there were an earthquake, the towers would certainly fall. For an

instant, he imagined the stones pattering down in a deadly rain, the

long, slumped piles of rubble that would lie where they fell. The

corpses of giants.

He shook himself, pushing the darkness away, and turned back toward the

palaces. He wondered, as he trundled toward the library, where Nayiit

was today. He had seen the boy-a man old enough to have a child of his

own, and still in Maati's mind a boy-several times since his arrival.

Dinners, dances, formal meetings. They had not yet had a conversation as

father and son. Maati wondered whether he wanted them to, or if the

reminder of what might have been would be too uncomfortable for them

both. Perhaps he could track the boy down, show him through the city for

a day. Or through the tunnels. There were a few teahouses still in

business down in their winter quarters. That was the sort of thing only

a local would know. Maybe the boy would be interested....

He paused as he rounded the slow curving path toward the library. Two

forms were sitting on its wide stone steps, but neither of them was

Nayiit. The older, rounder woman wore robes of seafoam green embroidered

with yellow. Liat's hair was still as dark as when she'd been a girl

sitting beside him on a cart leaving Saraykeht behind them. Her head

still took the same just-off angle when she was speaking to someone to

whom she was trying especially to he kind.

The younger looked thin and coltish beside her. Her robes were deep blue

shot with white, and Eiah had her hair up, held in place with thick

silvered pins that glittered even from here. She was the first to catch

sight of him, and her thin arm rose, waving him nearer. He was too thick

about the belly these days to trot or he would have.

"We've been waiting for you," Eiah said as he drew near. Her tone was

accusing. Liat glanced up at him, amused.

"I was seeing Cehmai off on his journey," Maati said. "He's going to the

Radaani mines in the North. A new vein, I think. But I did take the

longer way hack. If I'd known you were waiting, I'd have been here sooner.

Eiah considered this, and then without word or gesture visibly accepted

the apology.

"We've been talking about marriage," Liat said.

"I)id you know that Liat-cha never got married to anyone? Nayiit's her

son. She had a baby, but she's never been wed?"

"Well, the two things aren't perfectly related, you know," Maati began,

but Eiah rolled her eyes and took a pose that unasked the question.

"Eiah-cha and I were going to the high gardens. I've packed some bread

and cheese. We thought you might care to join us?"

"You've already eaten," Eiah said, pointing to the waxed paper in his hand.

""Phis?" Maati said. "No, I was feeding this to the pigeons. Wait a

moment, I'll get a jug of wine and some bowls...

"I'm old enough to drink wine," Eiah said.

"Three howls, then," Maati said. "Just give me a moment."

He walked back to his apartments, feeling something very much like

relief. The afternoon trapped with old scrolls and codices, books and

frail maps was banished. He was saved from it. He threw the waxed paper

with the remaining onions into a corner where the servants would clean

it, took a thick earthenware jug of wine off his shelves, and dropped

three small wine bowls into his sleeve. On his way back out to the

steps, where he was certain no one could see him, he trotted.

DANAT'S COUGH HAD RETURNED.

Otah had filled his day playing Khai Machi. He had reviewed the

preparations for the Grand Audience he was already past due holding.

There was an angry letter from the Khai "Ian-Sadar asking for an

explanation of Otah's decision not to take his youngest daughter as one

of his wives that he responded to with as much aplomb as he could

muster. His Master of Stone-responsible for keeping the books of the

cityhad discovered that two of the forms from which silver lengths were

struck had been tampered with and reported the progress of his

investigation into the matter. The widow of Adaiit Kamau demanded an

audience, insisting again that her husband had been murdered and

demanding justice in his name. The priests asked for money for the

temple and the procession of the beasts. A young playwright, son of Oiad

How of House How, had composed an epic in the honor to the Khai Machi,

and asked permission to perform it. Permission and funding. The

representative of the tinsmiths petitioned for a just distribution of

coal, as the ironworkers had been taking more than their share. The

ironworkers' explaining that they worked iron, not-sneering and smiling

as if Otah would understand-tin. And on and on and on until Otah was

more than half tempted to grab a passing servant, put him on the black

lacquer chair, and let the city take its chances. And at the end, with

all the weight of the city and the impending death of Galt besides, the

thing that he could not face was that Danat's cough had returned.

The nursery glowed by the light of the candles. Kiyan sat on the raised

bed, talking softly to their son. Great iron statues of strange,

imagined beasts had been kept in the fire grates all day and pulled out

when night fell, and as he quietly walked forward, Otah could feel the

heat radiating from them. The physician's assistant-a young man with a

serious expression-took a respectful pose and walked quietly from the

room, leaving the family alone.

Otah stepped up to the bedside. Danat's eyes, half closed in drowse,

shifted toward him and a smile touched Otah's mouth.

"I got sick again, Papa-kya," he said. His voice was rough and low; the

familiar sign of a hard day.

"Don't talk, sweet," Kiyan said, smoothing I)anat's forehead with the

tips of her fingers. "You'll start it again."

"Yes," Otah said, sitting across from his wife, taking his son's hand.

"I heard. But you've been sick before, and you've gotten better. You'll

get better again. It's good for boys to be a hit ill when they're young.

It gets all the hardest parts out of the way early. Then they can be

strong old men.

"Tell me a story?" Danat asked.

Utah took a breath, his mind grasping for a children's story. He tried

to recall being in this room himself or one like it. He had been, when

he'd been I)anat's age. Someone had held him when he'd been ill, had

told him stories to distract him. But everything in his life before he'd

been disowned and sent to the school existed in the blur of halfmemory

and dream.

"Papa-kya's tired, sweet," Kiyan said. "Let Mama tell you about . .

"No!" Danat cried, his face pulling in-mouth tight, brows thunderously