weaken, don't they?"
Cehmai took a pose of farewell, and Baarath returned it.
"Come by tomorrow, though," Baarath said as they left. "There's some old
imperial poetry I've translated that might interest you."
Outside, the night had grown colder, and few lanterns lit the paths and
streets. Cehmai pulled his arms in from their sleeves and held his
fingers against his sides for warmth. His breath plumed blue-white in
the faint moonlight, and even the distant scent of pine resin made the
air seem colder.
"He doesn't think much of our guest," Cehmai said. "I would have thought
he'd be pleased that Maati took little interest in the books, after all
the noise he made."
When Stone-Made-Soft spoke, its breath did not fog. "He's like a girl
bent on protecting her virginity until she finds no one wants it."
Cehmai laughed.
"That is entirely too apt," he said, and the andat took a pose accepting
the compliment.
"You're going to do something," it said.
"I'm going to pay attention," Cehmai said. "If something needs doing,
I'll try to be on hand."
They turned down the cobbled path that led to the poet's house. The
sculpted oaks that lined it rustled in the faint breeze, rubbing new
leaves together like a thousand tiny hands. Cehmai wished that he'd
thought to bring a candle from Baarath's. He imagined Maati Vaupathai
standing in the shadows with his appraising gaze and mysterious agenda.
"You're frightened of him," the andat said, but Cehmai didn't answer.
There was someone there among the trees-a shape shifting in the
darkness. He stopped and slid his arms back into their sleeves. The
andat stopped as well. They weren't far from the house-Cehmai could see
the glow of the lantern left out before his doorway. The story of a poet
slaughtered in a distant city raced in his mind until the figure came
out between him and his doorway, silhouetted in the dim light. Cehmai's
heart didn't slow, but it did change contents.
She still wore the half-mask she'd had at the gathering. Her black and
white robes shifted, the cloth so rich and soft, and he could hear it
even over the murmur of the trees. He stepped toward her, taking a pose
of welcome.
"Idaan," he said. "Is there something ... I didn't expect to find you
here. I mean ... I'm doing this rather badly, aren't l?"
"Start again," she said.
"Idaan."
"Cehmai."
She took a step toward him. He could see the flush in her cheek and
smell the faint, nutty traces of distilled wine on her breath. When she
spoke, her words were sharp and precise.
"I saw what you did to Adrah," she said. "He left a heel mark in the stone."
"Have I given offense?" he asked.
"Not to me. He didn't see it, and I didn't say."
In the back of his mind, or in some quarter of his flesh, Cehmai felt