mean by that, Maati-cha?"
"I have some idea," Maati said, but the Khai went on.
"It means that something unthinkable can only happen once. Because after
that, it's not unthinkable any longer. We've seen what happens when a
city is touched by chaos. And now it's in the back of every head in
every court in all the cities of the Khaiem."
Maati frowned and leaned forward.
"You think Cehrnai-cha is in some danger?"
"What?" the Khai said, then waved the thought away, stirring the smoky
air. "No. Not that. I think my city is at risk. I think Otah ... my
upstart son ..."
He's forgiven you, a voice murmured in the back of Maati's mind. The
voice of Seedless, the andat of Saraykeht. They were the words the andat
had spoken to Maati in the instant before Heshai's death had freed it.
It had been speaking of Otah.
"I've called you here for a reason, Maati-cha," the Khai said, and Maati
pulled his attention back to the present. "I didn't care to speak of it
around those who would use it to fuel gossip. Your inquiry into
Biitrah's death. You must move more quickly."
"Even with the truce?"
"Yes, even at the price of my sons returning to their tradition. If I
die without a successor chosen-especially if Danat and Kaiin are still
gone to ground-there will be chaos. The families of the utkhaiem start
thinking that perhaps they would sit more comfortably in my chair, and
schemes begin. Your task isn't only to find Otah. Your task is to
protect my city."
"I understand, most high."
"You do not, Maati-cha. The spring roses are starting to bloom, and I
will not see high summer. Neither of us has the luxury of time."
THE GATHERING WAS ALL THAT CEHMAI HAD HOPED FOR, AND LESS. SPRING
breezes washed the pavilion with the scent of fresh flowers. Kilns set
along the edges roared behind the music of reed organ, flute, and drum.
Overhead, the stars shone like gems strewn on dark velvet. The long
months of winter had given musicians time to compose and practice new
songs, and the youth of the high families week after weary week to tire
of the cold and dark and the terrible constriction that deep winter
brought to those with no business to conduct on the snow.
Cehmai laughed and clapped time with the music and danced. Women and
girls caught his eye, and he, theirs. The heat of youth did where
heavier robes would otherwise have been called for, and the draw of body
to body filled the air with something stronger than the perfume of
flowers. Even the impending death of the Khai lent an air of license.
Momentous things were happening, the world's order was changing, and
they were young enough to find the thought romantic.
And yet he could not enjoy it.
A young man in an eagle's mask pressed a bowl of hot wine into his hand,
and spun away into the dance. Cehmai grinned, sipped at it, and faded
back to the edge of the pavilion. In the shadows behind the kilns,
Stone-Made-Soft stood motionless. Cehmai sat beside it, put the bowl on