teams yipped and called, pulled wide sledges filled with boxes or ore or
the goods of trade; even the teeth of winter would not stop Machi. Maati
even saw men with wide, leather-laced nets on their shoes and goods for
sale strapped to their backs tramping down worn paths that led from one
house to the next. He heard voices lifted in loud conversation and the
harking of dogs and the murmur of the platform chains that rose up with
the towers and shifted, scraping against the stone.
The city seemed to have nothing in common with the one he had known, and
still there was a beauty to it. It was stark and terrible, and the wide
sky forgave it nothing, but he could imagine how someone might boast
they lived here in the midst of the desolation and carved out a life
worth living. Only the verdigris domes over the forges were free from
snow, the fires never slackening enough to how before the winter.
On the way to the palace of the Khai Machi, his guide passed what had
once been the palaces of the Vaunyogi. The broken walls jutted from the
snow. He thought he could still make out scorch marks on the stones.
There were no bodies now. The Vaunyogi were broken, and those who were
not dead had scattered into the world where they would be wise never to
mention their true names again. The hones of their house made Maati
shiver in a way that had little to do with the biting air. Otah-kvo had
done this, or ordered it done. It had been necessary, or so Maati told
himself. He couldn't think of another path, and still the ruins
disturbed him.
He entered the offices of the Master of Tides through the snow door,
tramping up the slick painted wood of the ramp and into rooms he'd known
in summer. When he had taken off his outer cloaks and let himself be led
to the chamber where the servants of the Khai set schedules, Piyun See,
the assistant to the Master of Tides, fell at once into a pose of welcome.
"It's a pleasure to have you back," he said. "The Khai mentioned that we
should expect you. But he had thought you might be here earlier."
Though the air in the offices felt warm, the man's breath was still
visible. Maati's ideas of cold had changed during his journey.
"The way was slower than I'd hoped," Maati said.
"The most high is in meetings and cannot be disturbed, but he has left
us with instructions for your accommodation...."
Maati felt a pang of disappointment. It was naive of him to expect
Otah-kvo to be there to greet him, and yet he had to admit that he had
harbored hopes.
"Whatever is most convenient will, I'm sure, suffice," Maati said.
"Don't bother yourself Piyun-cha," a woman's voice said from behind
them. "I can see to this."
The changes of the previous months had left Kiyan untransformed. Her
hair-black with its lacing of white-was tied hack in a simple knot that
seemed out of place above the ornate robes of a Khai's wife. Her smile
didn't have the chill formal distance or false pleasure of a player at
court intrigue. When she embraced him, her hair smelled of lavender oil.
For all her position and the incarcerating power of being her husband's
wife she would, Maati thought, still look at home at a wayhouse watching
over guests or haggling with the farmers, bakers and butchers at the at