"Well," Radaani said, then more than half to himself, "Well well well."
In the pause that followed, another roll of thunder rattled the
shutters. But Porsha Radaani's smile had faded into something less
amused, more serious. We have him, Maati thought. Radaani clapped his
hands on his thighs and stood.
"I have some conversations I'll have to conduct, Maati-cha," he said.
"You understand that I'm taking a great personal risk doing this? Me and
my family both."
"And I know that Otah-kvo will appreciate that," Maati said. "In my
experience, he has always been good to his friends."
"TThat's best," Radaani said. "After this, I expect he'll have about two
of them. Just so long as he remembers what he owes me."
"He will. And so will the Kamau and the Vaunani. And I imagine a fair
number of your rival families will be getting less favorable terms from
the Galts in the future."
"Yes. That had occurred to me too."
Radaani smiled broadly and took a formal pose of leavetaking that
ineluded the room and all three of them in it-the two poets, the one
spirit. When he was gone, Maati went to the window again. Radaani was
walking fast down the street, his servants half-skipping to keep the
canopy over him. His limp was almost gone.
Maati closed the shutters.
"He's agreed?" Cehmai asked.
"As near as we can expect. He smells profit in it for himself and
disappointment for his rivals. That's the best we can offer, but I think
he's pleased enough to do the thing."
"That's good."
Maati sat in the chair Radaani had used, sighing. Cehmai leaned against
the table, his arms folded. His mouth was thin, his eyes dark. He looked
more than half ill. The andat pulled out the chair beside him and sat
with a mild, companionable expression.
"What did the Dai-kvo say?" Cehmai asked. "In the letter?"
"He said I was under no circumstances to take sides in the succession.
He repeated that I was to return to his village as soon as possible. He
seems to think that by involving myself in all this court intrigue, I
may he upsetting the utkhaiem. And then he went into a long commentary
about the andat being used in political struggle as the reason that the
Empire ate itself."
"He's not wrong," Cchmai said.
"Well, perhaps not. But it's late to undo it."
"You can blame me if you'd like," Cehmai said.
"I think not. I chose what I'd do, and I don't think I chose poorly. If
the Dai-kvo disagrees, we can have a conversation about it."
"He'll throw you out," Cchmai said.
Maati thought for a moment of his little cell at the village, of the
years spent in minor tasks at the will of the Dal-kvo and the poets se
nior to himself. Liat had asked him to leave it all a hundred times, and
he'd refused. The prospect of failure and disgrace faced him now, and he
heard her words, saw her face, and wondered why it had all seemed so