traditions and come back to kill them for the chair. And here I am. I am
Otah Machi. Only they can't see it."
"I love you, Idaan-kya."
She smiled because there was nothing else to do. He had heard the words,
but understood nothing. It would have meant as much to talk to a dog.
She took his hand in hers, laced her fingers with his.
"I love you too, Adrah-kya. And I will be happy once we've done all this
and taken the chair. You'll be the Khai Machi, and I will be your wife.
We'll rule the city together, just as we always planned, and everything
will be right again. It's been half a hand by now. We should go."
They parted in one of the night gardens, he to the east and his family
compound, and she to the south, to her own apartments, and past them and
west to tree-lined path that led to the poet's house. If the shutters
were closed, if no light shone but the night candle, she told herself
she wouldn't go in. But the lanterns were lit brightly, and the shutters
open. She paced quietly through the grounds, peering in through windows,
until she caught the sound of voices. Cehmai's soft and reasonable, and
then another. A man's, loud and full of a rich selfimportance. Baarath,
the librarian. Idaan found a tree with low branches and deep shadows and
sat, waiting with as much patience as she could muster, and silently
willing the man away. The full moon was halfway across the sky before
the two came to the door, silhouetted. Baarath swayed like a drunkard,
but Cehmai, though he laughed as loud and sang as poorly, didn't waver.
She watched as Baarath took a sloppy pose of farewell and stumbled off
along the path. Cehmai watched him go, then looked back into the house,
shaking his head.
Idaan rose and stepped out of the shadows.
She saw Cehmai catch sight of her, and she waited. He might have another
guest-he might wave her away, and she would have to go back through the
night to her own apartments, her own bed. The thought filled her with
black dread until the poet put one hand out to her, and with the other
motioned toward the light within his house.
Stone-Made-Soft brooded over a game of stones, its massive head cupped
in a hand twice the size of her own. The white stones, she noticed, had
lost badly. The andat looked up slowly and, its curiosity satisfied, it
turned back to the ended game. The scent of mulled wine filled the air.
Cehmai closed the door behind her, and then set about fastening the
shutters.
"I didn't expect to see you," the poet said.
"Do you want me to leave?"
'T'here were a hundred things he could have said. Graceful ways to say
yes, or graceless ways to deny it. He only turned to her with the
slightest smile and went back to his task. Idaan sat on a low couch and
steeled herself. She couldn't say why she was driven to do this, only
that the impulse was much like draping her legs out the sky doors, and
that it was what she had chosen to do.
"Daaya Vaunyogi is approaching the Khai tomorrow. He is going to
petition that Adrah and I be married."
Cehmai paused, sighed, turned to her. His expression was melancholy, but