and threatened to overflow the well-tended gardens and planters, but no
stray grass rose between the paving stones. The gentle choir of wind
chimes filled the air. The high, thin waterfall that fell beside the
palaces shone silver, and the towers and garrets-carved from the
mountain face itself-were unstained even by the birds that roosted in
the eaves. Men spent lifetimes, Nlaati knew, keeping the village
immaculate and as impressive as a Khai on his scat. The village and
palaces seemed as grand as the great bowl of sky above them. His years
living among the men of the village-only men, no women were
permitted-had never entirely robbed Nlaati of his awe at the place. He
struggled now to hold himself tall, to appear as calm and self-possessed
as a man summoned to the Dai-kvo regularly. As he passed through the
archways that led to the palace, he saw several messengers and more than
a few of the brown-robed poets pause to look at him.
He was not the only one who found his presence there strange.
The servant led him through the private gardens to the modest apartments
of the most powerful man in the world. Maati recalled the last time he
had been there-the insults and recriminations, the Daikvo's scorching
sarcasm, and his own certainty and pride crumbling around him like sugar
castles left out in the rain. Maati shook himself. There was no reason
for the I)ai-kvo to have called him back to repeat the indignities of
the past.
There are always the indignities of the future, the soft voice that had
become Maati's muse said from a corner of his mind. Never assume you can
survive the future because you've survived the past. Everyone thinks
that, and they've all been wrong eventually.
The servant stopped before the elm-and-oak-inlaid door that led, Maati
remembered, to a meeting chamber. He scratched it twice to announce
them, then opened the door and motioned Maati in. Maati breathed deeply
as a man preparing to dive from a cliff into shallow water and entered.
The Dai-kvo was sitting at his table. He had not had hair since Maati
had met him twenty-three summers before when the Dai-kvo had only been
Tahi-kvo, the crueler of the two teachers set to sift through the
discarded sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem for likely candidates to send
on to the village. His brows had gone pure white since he'd become the
Dai-kvo, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. His black eyes
were just as alive.
The other two men in the room were strangers to Maati. The thinner one
sat at the table across from the Dai-kvo, his robes deep blue and gold,
his hair pulled back to show graying temples and a thin whiteflecked
heard. The thicker-with both fat and muscle, Maati thought-stood at
window, one foot up on the thick ledge, looking into the gardens, and
Maati could see where his clean-shaven jaw sagged at the jowl. His robes
were the light brown color of sand, his boots hard leather and travel
worn. He turned to look at Maati as the door closed, and there was
something familiar about him-about both these new men-that he could not
describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the
school.
"I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo."