been Otah's lover as well.
For the thousandth time, Maati put that thought aside.
When they reached the palaces, Maati again thanked Cehmai for taking the
time from his work to accompany him, and Cehmai-still with the
half-certain stance of a dog hearing an unfamiliar soundassured him that
he'd been pleased to do so. Maati watched the slight young man and his
thick-framed andat walk away across the flagstones of the courtyard.
Their hems were black and sodden, ruining the drape of the robes. Much
like his own, he knew.
Thankfully, his own apartments were warm. He stripped off his robes,
leaving them in a lump for the servants to remove to a launderer, and
replaced them with the thickest he had-lamb's wool and heavy leather
with a thin cotton lining. It was the sort that natives of Machi wore in
deep winter, but Maati pulled it close about him, vowing to use it
whenever he went out, whatever the others might think of him. His boots
thrown into a corner, he stretched his pale, numb feet almost into the
fire grate and shuddered. He would have to go to the wayhouse where
Biitrah Machi had died. The owners there had spoken to the officers of
the utkhaiem, of course. They had told their tale of the moonfaced man
who had come with letters of introduction, worked in their kitchens, and
been ready to take over for a night when the overseers all came down
ill. Still, he could not be sure there was nothing more to know unless
he made his visit. Some other day, when he could feel his toes.
The summons came to him when the sun-red and angry-was just preparing to
slide behind the mountains to the west. Maati pulled on thick, warm
boots of soft leather, added his brown poet's robes over the warmer
ones, and let himself be led to the Khai Machi's private chambers. He
passed through several rooms on his way-a hall of worked marble the
color of honey with a fountain running through it like a creek, a
meeting chamber large enough to hold two dozen at a single table, then a
smaller corridor that led to chambers of a more human size. Ahead of
him, a woman passed from one side of the corridor to the other leaving
the impression of night-black hair, warm brown skin, and robes the
yellow of sunrise. One of the wives, Maati knew, of a man who had several.
At last, the servant slid open a door of carved rosewood, and Maati
stepped into a room hardly larger than his own bedroom. The old man sat
on a couch, his feet toward the fire that burned in the grate. His robes
were lush, the silks seeming to take up the firelight and dance with it.
They seemed more alive than his flesh. Slowly, the Khai raised a clay
pipe to his mouth and puffed on it thoughtfully. The smoke smelled rich
and sweet as a cane field on fire.
Maati took a pose of greeting as formal as high court. The Khai Machi
raised an ancient eyebrow and only smiled. With the stem of the pipe, he
pointed to the couch opposite him and nodded to Maati that he should sit.
"They make me smoke this," the Khai said. "Whenever my belly troubles
me, they say. I tell them they might as well make it air, burn it by the
bushel in all the firekeeper's kilns, but they only laugh as if it were
wit, and I play along."
"Yes, most high."