mind was elsewhere. "What does he study when he is here?"
"Nothing in particular. He picks up whatever strikes him and spends a
day with it, and then comes hack the next for something totally
unrelated. I haven't told him about the Khai's private archives, and he
hasn't bothered to ask. I was sure, you know, when he first came, that
he was after something in the private archives. But now it's like the
library itself might as well not exist."
"Perhaps there is some pattern in what he's looking at. A common thread
that places them all together."
"You mean maybe poor old Baarath is too simple to see the picture when
it's being painted for him? I doubt it. I know this place better than
any man alive. I've even made my own shelving system. I have read more
of these books and seen more of their relationships than anyone. When I
tell you he's wandering about like tree fluff on a breezy day, it's
because he is."
Cehmai tried to feel surprise, and failed. The library was only an
excuse. The Dai-kvo had sent Maati Vaupathai to examine the death of
Biitrah Machi. That was clear. Why he would choose to do so, was not. It
wasn't the poets' business to take sides in the succession, only to work
with-and sometimes cool the ambitions of-whichever son sur vived. The
Khaiem administered the city, accepted the glory and tribute, passed
judgment. The poets kept the cities from ever going to war one against
the other, and fueled the industries that brought wealth from the
Westlands and Galt, Bakta, and the east islands. But something had
happened, or was happening, that had captured the Dai-kvo's interest.
And Maati Vaupathai was an odd poet. He held no post, trained under no
one. He was old to attempt a new binding. By many standards, he was
already a failure. The only thing Cehmai knew of him that stood out at
all was that Maati had been in Saraykeht when that city's poet was
murdered and the andat set free. He thought of the man's eyes, the
darkness that they held, and a sense of unease troubled him.
"I don't know what the point of that sort of grammar would be," Baarath
said. "Dalani Toygu's was better for one thing, and half the length."
Cehmai realized that the Baarath had been talking this whole time, that
the subject had changed, and in fact they were in the middle of a debate
on a matter he couldn't identify. All this without the need that he speak.
"I suppose you're right," Cehmai said. "I hadn't seen it from that angle."
Stone-Made-Soft's calm, constant near-smile widened slightly.
"You should have, though. That's my point. Grammars and translations and
the subtleties of thought are your trade. That I know more about it than
you and that Maati person is a bad sign for the world. Note this,
Cehmai-kya, write down that I said it. It's that kind of ignorance that
will destroy the Khaiem."
"I'll write down that you said it," Cehmai said. "In fact, I'll go back
to my apartments right now and do that. And afterwards, I'll crawl into
bed, I think."
"So soon?"
"The night candle's past its center mark," Cehmai said.
"Fine. Go. When I was your age, I would stay up nights in a row for the