When his hands-out before him to catch his fall-touched the ground, the
flagstone splashed. Oshai's hands vanished to the wrist. For a moment
that seemed to last for days, Maati and his attacker both stared at the
ground. Oshai began to struggle, pulling with his shoulders to no
effect. Maati could hear the fear in the muttered curses. The pain in
his belly was lessening, and a warmth taking its place. He tried to
gather himself, but the effort was such that he didn't notice the
darkrobed figures until they were almost upon him. 'l'he larger one had
thrown back its hood and the wide, calm face of the andat considered
him. The other form-smaller, and more agitated-knelt and spoke in
Cehmai's voice.
"Maati-kvo! You're hurt."
"Be careful!" Maati said. "He's got a knife."
Cehmai glanced at the assassin struggling in the stone and shook his
head. The poet looked very young, and yet familiar in a way that Maati
hadn't noticed before. Intelligent, sure of himself. Maati was struck by
an irrational envy of the boy, and then noticed the blood on his own
hand. He looked down, and saw the wetness blackening his robes. There
was so much of it.
"Can you walk?" Cehmai said, and Maati realized it wasn't the first time
the question had been asked. He nodded.
"Only help me up," he said.
The younger poet took one arm and the andat the other and gently lifted
him. The warmth in Maati's belly was developing a profound ache in its
center. He pushed it aside, walked two steps, then three, and the world
seemed to narrow. He found himself on the ground again, the poet leaning
over him.
"I'm going for help," Cehmai said. "Don't move. Don't try to move. And
don't die while I'm gone."
Maati tried to raise his hands in a pose of agreement, but the poet was
already gone, pelting down the street, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Maati rolled his head to one side to see the assassin struggling in vain
and allowed himself a smile. A thought rolled through his mind, elusive
and dim, and he shook himself, willing a lucidity he didn't possess. It
was important. Whatever it was bore the weight of terrible significance.
If he could only bring himself to think it. It had something to do with
Otah-kvo and all the thousand times Maati had imagined their meeting.
The andat sat beside him, watching him with the impassive distance of a
statue, and Maati didn't know that he intended to speak to it until he
heard his own words.
"It isn't Otah-kvo," he said. The andat shifted to consider the captive
trapped by stone, then turned back.
"No," it agreed. "Too old."
"No," Maati said, struggling. "I don't mean that. I mean he wouldn't do
this. Not to me. Not without speaking to me. It isn't him."
The andat frowned and shook its massive head.
"I don't understand."
"If I die," Maati said, forcing himself to speak above a whisper, "you
have to tell Cehmai. It isn't Otah-kvo that did this. There's someone else."