the palaces were bright with new leaves. Far above, barely visible
through the boughs, the stone towers rose into the sky. Cehmai reached
across the envoy to pour more rice wine into Maati's bowl.
"It is early yet to pass judgment," Nlaati said as he nodded his thanks
to Cehmai. "It isn't as though the techniques have been tried."
"But it makes sense," Athai said. "I'm sure it will work."
"If we've overlooked something, the first poet to try this is likely to
die badly," Cehmai said. ""1'he Dai-kvo will want a fair amount of study
done before he puts a poet's life on the table."
"Next year," Athai said. "I'll wager twenty lengths of silver it will be
used in bindings by this time next year."
"Done," the andat said, then turned to Cehmai. "You can back me if I lose."
The poet didn't reply, but Maati saw the amusement at the corners of
Cehmai's mouth. It had taken years to understand the ways in which
Stone-Made-Soft was an expression of Cehmai, the ways they were a single
thing, and the ways they were at war. The small comments the andat made
that only Cehmai understood, the unspoken moments of private struggle
that sometimes clouded the poet's days. They were like nothing so much
as a married couple, long accustomed to each other's ways.
Maati sipped the rice wine. It was infused with peaches, a moment of
autumn's harvest in the opening of spring. Athai looked away from the
andat's broad face, discomforted.
"You must be ready to return to the Dai-kvo," Cehmai said. "You've been
away longer than you'd intended."
Athai waved the concern away, pleased, Maati thought, to speak to the
man and forget the andat.
"I wouldn't have traded this away," he said. "Maati-kvo is going to be
remembered as the greatest poet of our generation."
"Have some more wine," Maati said, clinking the envoy's bowl with his
own, but Cehmai shook his head and gestured toward the wooded path. A
slave girl was trotting toward them, her robes billowing behind her.
Athai put down his bowl and stood, pulling at his sleeves. Here was the
moment they had been awaiting-the call for Athai to join the caravan to
the East. Maati sighed with relief. Half a hand, and his library would
be his own again. The envoy took a formal pose of farewell that Maati
and Cehmai returned.
"I will send word as soon as I can, Maati-kvo," Athai said. "I am
honored to have studied with you."
Maati nodded uncomfortably; then, after a moment's awkward silence,
Athai turned. Maati watched until the slave girl and poet had both
vanished among the trees, then let out a breath. Cehmai chuckled as he
put the stopper into the flask of wine.
"Yes, I agree," Cehmai said. "I think the I)ai-kvo must have chosen him
specifically to annoy the Khai."
"Or he just wanted to be rid of him for a time," Maati said.
"I liked him," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Well, as much as I like anyone."
The three walked together into the poet's house. The rooms within were
neatly kept-shelves of books and scrolls, soft couches and a table laid
out with the black and white stones on their hoard. A lemon candle