servant girl. I Ier face was white with pain.
"What's the matter?" Otah asked her, gently. "Where does it hurt?"
She couldn't take a formal pose, but her gesture and the shame in her
eyes told Otah everything he needed to know. He'd spent several seasons
as a midwife's assistant in the eastern islands. If the girl was lucky,
she had been pregnant and was miscarrying. If she hadn't been carrying a
child, then something worse was happening. He had already ordered the
other servants to carry her down to the physicians when Cehmai appeared,
red-faced and wide-eyed. Before he could speak, it fell into place. The
girl, the unearthly shriek, the poet.
"Something's gone wrong with the binding," Otah said. Cehmai took a pose
of confirmation.
"Please," the poet said. "Come now. I furry."
Otah didn't pause to think; he went to the stairs, lifting the hem of
his robes, and dropping down three steps at a time. It was four stories
from the top of the warehouse to its bottom floor. Otah felt that he
could hardly have gone there faster if he'd jumped over the building's side.
The space was eerie; shadows seemed to hang in the corners of the huge,
empty room and the distant sound of voices in pain murmured and
shrieked. Great symbols were chalked on the walls, and an ugly,
disjointed script in Nlaati's handwriting spelled out the binding. Otah
knew little enough of the old grammars, but he picked out the words for
womb, seed, and corruption. Three people stood in tableau at the top of
the stair that led down to the tunnels. NIaati stood, his hands at his
sides, his expression blank. Otah's belly went tight as sickness as he
saw that the girl at Nlaati's feet was Eiah. And the thing that cradled
his daughter's head turned to look at him. After a long moment, it drew
breath and spoke.
"Otah-kya," it said. Its voice was low and beautiful, heavy with
amusement and contempt. The familiarity of it was dizzying.
"Seedless?"
"It isn't," Nlaati said. "It's not him."
"What's happened?" Otah asked. When Maati didn't answer, Otah shook the
man's sleeve. " Nlaati. What's going on?"
"He's failed," the andat said. "And when a poet fails, he pays a price
for it. Only Nlaati-kvo is clever. He's found a way to make it so that
failure can't touch him. He's found a trick."
"I don't understand," Otah said.
"My protection," Maati said, his voice rich with despair. "It doesn't
stop the price being paid. It only can't kill me."
The andat took a pose that agreed, as a teacher might approve of a
clever student. From the stairwell, Utah heard footsteps and the voice
of the Khai Cetani. The first of the servant men hurried into the room,
robes flapping like a flag in high wind, before he saw them and stopped
dead and silent.
"What is it doing?" Utah asked. "What's it done?"
"You can ask me, Most High," Sterile said. "I have a voice."
Utah looked into the black, inhuman eyes. Eiah whimpered, and the thing
stroked her brow gently, comforting and threatening both. Utah felt the