waited, uncertain. He noticed the catch in the Khai Machi's breath, as
if it pained him. He had not noticed it before.
"Your search for my outlaw son," the Khai said. "It is going well?"
"It is early yet, most high. I have made myself visible. I have let it
be known that I am looking into the death of your son."
"You still expect Otah to come to you?"
"Yes."
"And if he does not?"
"Then it will take more time, most high. But I will find him."
The old man nodded, then exhaled a plume of pale smoke. He took a pose
of gratitude, his wasted hands holding the position with the grace of a
lifetime's practice.
"His mother was a good woman. I miss her. Iyrah, her name was. She gave
me Idaan too. She was glad to have a child of her own that she could keep."
Maati thought he saw the old man's eyes glisten for a moment, lost as he
was in old memories of which Maati could only guess the substance. Then
the Khai sighed.
"Idaan," the Khai said. "She's treated you gently?"
"She's been nothing but kind," Maati said, "and very generous with her
time."
The Khai shook his head, smiling more to himself than his audience.
"That's good. She was always unpredictable. Age has calmed her, I think.
There was a time she would study outrages the way most girls study face
paints and sandals. Always sneaking puppies into court or stealing
dresses she fancied from her little friends. She relied on me to keep
her safe, however far she flew," he said, smiling fondly. "A mischievous
girl, my daughter, but good-hearted. I'm proud of her."
Then he sobered.
"I am proud of all my children. It's why I am not of one mind on this,"
the Khai said. "You would think that I should be, but I am not. With
every day that the search continues, the truce holds, and Kaiin and
Danat still live. I've known since I was old enough to know anything
that if I took this chair, my sons would kill each other. It wasn't so
hard before I knew them, when they were only the idea of sons. But then
they were Biitrah and Kaiin and Danat. And I don't want any of them to die."
"But tradition, most high. If they did not-"
"I know why they must," the Khai said. "I was only wishing. It's
something dying men do, I'm told. Sit with their regrets. It's likely
that which kills us as much as the sickness. I sometimes wish that this
had all happened years ago. That they had slaughtered each other in
their childhood. Then I might have at least one of them by me now. I had
not wanted to die alone."
"You are not alone, most high. The whole court . .
Maati broke off. The Khai Machi took a pose accepting correction, but
the amusement in his eyes and the angle of his shoulders made a sarcasm
of it. Maati nodded, accepting the old man's point.
"I can't say which of them I would have wanted to live, though," the
Khai said, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "I love them all. Very
dearly. I cannot tell you how deeply I miss Biitrah."