strangers.
"This is the one," the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him,
graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati
imagined what they saw him for-a man of thirty summers, his forehead
already pushing hack his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft
man in a poet's robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt
himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show
neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two
men.
"Forgive me," he said. "I don't believe we have met before, or if we
have, I apologize that I don't recall it."
"We haven't met," the thicker one said.
"He isn't much to look at," the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the
Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic
poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Nlaati found
himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.
"Sit down, Maati-cha," the Dal-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. "Have a
bowl of tea. There's something we have to discuss. Tell me what you've
heard of events in the winter cities."
Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.
"I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most
high. There's trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about
the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven't
heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer
fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi ..."
Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar;
who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across
the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks
without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.
"The Khai Machi is dying," the Dal-kvo said. "I Iis belly's gone rotten.
It's a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered.
Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?"
"That it was poor form," Maati said. "'t'hat no one has seen the Khaiem
resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the
brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one ... Gods! You two
are ..."
"You see?" the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. "No,
not much to look at, but a decent stew between his ears. Yes, Maati-cha.
The man scraping my windowsill with his boots there is Danat Machi. This
is his eldest surviving brother, Kaiin. And they have come here to speak
with me instead of waging war against each other because neither of them
killed their elder brother Biitrah."
"So they ... you think it was Otah-kvo?"
"The Dai-kvo says you know my younger brother," the thickset
man-Danat-said, taking his own seat at the only unoccupied side of the
table. "Tell me what you know of Otah."
"I haven't seen him in years, Danat-cha," Maati said. "He was in
Saraykcht when ... when the old poet there died. He was working as a
laborer. But I haven't seen him since."