wax, and the air didn't smell of the dying wick. There was something,
though. Pork. Bread. Liat sat up, her head light.
She stripped off yesterday's robes, sticky with sleep sweat, and pulled
on a simple sitting robe of thick gray wool. When she stepped out to the
main rooms, Kiyan was still arranging the meal on its table.
"Thick slices of pink-white meat, bread so fresh it still steamed, trout
baked with lemon and salt, poached pears on a silver plate. And a teapot
that smelled of white tea and honey. Liat's stomach woke with a sharp pang.
"°I'hey told me you hadn't eaten last night," she said. "Either of you.
I thought I might bring along something to keep you breathing."
"Kiyan-cha . . ." Liat began, then broke off and simply took a pose of
gratitude. Kiyan smiled. She was a beautiful woman, and age was treating
her gently. The intelligence in her eyes was matched by the humor. Otah
was lucky, Liat thought, to have her.
"It's a trick, really," Kiyan said. "I've come pretending to be a
servant girl, when I actually want to speak with Nayiit. If he's awake."
"I am."
His voice came from the shadows of his bedchambers. Nayiit stepped out.
His hair pointed in a hundred directions. His eyes were red and puffy. A
thin sprinkling of stubble cast a shadow on his jaw. Kiyan took a pose
of greeting. He returned it.
"How can I he of service, Kiyan-cha?" he asked. Liat could tell from the
too-precise diction that he'd spent his night drinking. He closed his
bedroom doors behind him as he stepped in, and Liat more than half
thought it was to protect the privacy of whatever woman was sleeping in
his bed. Something passed across Kiyan's sharp features; it might have
been compassion or sorrow, understanding or recognition. Liat couldn't
say, and it was gone almost as soon as it came.
"That's the question, Nayiit-cha. I have something to ask of you. It may
come to nothing, and if you should have to act upon my request, I'm
afraid I won't be in a position to repay you."
Nayiit came forward slowly and sat at the table. Kiyan filled a plate
for him as she spoke, casual as if she were a wayhouse keeper, and he a
simple guest.
"You've heard the gossip from Cetani, I assume," she said.
"They've fled before the Galts. The Khai-hoth of them-are in the rear.
To protect the people if the Galts come from behind."
"Yes," Kiyan said. "It's actually more complex than that. Otah has
invented a scheme. If it works, he may win us a few months. Perhaps
through the winter. If not, I think we can assume the Galts will be here
shortly after the last of our cousins from Cetani have arrived."
It was a casual way to express the raw fear that every one of them might
die violently before the first frost came. Our lives are measured in
days now, Liat thought. But Kiyan had not paused to let the thought grow.
"There is an old mine a day's ride to the North of Machi. It was dug
when the first Khai Machi set up residence here. It's been tapped out
for generations, but the tunnels are still there. I've been quietly
moving supplies to it. A bit of food. Blankets. Coal. A few boxes of
gold and jewels. Enough for a few people to survive a winter and still