seemed thin. It seemed not enough.
He finished the tea and almond cakes, then went to the window, slid the
paper-thin stone shutter aside, and looked out into the darkness. Sunset
still breathed indigo into the western skyline. The city glittered with
torches and lanterns, and to the south the glow of the forges of the
smith's quarter looked like a brush fire. The towers rose black against
the stars, windows lit high above him where some business took place in
the dark, thin air. Maati sighed, the night cold in his face and lungs.
All these unknown streets, these towers, and the lacework of tunnels
that ran beneath the city: midwinter roads, he'd heard them called. And
somewhere in the labyrinth, his old friend and teacher lurked, planning
murder.
Maati let his imagination play a scene: Otah-kvo appearing before him in
the darkness, blade in hand. In Maati's imagination, his eyes were hard,
his voice hoarse with anger. And there he faltered. He might call for
help and see Otah captured. He might fight him and end the thing in
blood. He might accept the knife as his due. For a dream with so vivid a
beginning, Maati could not envision the end.
He closed the shutter and went to throw another black stone onto the
fire. His indulgence had turned the room chilly, and he sat on the
cushion near the fire as the air warmed again. His legs didn't fold as
easily as Cehmai's had, but if he shifted now and again, his feet didn't
go numb. He found himself thinking fondly of Cehmai-the boy was easy to
befriend. Otah-kvo had been like that, too.
Maati stretched and wondered again whether, if all this had been a song,
he would have sung the hero's part or the villain's.
No ONE HAD EVER SEEN IDAAN'S REBELLIONS AS HUNGER. THA'1' HAD BEEN their
fault. If her friends or her brothers transgressed against the etiquette
of the court, consequences came upon them, shame or censure. But Idaan
was the favored daughter. She might steal a rival girl's gown or arrive
late to the temple and interrupt the priest. She could evade her
chaperones or steal wine from the kitchens or dance with inappropriate
men. She was Idaan Machi, and she could do as she saw fit, because she
didn't matter. She was a woman. And if she'd never screamed at her
father in the middle of his court that she was as much his child as
Biitrah or Danat or Kaiin, it was because she feared in her bones that
he would only agree, make some airy comment to dismiss the matter, and
leave her more desperate than before.
Perhaps if once someone had taken her to task, had treated her as if her
actions had the same weight as other people's, things would have ended
differently.
Or perhaps folly is folly because you can't see where it moves from
ambition into evil. Arguments that seem solid and powerful prove hollow
once it's too late to turn back. Arguments like Why should it be right
for them but wrong for me?
She haunted the Second Palace now, breathing in the emptiness that her
eldest brother had left. The vaulted arches of stone and wood echoed her
soft footsteps, and the sunlight that filtered though the stone shutters
thickened the air to a golden twilight. Here was the bedchamber, bare