breast, staring at water or empty air. Maati had some sympathy for that.

She had shown him the most compelling of the wonders her new powers had

uncovered, and he had been as delighted as she was. But her little

raptures meant that she wasn't engaged in the work at hand: Eiah, and

the binding of Wounded.

"There is something we can do," Eiah said. "If we set the classes in the

mornings, just after the first meal, we won't have had a full day behind

us. We could come at it fresh each time."

Maati nodded more to show he'd heard her than from any real agreement.

His fingertips traced the lines of the binding again, tapping the page

each time some little infelicity struck him. He had seen bindings falter

this way before. In those first years when Maati had been a new poet,

the Dai-kvo had spoken of the dangers of muddying thoughts by too much

work. One sure way to fail was to build something sufficient and then

not stop. With every small improvement, the larger structure became less

tenable, until eventually the thing collapsed under the weight of too

much history.

He wondered if they had gone too far, corrected one too many things

which were not truly problems so much as differences of taste.

Eiah took a pose that challenged him. He looked at her directly for

perhaps the first time since she'd come to his study.

"You think I'm wrong," she said. "You can say it. I've heard worse."

It took Maati the space of several heartbeats to recall what her

proposal had been.

"I think it can't hurt. But I also think it isn't our essential problem.

We were all quite capable of designing Clarity-of-Sight with meetings in

the evening. This"-he rattled the papers in his hand-"is something

different. Half-measures won't suffice."

"What then?" she said.

He put the papers down.

"We stop," he said. "For a few days, we don't touch it at all. Instead

we can send someone to a low town for meat and candles, or clear the

gardens. Anything."

"Do we have time for that?" Eiah asked. "Anything could have happened.

My brother may be married. His wife may be carrying a child. All of Galt

may be loading their daughters in ships, and the men of the cities may

be scuttling off to Kirinton and Acton and Marsh. We are out here where

there's no one to talk to, no couriers on the roads, and I know it feels

that time has stopped. It hasn't. We've been weeks at this. Months. We

can't spend time we don't have."

"You'd recommend what, then? Move faster than we can move? Think more

clearly than we can think? It isn't as if we can sit down with a serious

expression and demand that the work be better than it is. Have you never

seen a man ill with something that needed quiet and time? This is no

different."

"I've also watched ill men die," Eiah said. "Time passes, and once

you've waited too long for something, there's no getting it back."

Her mouth bent in a deep frown. There were dark circles under her eyes.

She bit her lower lip and shook her head as if conducting some

conversation within her mind and disagreeing with herself. The coal

burning in the brazier settled and gave off a dozen small sparks as

bright as fireflies. One landed on the paper, already cold and gray. Ash.

"You're reconsidering," Maati said.

"No. I'm not. We can't tell my father," she said. "Not yet."

"We could send to others, then," Maati said. "There are high families in

every city that would rise up against Otah's every plan if they knew the

andat were back in the world. You've lived your whole life in the

courts. Two or three people whose discretion you trust would be all it

took. A rumor spoken in the right ears. We needn't even say where we are

or what's been bound."

Eiah combed her fingers through her hair. Every breath that she didn't

answer, Maati felt his hopes rise. She would, if he only gave her a

little more time and silence to convince herself. She would announce

their success, and everyone in the cities of the Khaiem would know that

Maati Vaupathai had remained true to them. He had never given up, never

turned away.

"It would mean going to a city," Eiah said. "I can't send half-a-dozen

ciphered letters under my own seal out from a low town without every

courier in the south finding out where we are."

"Then Pathai," Maati said, his hands opening. "We need to step back from

the binding. The letters will win us time to make things right."

Eiah turned, looking out the window. In the courtyard, the maple trees

were losing their leaves. A storm, a strong wind, and the branches would

be bare. A sparrow, brown and gray, hopped from one twig to another.

Maati could see the fine markings on its wings, the blackness of its

eyes. It had been years since sparrows had been more than dull smears.

He glanced at Eiah, surprised to see the tears on her cheek.

His hand touched her shoulder. She didn't look back, but he felt her

lean into him a degree.

"I don't know," she said as if to the sparrow, the trees, the thousand

fallen leaves. "I don't know why it should matter. It's no secret what

he's done or what I think of it. I don't have any doubts that what we're

doing is the right choice."

"And yet," Maati said.

"And yet," she agreed. "My father will be disappointed in me. I would

have thought I was old enough that his opinion wouldn't matter."

He searched for a response-something gentle and kind and that would

strengthen her resolve. Before he found the words, he felt her tense. He

took back his hand, adopting a querying pose.

"I thought I heard something," she said. "Someone was yelling."

A long, high shriek rang in the air. It was a woman's voice, but he

couldn't guess whose. Eiah leaped from her stool and vanished into the

dark hallways before Maati recovered himself. He followed, his heart

pounding, his breath short. The shrieking didn't stop, and as he came

nearer the kitchen, he heard other sounds-clattering, banging, high

voices urging calm or making demands that he couldn't decipher, the

andat's infantile wail. And then Eiah's commanding voice, with the

single word stop.

He rounded the last corner, his fist pressed to his chest, his heart

hammering. The cooking areas were raw chaos come to earth. An

earthenware jar of wheat flour had been overturned and cracked. The thin

stone block Irit used for chopping plants lay in shards on the floor.

Ashti Beg stood in the middle of the room, a knife in her hand, her chin

held high like a statue of abstract vengeance. In the corner, Vanjit