know he posessed. His palm moved out by its own accord and slapped
Baarath's jaw hard enough to snap the man's head to the side. He put a
hand on Baarath's chest, pinning him firmly to the bench. Baarath yelped
in surprise and Maati saw the shock and fear in his face. Maati kept his
voice calm.
"We aren't friends. Let's not be enemies. It would distract me, and you
may have perfect faith that it would destroy you. I am here on the
Dai-kvo's work, and no matter who becomes Khai Mach], he'll have need of
the poets. Standing beside that, one too-clever librarian can't count
for much."
Outrage shone in Baarath's eyes as he pushed Maati's hand away. Maati
stepped back, allowing him to rise. The librarian pulled his disarrayed
robes back into place, his features darkening. Maati's rage began to
falter, but he kept his chin held high.
"You're a bully, Maati-cha," Baarath said, then he took a pose of
farewell and marched proudly out of the library. His library. Maati
heard the door slam closed and felt himself deflate.
It galled him, but he knew he would have to apologize later. He should
never have struck the man. If he had borne the insults and insinuations,
he could have forced contrition from Baarath, but he hadn't.
He looked at his scattered notes. Perhaps he was a bully. Perhaps there
was nothing to be found in all this. After all, Otah would die
regardless. Danat would take his father's place, and Maati would go back
to the Dai-kvo. He would even be able to claim a measure of success.
Otah was starving to death in the high air above Machi thanks to him,
after all. And what was that if not victory? One small mystery left
unsolved could hardly matter in the end.
He pulled his papers together, stacking them, folding them, tucking the
packet away into his sleeve. "There was nothing to be done here. He was
tired and frustrated, ashamed of himself and in despair. There was a
city of wine and distraction that would welcome him with open arms and
delighted smiles.
He remembered Heshai-kvo-the poet of Saraykeht, the controller of
Removing-the-Part-That-Continues who they'd called Seedless. He
remembered his teacher's pilgrimages to the soft quarter with its drugs
and gambling, its wine and whores. Heshai had felt this, or something
like it; Maati knew he had.
He pulled the brown leather-bound book from his sleeve, where it always
waited. He opened it and read Heshai's careful, beautiful handwriting.
The chronicle and examination of his errors in binding the andat. He
recalled Seedless' last words. He's forgiven you.
Maati turned back, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and dread. He put the
hook back into his sleeve and pulled out his notes. He rearranged them
on the table. He began again, and the night stretched out endlessly
before him.
THE PALACES WERE DRUNKEN AND DIZZY AND LOST IN THE RELIEF THAT comes
when a people believe that the worst is over. It was a celebration of
fratricide, but of all the dancers, the drinkers, the declaimers of
small verse, only Idaan seemed to remember that fact. She played her