mourning, and took a ritual pose announcing a guest of status equal to
Hiami's.
"Idaan," the servant girl said, "Daughter to the Khai Machi."
"I know my husband's sister," Hiami snapped, not pausing in her
handwork. "You needn't tell me the sky is blue."
The servant girl flushed, her hands fluttering toward three different
poses at once and achieving none of them. Hiami regretted her words and
put down the knotting, taking a gentle pose of command.
"Bring her here. And something comfortable for her to sit on."
The servant took a pose of acknowledgment, grateful, it seemed, to know
what response to make, and scampered off. And then Idaan was there.
Hardly twenty, she could have been one of Hiami's own daughters. Not a
beauty, but it took a practiced eye to know that. Her hair, pitch dark,
was pleated with strands of silver and gold. Her eyes were touched with
paints, her skin made finer and paler than it really was by powder. Her
robes, blue silk embroidered with gold, flattered her hips and the swell
of her breasts. To a man or a younger woman, Idaan might have seemed the
loveliest woman in the city. Hiami knew the difference between talent
and skill, but of the pair, she had greater respect for skill, so the
effect was much the same.
They each took poses of greeting, subtly different to mark Idaan's blood
relation to the Khai and Hiami's greater age and her potential to become
someday the first wife of the Khai Machi. The servant girl trotted in
with a good chair, placed it silently, and retreated. Hiami halted her
with a gesture and motioned to the singing slave. The servant girl took
a pose of obedience and led him off with her.
Hiami smiled and gestured toward the seat. Idaan took a pose of thanks
much less formal than her greeting had been and sat.
"Is my brother here?" she asked.
"No. There was a problem at one of the mines. I imagine he'll be there
for the day."
Idaan frowned, but stopped short of showing any real disapproval. All
she said was, "It must seem odd for one of the Khaiem to be slogging
through tunnels like a common miner."
"Men have their enthusiasms," Hiami said, smiling slightly. Then she
sobered. "Is there news of your father?"
Idaan took a pose that was both an affirmation and a denial.
"Nothing new, I suppose," the dark-haired girl said. "The physicians are
watching him. He kept his soup down again last night. That makes almost
ten days in a row. And his color is better."
"But?"
"But he's still dying," Idaan said. Her tone was plain and calm as if
she'd been talking about a horse or a stranger. Hiami put down her
thread, the half-finished scarf in a puddle by her ankles. The knot she
felt in the back of her throat was dread. The old man was dying, and the
thought carried its implications with it-the time was growing short.
Biitrah, Danat, and Kaiin Machi-the three eldest sons of the Khaihad
lived their lives in something as close to peace as the sons of the
Khaiem ever could. Utah, the Khai's sixth son, had created a small storm