sun making its way above the peaks to bathe the world in light. Through
the opened door, N9aati could hear the songs of birds deep in the yearly
quest to draw mates to their nests. The dances and parties of the
utkhaiem were much the same-who had the loveliest plumage, the more
enticing song. There were fewer differences between men and birds than
men liked to confess.
He sat on a couch, watching Cehmai at one side of the small table and
Stone-Made-Soft at the other. Between them was the game hoard with its
worn lines and stones. The game had been central to the binding Manat
[)oru had performed generations ago that first brought Stone-blade-Soft
into existence, and as part of the legacy he bore, Cehmai had to play
the game again-white stones moving forward against the black-as a
reaffirmation of his control over the spirit. Fortunately, Nlanat Doru
had also made Stone-Made-Soft a terrible player. Cehmai tapped his
fingertips against the wood and shifted a black stone in the center of
the hoard toward the left. Stone-Made-Soft frowned, its wide face
twisted in concentration.
"No word yet," Cehmai said. "It's early days, though."
"What do you think he'll do?" Maati asked.
"I'm trying to think, please," the andat rumbled. "They ignored it.
Cehmai leaned back in his seat. The years had treated him kindly. The
fresh-faced, talented young man Maati had met when he first came to
Machi was still there. If there was the first dusting of gray in the
boy's hair, if the lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper now,
and less prone to vanish when he relaxed, it did nothing to take away
from the easy smile or the deep, grounded sense of self that Cehmai had
always had. And even the respect he had for Maati-no longer a
dread-touched awe, but still profound in its way-had never failed with
familiarity.
"I'm afraid he'll do the thing," Cehmai said. "I suppose I'm also afraid
that he won't. There's not a good solution."
"He could take a middle course," Maati said. "Demand that the Gaits hand
back Riaan on the threat of taking action. If the Dai-kvo tells them
that he knows, it might be enough."
The andat lifted a thick-fingered hand, gently touched a white stone,
and slid it forward with a hiss. Cehmai glanced over, considered, and
pushed the black stone he'd moved before back into the space it had come
from. The andat coughed in frustration and set its head on balled fists,
staring at the hoard.
"It's Odd," Cehmai said. "There was a time when I was at the
school-before I'd even taken the black robes, so early on. There was a
pigeon that had taken up residence in my cohort's rooms. Nasty thing. It
would flap around through the air and drop feathers and shit on us all,
and every time we waved it outside, it would come hack. Then one day,
one of the boys got lucky. He threw a hoot at the poor thing and broke
its wing. Well, we knew we were going to have to kill it. Even though it
had been nothing but annoyance and filth, it was hard to break its neck."
"Were you the one that did it?" Maati asked.
Cehmai took a pose of acknowledgment.