weight in water sixty feet in the time the moon-always a more reliable
measure than the seasonally fickle northern sun-traveled the width of a
man's finger. But the design wasn't perfect yet. It was clear from his
day's work that the pump, which finally failed the night before, had
been working at less than its peak for weeks. That was why the water
level had been higher than one night's failure could account for. There
were several possible solutions to that.
Biitrah forgot the cold, forgot his weariness, forgot indeed where he
was and was being borne. His mind fell into the problem, and he was lost
in it. The wayhouse, when it appeared as if by magic before them, was a
welcome sight: thick stone walls with one red lacquered door at the
ground level, a wide wooden snow door on the second story, and smoke
rising from all its chimneys. Even from the street, he could smell
seasoned meat and spiced wine. The keeper stood on the front steps with
a pose of welcome so formal it bent the old, moon-faced man nearly
double. Biitrah's bearers lowered his chair. At the last moment, Biitrah
remembered to shove his arms back into their sleeves so that he could
take a pose accepting the wayhouse keeper's welcome.
"I had not expected you, most high," the man said. "We would have
prepared something more appropriate. The best that I have-"
"Will do," Biitrah said. "Certainly the best you have will do."
The keeper took a pose of thanks, standing aside to let them through the
doorway as he did. Biitrah paused at the threshold, taking a formal pose
of thanks. The old man seemed surprised. His round face and slack skin
made Biitrah think of a pale grape just beginning to dry. He could be my
father's age, he thought, and felt in his breast the bloom of a strange,
almost melancholy, fondness for the man.
"I don't think we've met," Biitrah said. "What's your name, neighbor?"
"Oshai," the moon-faced man said. "We haven't met, but everyone knows of
the Khai Machi's kindly eldest son. It is a pleasure to have you in this
house, most high."
The house had an inner garden. Biitrah changed into a set of plain,
thick woolen robes that the wayhouse kept for such occasions and joined
his men there. The keeper himself brought them black-sauced noodles,
river fish cooked with dried figs, and carafe after stone carafe of rice
wine infused with plum. His guard, at first dour, relaxed as the night
went on, singing together and telling stories. For a time, they seemed
to forget who this long-faced man with his graying beard and thinning
hair was and might someday be. Biitrah even sang with them at the end,
intoxicated as much by the heat of the coal fire, the weariness of the
day, and the simple pleasure of the night, as by the wine.
At last he rose up and went to his bed, four of his men following him.
They would sleep on straw outside his door. He would sleep in the best
bed the wayhouse offered. It was the way of things. A night candle
burned at his bedside, the wax scented with honey. The flame was hardly
down to the quarter mark. It was early. When he'd been a boy of twenty,
he'd seen candles like this burn their last before he slept, the light
of dawn blocked by goose-down pillows around his head. Now he couldn't
well imagine staying awake to the half mark. He shuttered the candlebox,