times before it smelled more of flowers than smoke, that she found the note.
It rested on her bed, a square of paper folded in quarters. She sat
naked beside it, reached out a hand, hesitated, and then plucked it
open. It was brief, written in an unsteady hand.
Daughter, it said. I had hoped that you might be able to spend some part
of this happy day with me. Instead, I will leave this. Know that you
have my blessings and such love as a weary old man can give. You have
always delighted me, and I hope for your happiness in this match.
When her tears and sobbing had exhausted her, Idaan carefully gathered
the scraps of the note together and placed them together under her
pillow. Then she bowed and prayed to all the gods and with all her heart
that her father should die, and die quickly. That he should die without
discovering what she was.
MAATI WAS LOST FOR A TIME IN PAIN, THEN DISCOMFORT, AND THEN PAIN again.
He didn't suffer dreams so much as a pressing sense of urgency without
goal or form, though for a time he had the powerful impression that he
was on a boat, rocked by waves. His mind fell apart and reformed itself
at the will of his body.
He came to himself in the night, aware that he had been half awake for
some time; that there had been conversations in which he had
participated, though he couldn't say with whom or on what matters. The
room was not his own, but there was no mistaking that it belonged to the
Khai's palace. No fire burned in the grate, but the stone walls were
warm with stored sunlight. The windows were shuttered with shaped stone,
the only light coming from the night candle that had burned almost to
its quarter mark. Maati pulled back the thin blankets and considered the
puckered gray flesh of his wound and the dark silk that laced it closed.
He pressed his belly gently with his fingertips until he thought he knew
how delicate he had become. When he stood, tottering to the night pot,
he found he had underestimated, but that the pain was not so
excruciating that he could not empty his bladder. After, he pulled
himself back into bed, exhausted. He intended only to close his eyes for
a moment and gather his strength, but when he opened them, it was morning.
He had nearly resolved to walk from his bed to the small writing table
near the window when a slave entered and announced that the poet Cehmai
and the andat Stone-Made-Soft would see him if he wished. Maati nodded
and sat up carefully.
The poet arrived with a wide plate of rice and river fish in a sauce
that smelled of plums and pepper. The andat carried a jug of water so
cold it made the stone sweat. Maati's stomach came to life with a growl
at the sight.
"You're looking better, Maati-kvo." the young poet said, putting the
plate on the bed. The andat pulled two chairs close to the bed and sat
in one, its face calm and empty.
"I looked worse than this?" Maati asked. "I wouldn't have thought that
possible. How long has it been?"
"Four days. The injury brought on a fever. But when they poured onion
soup down you, the wound didn't smell of it, so they decided you might
live after all."