least

for the present. The future was as unpredictable as it had always been,

and he'd given up hope of anticipating its changes.

He knew from long experience that he wouldn't sleep if he went to bed

now. His mind might be in a deep fog, but his body was punishing him for

sitting too long. As it would have punished him for working too hard.

The range allowed to him was so much narrower than when he'd been young.

A walk to loosen his joints, and he might be able to rest.

The armsmen at the door of his apartments took poses of obeisance as he

stepped out. He only nodded and made his way south. He wore a simple

robe of cotton. The cloth was of the first quality, but the cut was

simple and the red and gray less than gaudy. Someone who didn't know him

by sight might have mistaken him for a member of the utkhaiem, or even a

particularly powerful servant. He made a game of walking with his head

down, trying to pass as a functionary in his own house.

The halls of the palaces were immense and ornate. Many small

items-statues, paintings, jeweled decoration-had vanished during the

brief occupation by Galt, but the huge copper-sheathed columns and the

high, clear glass of the unshuttered windows spoke of greater days. The

wood floors shone with lacquer even where they were scraped and pitted.

Incense burned in unobtrusive brass bowls, filling the air with the

scent of sandalwood and desert sage. Even this late at night, singing

slaves carried their harmonies in empty chambers. Crickets, Otah

thought, would have been as beautiful.

His back had begun to relax and his feet to complain when the illusion

of traveling the palaces unnoticed was broken. A servant in a gold robe

appeared at the far end of the hall, walking purposefully toward him.

Otah stopped. The man took a pose of obeisance and apology as he drew near.

"Most High, I am sorry to interrupt. Ana Dasin has come to request an

audience. I would have turned her away, but under the circumstances ..."

"You did well," he said. "Take her to the autumn garden."

The servant took a pose that accepted the command, but then hesitated.

"Should I send for an outer robe, Most High?"

Otah looked down at the wrinkled fabric and wondered what Ana would see

if he met her like this: a man of great power and consequence at the end

of a long day's work, or an old slob in a cotton robe.

"Yes," he said with a sigh. "An outer robe would be welcome. And tea.

Bring us fresh tea. She might not care for it, but I want some."

The man scurried away. They had known where he was, and that he didn't

wish to be disturbed. And they had known when to disturb him. To be the

Emperor of the Khaiem was above all else to be known by people he did

not know. He had discovered that truth a thousand times before, and

likely would do so a thousand times again, and each one discomforted him.

The autumn garden was nestled within the palaces. Trees and vines hid

the stone walls, and paper lanterns gave the flagstone path a soft

light. Near the center, a small brass fountain, long given to verdigris,

chuckled to itself and a small wooden pavilion rested in the darkness.

Otah walked down the path, still tugging the black and silver outer robe

into place. Ana Dasin sat in the pavilion, her gaze on the water

sluicing over bronze. The tea, set on a lacquered tray, had preceded him

as if the servants had anticipated that he would ask for it as well and

had had it ready.

Otah gathered himself. He was almost certain that Danat had already had

his second meeting with the girl. Hanchat Dor, Danat's rival, was set to

be freed in the morning. Otah found himself curious to see who Ana Dasin

was in these circumstances.

"Ana," he said in her language. "I had not expected your company."