"Could I go there with you?"
"No, Eiah-kya. Women aren't allowed in the village. I know, I know. It
isn't fair. But it isn't happening today, so why don't we walk to the
kitchens and see if we can't talk them out of some sugar bread."
They left his door open, leaving the spring air and sunlight to freshen
the apartments. The path to the kitchens led them through great, arching
halls and across pavilions being prepared for a night's dancing; great
silken banners celebrated the warmth and light. In the gardens, men and
woman lay back, eyes closed, faces to the sky like flowers. Outside the
palaces, Maati knew, the city was still alive with commerce-the forges
and metalworkers toiling through the night, as they always did,
preparing to ship the works of Machi. There was bronze, iron, silver and
gold, and steel. And the hand-shaped stonework that could be created
only here, under the inhuman power of Stone-Made-Soft. None of that work
was apparent in the palaces. The utkhaiem seemed carefree as cats. Maati
wondered again how much of that was the studied casualness of court life
and how much was simple sloth.
At the kitchens, it was simple enough for the Khai's daughter and his
permanent guest to get thick slices of sugar bread wrapped in stiff
cotton cloth and a stone flask of cold tea. He told Eiah all of what had
happened with Athai since she'd last come to the library, and about the
Dal-kvo, and the andat, and the world as Maati had known it in the years
before he'd come to Machi. It was a pleasure to spend the time with the
girl, flattering that she enjoyed his own company enough to seek him
out, and perhaps just the slightest hit gratifying that she would speak
to him of things that Otah-kvo never heard from her.
They parted company as the quick spring sun came within a hand's width
of the western mountains. Maati stopped at a fountain, washing his
fingers in the cool waters, and considered the evening that lay ahead.
He'd heard that one of the winter choirs was performing at a teahouse
not far from the palaces-the long, dark season's work brought out at
last to the light. The thought tempted, but perhaps not more than a
book, a flask of wine, and a bed with thick wool blankets.
He was so wrapped up by the petty choice of pleasures that he didn't
notice that the lanterns had been lit in his apartments or that a woman
was sitting on his couch until she spoke.
4
"Nlaati," Liat said, and the man startled like a rabbit. For a long
moment, his face was a blank confusion as he struggled to make sense of
what he saw. Slowly, she watched him recognize her.
In all fairness, she might not have known him either, had she not sought
him out. Time had changed him: thickened his body and thinned his hair.
Even his face had changed shape, the smooth chin and jaw giving way to
jowls, the eyes going narrower and darker. The lines around his mouth
spoke of sadness and isolation. And anger, she thought.
She had known when she arrived that she'd found the right apartments. It
hadn't been difficult to get directions to Machi's extra poet, and the
door had been open. She'd scratched at the doorframe, called out his
name, and when she'd stepped in, it was the scent that had been