the room. It seemed that every winter Maati forgot about the existence
of flies, only to rediscover them in spring. He wondered where the
insects all went during the vicious cold, and what the signal was for
them to return.
"He isn't wrong, you know," Cehmai said. "If you're right, it will be
the most important piece of analysis since the fall of the Empire."
"I've likely overlooked something. It isn't as though we haven't seen
half a hundred schemes to bring hack the glory of the past before now,
and there hasn't been one that's done it."
"And I wasn't there to look at the other ideas," Cehmai said. "But since
I was here to talk this one over, I'd say this is at least plausible.
That's more than most. And the Dai-kvo's likely to think the same."
"He'll probably dismiss it out of hand," Maati said, but he smiled as he
spoke.
Cehmai had been the first one he'd shown his theories to, even before
he'd known for certain what they were. It had been a curiosity more than
anything else. It was only as they'd talked about it that Maati had
understood the depths he'd touched upon. And Cehmai had also been the
one to encourage bringing the work to the Dai-kvo's attention. All
Athai's enthusiasm and hyperbole paled beside a few thoughtful words
from Cchmai.
Maati stayed awhile, talking and laughing, comparing impressions of
Athai now that he'd left. And then he took his leave, walking slowly
enough that he didn't become short of breath. Fourteen, almost fifteen
years ago, he'd come to Machi. The black stone roadways, the constant
scent of the coal smoke billowing up from the forges, the grandeur of
the palaces and the hidden city far beneath his feet had become his home
as no other place ever had before. He strode down pathways of crushed
marble, under archways that flowed with silken banners. A singing slave
called from the gardens, a simple melody of amazing clarity and longing.
He turned down a smaller way that would take him to his apartments
behind the library.
Nlaati found himself wondering what he would do if the I)ai-kvo truly
thought his discovery had merit. It was an odd thought. He had spent so
many years now in disgrace, first tainted by the death of his master
Heshai, then by his choice to divide his loyalty between his lover and
son on the one hand and the Dai-kvo on the other. And then at last his
entrance into the politics of the court, wearing the robes of the poet
and supporting Otah Machi, his old friend and enemy, to become Khai
Machi. It had been simple enough to believe that his promotion to the
ranks of the poets had been a mistake. He had, after all, been gifted
certain insights by an older boy who had walked away from the school:
Otah, before he'd been a laborer or a courier or a Khai. Maati had
reconciled himself to a smaller life: the library, the companionship of
a few friends and those lovers who would bed a disgraced poet halfway to
fat with rich foods and long, inactive hours.
After so many years of failure, the thought that he might shake off that
reputation was unreal. It was like a dream from which he could only hope
never to wake, too pleasant to trust in.