"Which of us are you thinking of?"
Stone-Made-Soft didn't speak. Cehmai let the warmth of the water slip
into his flesh for a moment longer. Then he too rose, the water sluicing
from him, and walked to the dressing rooms. He dried himself with a
fresh cloth and found his robes, newly cleaned and dry. The other men in
the room spoke among themselves, joked, laughed. Cehmai was more aware
than usual of the formal poses with which they greeted him. In this
quiet season, there was little work for him, and the days were filled
with music and singing, gatherings organized by the young men and women
of the utkhaiem. But all the cakes tasted slightly of ashes, and the
brightest songs seemed tinny and false. Somewhere in the city, under her
brother's watchful eye, the woman he'd sworn to protect was locked away.
He adjusted his robes in the mirror, smiled as if trying the expression
like a party mask, and for the thousandth time noticed the weight of his
decision.
He left the bathhouse, following a broad, low tunnel to the east where
it would join a larger passage, one of the midwinter roads, which in
turn ran beneath the trees outside the poet's house before it broke into
a thousand maze-like corridors running under the old city. Along the
length of the passage, men and women stood or sat, some talking, some
singing. An old man, his dog lying at his feet, sold bread and sausages
from a hand cart. The girls he'd seen in the bathhouse had been joined
by young men, joking and posing in the timeless rituals of courtship.
Stone-Made-Soft was kneeling by the wall, looking out over all of it,
silently judging what it would take to bring the roof down and bury them
all. Cehmai reached out with his will and tugged at the andat. Still
smiling, Stone-Made-Soft rose and ambled over.
"I think the one on the far left was hoping to meet you," it said,
gesturing to the knot of young men and women as it drew near. "She was
watching you all the time we were in the baths."
"Perhaps it was Baraath she was looking at," Cehmai said.
"You think so?" the andat said. "I suppose he's a decent looking man.
And many women are overcome by the romance of the librarian. No doubt
you're right."
"Don't," Cehmai said. "I don't want to play that game again."
Something like real sympathy showed in the andat's wide face. The
struggle at the back of Cehmai's mind neither worsened nor diminished as
Stone-Made-Soft's broad hand reached out to rest on his shoulder.
"Enough," it said. "You did what you had to do, and whipping yourself
now won't help you or her. Let's go meet that girl. Talk to her. We can
find someone selling sweetcakes. Otherwise we'll only go back to the
rooms and sulk away another night."
Cehmai looked over, and indeed, the girl farthest to the left-her long,
dark hair unbound, her robes well cut and the green of jadecaught his
eyes, and blushing, looked away. He had seen her before, he realized.
She was beautiful, and he did not know her name.
"Perhaps another day," he said.
"There are only so many other days," the andat said, its voice low and
gentle. "I may go on for generations, but you little men rise and fall