murmured. "Manat Doru used to do it all
the time. He'd send a note to the Khai claiming that the weight of
holding me was too heavy, and that he required his rest. We would go
down to a little teahouse by the river that had sweetcakes that they
cooked in oil and covered with sugar so fine it hung in the air if you
blew on it."
"You're lying to me," Cehmai said.
"No," the andat said. "No, it's truth. It made the Khai quite angry
sometimes, but what was he to do?"
The singing slave smiled and took a pose of greeting to them that Cehmai
returned.
"We could stop by the spring gardens that Idaan frequents. If she were
free she might be persuaded to join us," the andat said.
"And why would the daughter of the Khai tempt me more than sweetcakes?"
"She's well-read and quick in her mind," the andat said, as if the
question had been genuine. "You find her pleasant to look at, I know.
And her demeanor is often just slightly inappropriate. If memory serves,
that might outweigh even sweetcakes."
Cehmai shifted his weight from foot to foot, then, with a commanding
gesture, stopped a servant boy. The boy, seeing who he was, fell into a
pose of greeting so formal it approached obeisance.
"I need you to carry a message for one. To the Master of'I'ides."
"Yes, Cehmai-cha," the boy said.
"Tell him I have had a bout with the andat this morning, and find myself
too fatigued to conduct business. And tell him that I will reach him on
the morrow if I feel well enough."
The poet fished through his sleeves, pulled out his money pouch and took
out a length of silver. The boy's eyes widened, and his small hand
reached out toward it. Cehmai drew it back, and the boy's dark eyes
fixed on his.
"If he asks," Cehmai said, "you tell him I looked quite ill."
The boy nodded vigorously, and Cehmai pressed the silver length into his
palm. Whatever errand the boy had been on was forgotten. He vanished
into the austere gloom of the palaces.
"You're corrupting me," Cehmai said as he turned away.
"Constant struggle is the price of power," the andat said, its voice
utterly devoid of humor. "It must be a terrible burden for you. Now
let's see if we can find the girl and those sweetcakes."
"They tell me you knew my son," the Khai Machi said. The grayness of his
skin and yellow in his long, hound hair were signs of something more
than the ravages of age. The Dai-kvo was of the same generation, but
Maati saw none of his vigor and strength here. The sick man took a pose
of command. "Tell me of him."
Maati stared down at the woven reed mat on which he knelt and fought to
push away the weariness of his travels. It had been days since he had
bathed, his robes were not fresh, and his mind was uneasy. But he was
here, called to this meeting or possibly this confrontation, even before
his bags had been unpacked. He could feel the attention of the servants
of the Khai-there were perhaps a dozen in the room. Some slaves, others
attendants from among the highest ranks of the utkhaiem. The audience
might be called private, but it was too well attended for Maati's
comfort. The choice was not his. He took the bowl of heated wine he had
been given, sipped it, and spoke.
"Otah-kvo and I met at the school, most high. He already wore the black
robes awarded to those who had passed the first test when I met him. I
... I was the occasion of his passing the second."
The Khai Machi nodded. It was an almost inhumanly graceful movement,
like a bird or some finely wrought mechanism. Maati took it as a sign
that he should continue.
"He came to me after that. He ... he taught me things about the school
and about myself. He was, I think, the best teacher I have known. I
doubt I would have been chosen to study with the Dai-kvo if it hadn't
been for him. But then he refused the chance to become a poet."
"And the brand," the Khai said. "He refused the brand.
the time. He'd send a note to the Khai claiming that the weight of
holding me was too heavy, and that he required his rest. We would go
down to a little teahouse by the river that had sweetcakes that they
cooked in oil and covered with sugar so fine it hung in the air if you
blew on it."
"You're lying to me," Cehmai said.
"No," the andat said. "No, it's truth. It made the Khai quite angry
sometimes, but what was he to do?"
The singing slave smiled and took a pose of greeting to them that Cehmai
returned.
"We could stop by the spring gardens that Idaan frequents. If she were
free she might be persuaded to join us," the andat said.
"And why would the daughter of the Khai tempt me more than sweetcakes?"
"She's well-read and quick in her mind," the andat said, as if the
question had been genuine. "You find her pleasant to look at, I know.
And her demeanor is often just slightly inappropriate. If memory serves,
that might outweigh even sweetcakes."
Cehmai shifted his weight from foot to foot, then, with a commanding
gesture, stopped a servant boy. The boy, seeing who he was, fell into a
pose of greeting so formal it approached obeisance.
"I need you to carry a message for one. To the Master of'I'ides."
"Yes, Cehmai-cha," the boy said.
"Tell him I have had a bout with the andat this morning, and find myself
too fatigued to conduct business. And tell him that I will reach him on
the morrow if I feel well enough."
The poet fished through his sleeves, pulled out his money pouch and took
out a length of silver. The boy's eyes widened, and his small hand
reached out toward it. Cehmai drew it back, and the boy's dark eyes
fixed on his.
"If he asks," Cehmai said, "you tell him I looked quite ill."
The boy nodded vigorously, and Cehmai pressed the silver length into his
palm. Whatever errand the boy had been on was forgotten. He vanished
into the austere gloom of the palaces.
"You're corrupting me," Cehmai said as he turned away.
"Constant struggle is the price of power," the andat said, its voice
utterly devoid of humor. "It must be a terrible burden for you. Now
let's see if we can find the girl and those sweetcakes."
"They tell me you knew my son," the Khai Machi said. The grayness of his
skin and yellow in his long, hound hair were signs of something more
than the ravages of age. The Dai-kvo was of the same generation, but
Maati saw none of his vigor and strength here. The sick man took a pose
of command. "Tell me of him."
Maati stared down at the woven reed mat on which he knelt and fought to
push away the weariness of his travels. It had been days since he had
bathed, his robes were not fresh, and his mind was uneasy. But he was
here, called to this meeting or possibly this confrontation, even before
his bags had been unpacked. He could feel the attention of the servants
of the Khai-there were perhaps a dozen in the room. Some slaves, others
attendants from among the highest ranks of the utkhaiem. The audience
might be called private, but it was too well attended for Maati's
comfort. The choice was not his. He took the bowl of heated wine he had
been given, sipped it, and spoke.
"Otah-kvo and I met at the school, most high. He already wore the black
robes awarded to those who had passed the first test when I met him. I
... I was the occasion of his passing the second."
The Khai Machi nodded. It was an almost inhumanly graceful movement,
like a bird or some finely wrought mechanism. Maati took it as a sign
that he should continue.
"He came to me after that. He ... he taught me things about the school
and about myself. He was, I think, the best teacher I have known. I
doubt I would have been chosen to study with the Dai-kvo if it hadn't
been for him. But then he refused the chance to become a poet."
"And the brand," the Khai said. "He refused the brand.
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