need it. The poets may not. But despite our reputations, we're men under
these robes, and as a man ... As a man to a man, it's something I would
ask of you. Another week. Just until we can see who's likely to be the
new Khai."
There was a shifting sound behind him. The andat had come in silently at
some point and was standing at the doorway with the same simple, placid
smile. Cehmai leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair three
times in fast succession, as if he were washing himself without water.
"Another week," Cehmai said. "I'll keep quiet another week."
Maati blinked. He had expected at least an appeal to the danger he was
putting Idaan in by keeping silent. Some form of at /east let me warn
her... Maati frowned, and then understood.
He'd already done it. Cehmai had already told Idaan Machi that Otah was
alive. Annoyance and anger flared brief as a firefly, and then faded,
replaced by something deeper and more humane. Amusement, pleasure, and
even a kind of pride in the young poet. We arc men beneath these robes,
he thought, and we do what we must.
SINJA SPUN, TIIE THICK WOODEN CUDGEL HISSING TIIROUGII THE AIR. OTAH
stepped inside the blow, striking at the man's wrist. He missed, his own
rough wooden stick hitting Sinja's with a clack and a shock that ran up
his arm. Sinja snarled, pushed him back, and then ruefully considered
his weapon.
"That was decent," Sinla said. "Amateur, granted, but not hopeless."
Otah set his stick down, then sat-head between his knees-as he fought to
get his breath back. His ribs felt as though he'd rolled down a rocky
hill, and his fingers were half numb from the shocks they'd absorbed.
And he felt good-exhausted, bruised, dirty, and profoundly hack in
control of his own body again, free in the open air. His eyes stung with
sweat, his spit tasted of blood, and when he looked up at Sinja, they
were both grinning. Otah held out his hand and Sinja hefted him to his feet.
"Again?" Sinja said.
"I wouldn't ... want to ... take advantage ... when you're ... so tired."
Sinja's face folded into a caricature of helplessness as he took a pose
of gratitude. They turned back toward the farmhouse. "l'he high summer
afternoon was thick with gnats and the scent of pine resin. The thick
gray walls of the farmhouse, the wide low trees around it, looked like a
painting of modest tranquility. Nothing about it suggested court
intrigue or violence or death. That, Otah supposed, was why Amur had
chosen it.
They had gone out after a late breakfast. Otah had felt well enough, he
thought, to spar a bit. And there was the chance that this would all
come to blades before it was over, whether he chose it or not. He'd
never been trained as a fighter, and Sinja was happy to offer a day's
instruction. There was an easy camaraderie that Otah had enjoyed on the
way out. The work itself reminded him that Sinja had slaughtered his
last comrades, and the walk back was somehow much longer than the one
out had been.
"A little practice, and you'd be a decent soldier," Sinja said as they
walked. "You're too cautious. You'll lose a good strike in order to