here or there, certainly. Most men are too weak to deny themselves that
much. But a wife? A child? No. There isn't room for both what they
require and what we do. And I told you that. You remember? I told you
that, and you ..
The Dai-kvo shook his head, frowning in remembered frustration. It was a
moment, Maati knew, when he could apologize. He could repent his pride
and say that the Dai-kvo had indeed known better all along. He remained
silent.
"I was right," the Dai-kvo said for him. "And now you've done half a job
as a poet and half a job as a man. Your studies are weak, and the woman
took your whelp and left. You've failed both, just as I knew you would.
I'm not condemning you for that, Maati. No man could have taken on what
you did and succeeded. But this opportunity in Machi is what will wipe
clean the slate. Do this well and it will be what you're remembered for."
"Certainly I will do my best."
"Fail at it, and there won't be a third chance. Few enough men have two."
Maati took a pose appropriate to a student receiving a lecture.
Considering him, the Dal-kvo responded with one that closed the lesson,
then raised his hand.
"Don't destroy this chance in order to spite me, Maati. Failing in this
will do me no harm, and it will destroy you. You're angry because I told
you the truth, and because what I said would happen, did. Consider while
you go north, whether that's really such a good reason to hate me."
THE OPEN WINDOW LET IN A COOT, BREEZE THAT SMELLED OF PINE AND RAIN.
Otah Mach], the sixth son of the Khai Machi, lay on the bed, listening
to the sounds of water-rain pattering on the flagstones of the
wayhouse's courtyard and the tiles of its roof, the constant hushing of
the river against its banks. A fire danced and spat in the grate, but
his bare skin was still stippled with cold. The night candle had gone
out, and he hadn't bothered to relight it. Morning would come when it came.
The door slid open and then shut. He didn't turn to look.
"You're brooding, Itani," Kiyan said, calling him by the false name he'd
chosen for himself, the only one he'd ever told her. Her voice was low
and rich and careful as a singer's. He shifted now, turning to his side.
She knelt by the grate-her skin smooth and brown, her robes the formal
cut of a woman of business, one strand of her hair fallen free. Her face
was thin-she reminded him of a fox sometimes, when a smile just touched
her mouth. She placed a fresh log on the fire as she spoke. "I half
expected you'd be asleep already."
He sighed and sketched a pose of contrition with one hand.
"Don't apologize to me," she said. "I'm as happy having you in my rooms
here as in the teahouse, but Old Mani wanted more news out of you. Or
maybe just to get you drunk enough to sing dirty songs with him. He's
missed you, you know."
"It's a hard thing, being so loved."
"Don't laugh at it. It's not a love to carry you through ages, but it's
more than some people ever manage. You'll grow into one of those pinched
old men who want free wine because they pity themselves."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of Old Mani. It's just ..."