"So much the worse for him," Liat said. "At least we don't have that to

suffer, eh?"

"And now who sounds hitter?"

Liat chuckled and took a pose accepting the point that was made awkward

by the howl in one hand.

"How are things with Otah-kvo?" Maati asked.

"He's like the wind on legs," Liat said. "Ile wants to know everything

at once, control all of it, and I think he's driving the court half mad.

And ... don't say I said it, but it's almost as if he's enjoying it.

Everything's falling apart except him. If simple force of will can hold

a city together, I think Machi will he fine."

"It can't, though."

"No," she agreed. "It can't."

The back of Maati's hand brushed against her arm. It was a small,

tentative gesture, familiar as breath. It was something he had always

done when he was uncertain and in need of comfort. There had been times

when she'd found it powerfully annoying and times when she'd found

herself doing it too. Now, she shifted the wine howl to her other hand,

and resolutely laced her fingers with his.

"I haven't written hack to the Dal-kvo," Nlaati said. His voice was as

low as a confession. "I'm not sure what I should ... I haven't been hack

to Saraykeht, you know. I could ... I mean ... Gods, I'm saying this

badly. If you want it, Liat-kya, I could come hack with you. You and

Nayiit."

"No," she said. "There isn't room for you. My life there has a certain

shape to it, and I don't want you to he a part of it. And Nayiit's a

grown man. It's too late to start raising him now. I love you. And

Nayiit is better, I think, knowing you than he was before. But you can't

come hack with us. You aren't welcome."

hlaati looked down at his knees. His hand seemed to relax into her palm.

""Thank you," he whispered.

She raised his hand and kissed the wide, soft knuckles. And then his

mouth. He touched her neck gently, his hand warm against her skin.

"Put out the candles," she said.

Time had made him a better lover than when they had been young. Time and

experience-his and her own both. Sex had been so earnest then; so

anxious, and so humorless. She had spent too much time as a girl worried

about whether her breasts looked pleasing or if her hips were too thin.

In the years she had kept a house with him, Maati had tried to hold in

his belly whenever his robes came off. Youth and vanity, and now that

they were doomed to sagging flesh and loose skin and short breath, all

of it could be forgiven and left behind.

They laughed more now as they shrugged out of their robes and pulled

each other down on the wide, soft bed. They paused in their passions to

let Maati rest. She knew better now what would bring her the greatest

pleasure, and had none of her long-ago qualms about asking for it. And

when they were spent, lying wrapped in a soft sheet, Maati's head on her

breast, the netting pulled closed around them, the silence was deeper

and more intimate than any words they had spoken.

She would miss this. She had known the dangers when she had taken his

hand again, when she had kissed him again. She had known there would be

a price to pay for it, if only the pain of having had something pleasant

and precious and brief. For a moment, her mind shifted to Nayiit and his

lovers, and she was touched by sorrow on his behalf. He was too much her

son and not enough Otah's. But she didn't want Otah in this room, in

this moment, so she put both of these other men out of her mind and

concentrated instead on the warmth of her own flesh and Maati's, the

slow, regular deepening of his breath and of hers.

Her thoughts wandered, slowing and losing their coherence; turning into

something close kin to dream. She had almost slipped into the deep

waters of sleep when Maati's sudden spasm brought her back. He was

sitting up, panting like a man who'd run a mile. It was too dark to see

his face.

She called his name, and a low groan escaped him. He stood and for a

moment she was afraid that he would stagger and fall. But she made out

his silhouette, a deeper darkness, and he did not sway. She called his

name again.

"No," he said, then a pause and, "No no no no no. Oh gods. Gods, no."

Liat rose, but Maati was already walking. She heard him bark his shin

against the table in the front room, heard the wine bottle clatter as it

fell. She wrapped her sheet around herself and hurried after him just in

time to see him lumbering naked out the door and into the night. She

followed.

He trotted into the library, his hands moving restlessly. When he lit a

candle, she saw his face etched deep with dread. It was as if he was

watching someone die that only he could see.

"Maati. Stop this," she said, and the fear in her voice made her realize

that she was trembling. "What's the matter? What's happened?"

"I was wrong," he said. "Gods, Cehmai will never forgive me doubting

him. He'll never forgive me."

Candle in hand, Maati lumbered into the next room and began frantically

looking through scrolls, hands shaking so badly the wax spilled on the

floor. Liat gave up hope that he would speak, that he would explain.

Instead, she took the candle from his hand and held it for him as he

searched. In the third room, he found what he'd been seeking and sank to

the floor. Liat came to his side, and read over his shoulder as he

unfurled the scroll. The ink was pale, the script the alphabet of the

Old Empire. Maati's fingertips traced the words, looking for something,

some passage or phrase. Liat found herself holding her breath. And then

his hand stopped moving.

The grammar was antiquated and formal, the language almost too old to

make sense of. Liat silently struggled to translate the words that had

caught Nlaati short.

The second type is made up of those

thoughts impossible to hind by their

nature, and no greater knowledge shall

ever permit them. Examples of this are

Imprecision and Freedom-From-Bondage.

"I know what they've done," he said.

11

Nantani had been one of the first cities built when the Second Empire

reached out past its borders to put its mark on the distant lands they

now inhabited. The palace of the Khai was topped by a dome the color of

jade-a single stone shaped by the will of some longdead poet. When the

sunlight warmed it in just the right way, it would chime, a low voice

rolling out wordlessly over the whitewashed walls and blue tile roofs of

the city.