journey back to whatever city or family had sent them forth in the first
place. The oldest of them, a sharp-tongued woman named Carai, would be
returning to a high family in Yalakeht where the man who would choose
her disposition had been a delighted toddler grinning and filling his
pants the last time she'd seen him. Another woman-one of the recent ones
hardly older than Idaan herself-had taken a lover in the court. She was
being sent hack to Chaburi-"[an, likely to be turned around and shipped
off to another of the Khaicm or traded between the houses of the
utkhaiem as a token of political alliance. Many of the wives had known
each other for decades and would now scatter and lose the friends and
companions they had known best. And on and on, every one of them a life
shaped by a man's will, constrained by tradition.
Idaan walked through the wide, bright corridors, listened to these women
preparing to depart when the inevitable news came, anticipating the
grief in a way that was as hard as the grief itself. Perhaps harder. She
accepted their congratulations on her marriage. She would be able to
remain in the city, and should her man die before her, her family would
be there to support her. She, at least, would never he uprooted. Hiami
had never understood why Idaan had objected to this way of living. Idaan
had never understood why these women hadn't set the palaces on fire.
Her own rooms were set in the back; small apartments with rich
tapestries of white and gold on the walls. They might almost have been
mistaken for the home of some merchant leader-the overseer of a great
trading house, or a trade master who spoke with the voice of a city's
craftsmen. If only she had been born one of those. As she entered, one
of her servants met her with an expression that suggested news. Idaan
took a pose of query.
"Adrah Vaunyogi is waiting to see you, Idaan-cha," the servant girl
said. "It was approaching midday, so I've put him in the dining hall.
There is food waiting. I hope I haven't ..."
"No," Idaan said, "you did well. Please see that we're left alone."
He sat at the long, wooden table, and he did not look up when she came
in. Idaan was willing to ignore him as well as to be ignored, so she
gathered a bowl of food from the platters-early grapes from the south,
sticky with their own blood; hard, crumbling cheese with a ripe scent
that was both appetizing and not; twice-baked flatbread that cracked
sharply when she broke off a piece-and retired to a couch. She forced
herself to forget that he was here, to look forward at the bare fire
grate. Anger buoyed her up, and she clung to it.
She heard it when he stood, heard his footsteps approaching. It was a
little victory, but it pleased her. As he sat cross-legged on the floor
before her, she raised an eyebrow and sketched a pose of welcome before
choosing another grape.
"I came last night," he said. "I was looking for you."
"I wasn't here," she said.
The pause was meant to injure her. Look how sad youu've made me, Idaan.
It was a child's tactic, and that it partially worked infuriated her.
"I've had trouble sleeping," she said. "I walk. Otherwise, I'd spend the
whole night staring at netting and watching the candle burn down. No