them as the inhabitants of his childhood. A statue of the first Khai
Machi stood in the square, his noble expression undermined by the pigeon
streaks. An old, rag-wrapped beggar sat on the street, a black lacquer
box before her, and chanted songs. The forges were only a few streets
away, and Otah could smell the sharp smoke; could even, he thought, hear
the faint sound of metal on metal. He sucked down the last of the
noodles and handed back the howl to a man easily twice his age.
"You're new to the north," the man said, not unkindly.
"Does it show?" Otah asked.
"Thick robes. It's spring, and this is warm. If you'd been here over
winter, your blood would be able to stand a little cold."
Otah laughed, but made note. If he were to fit in well, it would mean
suffering the cold. He would have to sit with that. He did want to
understand the place, to see it, if only for a time, through the eyes of
a native, but he didn't want to swim in ice water just because that was
the local custom.
The door servant at the gray House Nan left him waiting in the street
for a while, then returned to usher him to his quarters-a small,
windowless room with four stacked cots that suggested he would be
sharing the small iron brazier in the center of the room with seven
other men, though he was the only one present just then. He thanked the
servant, learned the protocols for entering and leaving the house, got
directions to the nearest bathhouse, and after placing the oiled leather
pouch that held his letters safely with the steward, went back out to
wash off the journey.
The bathhouse smelled of iron pipes and sandalwood, but the air was warm
and thick. A launderer had set tip shop at the front, and Otah gave over
his robes to be scrubbed and kiln-dried with the understanding that it
doomed him to be in the baths for at least the time it took the sun to
move the width of two hands. He walked naked to the public baths and
eased himself into the warm water with a sigh.
"Hai!" a voice called, and Otah opened his eyes. Two older men and a
young woman sat on the same submerged bench on which he rested. One of
the older men spoke.
"You've just come in with the `van?"
"Indeed," Otah said. "Though I hope you could tell by looking more than
smell."
"Where from?"
"Udun, most recently."
The trio moved closer. The woman introduced them all-overseers for a
metalworkers group. Silversmiths, mostly. Otah was gracious and ordered
tea for them all and set about learning what they knew and thought, felt
and feared and hoped for, and all of it with smiles and charm and just
slightly less wit displayed than their own. It was his craft, and they
knew it as well as he did, and would exchange their thoughts and
speculations for his gossip. It was the way of traders and merchants the
world over.
It was not long before the young woman mentioned the name of Otah Machi.
"If it is the upstart behind it all, it's a poor thing for Machi," the