once who told me that if it were a choice between holding a live coal in
my hare fist or letting a city of innocent people die, of course I would
do my best to stand the pain. That it was what any decent man would do."
"Don't apologize," Kiyan said.
"Was I apologizing?"
"Yes," she said. "You were. You shouldn't. I'm not angry with you, and
there's nothing to blame you for. They all think you've changed, you
know, but this is who you've always been. You were a poor Khai Machi
because it didn't matter until now. I understand; I'm just frightened to
death, love. It's nothing you can spare me."
"Nlaati could be wrong," Otah said. "The Galts may be busy rolling over
the Westlands and none of it anything to do with Stone-MadeSoft. I may
arrive at the 1Jai-kvo's village and be laughed all the way back North."
"He's not wrong."
The great stones of the palaces creaked as they cooled, the summer sun
fallen behind the mountains. The scent of incense long since burned and
the smoke of snuffed lanterns filled the air like a voice gone silent.
Shadows touched the corners of the apartments, deepening the reds of the
tapestries and giving the light a feeling of physical presence. Kiyan's
hand felt warm and lost in his own.
"I know he's not," Otah said.
lie left orders with the servants at his door that unless there was
immediate threat to him or his family-fire or sudden illness or an army
crossing the river-he was to he left alone for the night. He would speak
with no one, he would read no letter or contract, he wished no
entertainments. Only a simple meal for him and his wife, and the silence
for the two of them to fill as they saw fit.
They told stories-reminiscences of Old Mani and the wayhouse in I1dun,
the sound of the birds by the river. The time a daughter of one of the
high families had snuck into the rooms her lover had taken and had to be
smuggled back out. Otah told stories from his time as a courier,
traveling the cities on the business of House Siyanti under his false
name. They were all stories she'd heard before, of course. She knew all
his stories.
They made love seriously and gently and with a profound attention. He
savored every touch, every scent and motion. He fought to remember them
and her, and he felt Kiyan's will to store the moment away, like food
packed away for the long empty months after the last leaf of autumn has
fallen. It was, Otah supposed, the kind of sex lovers had on the nights
before wars, pleasure and fear and a sorrow that anticipated the losses
ahead. And afterward, he lay against her familiar, beloved body and
pretended to sleep until, all unaware, the pretense became truth and he
dreamed of looking for a white raven that everyone else but him had
seen, and of a race through the tunnels beneath Machi that began and
ended at his father's ashes. He woke to the cool light of morning and
Kiyan's voice.
"Sweet," she said again. Otah blinked and stretched, remembering his
body. "Sweet, there's someone come to see you. I think you should speak
with him."