"How can I he of service, Kiyan-cha?" he asked. Liat could tell from the

too-precise diction that he'd spent his night drinking. He closed his

bedroom doors behind him as he stepped in, and Liat more than half

thought it was to protect the privacy of whatever woman was sleeping in

his bed. Something passed across Kiyan's sharp features; it might have

been compassion or sorrow, understanding or recognition. Liat couldn't

say, and it was gone almost as soon as it came.

"That's the question, Nayiit-cha. I have something to ask of you. It may

come to nothing, and if you should have to act upon my request, I'm

afraid I won't be in a position to repay you."

Nayiit came forward slowly and sat at the table. Kiyan filled a plate

for him as she spoke, casual as if she were a wayhouse keeper, and he a

simple guest.

"You've heard the gossip from Cetani, I assume," she said.

"They've fled before the Galts. The Khai-hoth of them-are in the rear.

To protect the people if the Galts come from behind."

"Yes," Kiyan said. "It's actually more complex than that. Otah has

invented a scheme. If it works, he may win us a few months. Perhaps

through the winter. If not, I think we can assume the Galts will be here

shortly after the last of our cousins from Cetani have arrived."

It was a casual way to express the raw fear that every one of them might

die violently before the first frost came. Our lives are measured in

days now, Liat thought. But Kiyan had not paused to let the thought grow.

"There is an old mine a day's ride to the North of Machi. It was dug

when the first Khai Machi set up residence here. It's been tapped out

for generations, but the tunnels are still there. I've been quietly

moving supplies to it. A bit of food. Blankets. Coal. A few boxes of

gold and jewels. Enough for a few people to survive a winter and still

have enough to slip across the passes and into the Westlands when spring

came."

Nayiit took a pose that accepted all she said. Kiyan smiled and leaned

forward to touch Nayiit's hands with her own. She seemed at ease except

for the tears that had gathered in her eyes.

"If the Galts come," she said, "will you take F,iah and Danat there?

Will you ..."

Kiyan stopped, her smile crumbling. She visibly gathered herself. A

long, slow breath. And even still, when she spoke, it was hardly more

than a whisper.

"If they come, will you protect my children?"

You brilliant, vicious snake, Liar thought. You glorious bitch. You'd

ask him to love your son. You'd make caring for I)anat the proof that my

boy's a decent man. And you're doing it because I asked you to.

It's perfect.

"I would be honored," Nayiit said. The sound of his voice and the

awestruck expression in his eyes were all that Liat needed to see how

well Kivan had chosen.

""Thank you, Nayiit-kya," Kiyan said. She looked over to I,iat, and her

eyes were guarded. They both knew what had happened here. Liat carefully

took a pose of thanks, unsure as she did what precisely she meant by it.

THE LIBRARY OF CETANI WAS MCCII SMALLER THAN MACIII'S. PERHAPS A third

as many hooks and codices, not more than half as many scrolls. They

arrived on Maati's doorway in sacks and baskets, crates and wooden

boxes. A letter accompanied them, hardly more than a terse note with

Otah's seal on it, telling him that there was no living poet to ask what

texts would he of use, that as a result he'd sent everything, and

expressing hope that these might help. There was no mention of the Galts

or the Dai-kvo or the dead. Otah seemed to assume that Maati would

understand how dire the situation was, how much depended on him and on

Cehmai.

He was right. Maati understood.

He'd left Cehmai in the library, looking over their new acquisitions,

while he sat in the main room of his apartments, marking out grammars

and forms. How Heshai had hound Seedless, what he would have done

differently in retrospect, and the variations that Maati could

makedifferent words and structures, images and metaphors that would

serve the same purpose without coming too near the original. His

knuckles ached, and his mind felt woolly. It was hard to say how far

into the work they'd come. Perhaps as much as a third. Perhaps less. The

hardest part would come at the end; once the binding was mapped out and

drafted, there was the careful process of going through, image by image,

and checking to see that there were no ambiguities, no unintended

meanings, no contradictions where the power of the andat might loop hack

upon itself and break his hold and himself.

Outside, the wind was blowing cold as it had since the middle morning.

The city of tents that had sprung up at Machi's feet would be an

unpleasant place tonight. Liat had been entirely absent these last four

days, helping to find Cetani a place within Machi. It was just as well,

he supposed. If she were here, he'd only want to talk with her. Speak

with her. He'd want to hold her. Enough time for those little pleasures

when Seedless was bound and the world was set right. Whatever that meant

anymore.

The scratch at his door was an annoyance and a relief both. lie called

out his permission, and the door swung open. Nayiit ducked into the

room, an apologetic smile on his face. Behind him, a small figure

waddled-Danat wrapped in robes and cloaks until he seemed almost as wide

as tall. Maati rose, his back and knees protesting from having been too

long in one position.

"I'm sorry, Father," Nayiit said. "I told Danat-cha that you might be

busy...."

"Nothing that can't wait a hand or two," Maati said, waving them in. "It

might he best, really, if I step away from it all. After a while, it all

starts looking the same."

Nayiit chuckled and took a pose that expressed his sympathy. Danat,

red-cheeked, shifted his gaze shyly from one man to the other. Maati

nodded a question to Nayiit.

"Danat wanted to ask you something," Nayiit said, and squatted down so

that his eyes were on a level with the child's. His smile was gentle,

encouraging. A favorite uncle helping his nephew over some simple

childhood fear. Maati felt the sudden powerful regret that he had never

met Nayiit's wife, never seen his child. "Go ahead, Danat-kya. We came

so that you could ask, and Maati-cha's here. Do it like we practiced."

Danat turned to Maati, blushing furiously, and took a pose of respect

made awkward by the thickness of cloth around his small arms; then he

began pulling books out from beneath his robes and placing them one by

one in a neat pile before Maati. When the last of them had appeared,

Danat shot a glance at Nayiit who answered with an approving pose.