but Eiah rolled her eyes and took a pose that unasked the question.
"Eiah-cha and I were going to the high gardens. I've packed some bread
and cheese. We thought you might care to join us?"
"You've already eaten," Eiah said, pointing to the waxed paper in his hand.
""Phis?" Maati said. "No, I was feeding this to the pigeons. Wait a
moment, I'll get a jug of wine and some bowls...
"I'm old enough to drink wine," Eiah said.
"Three howls, then," Maati said. "Just give me a moment."
He walked back to his apartments, feeling something very much like
relief. The afternoon trapped with old scrolls and codices, books and
frail maps was banished. He was saved from it. He threw the waxed paper
with the remaining onions into a corner where the servants would clean
it, took a thick earthenware jug of wine off his shelves, and dropped
three small wine bowls into his sleeve. On his way back out to the
steps, where he was certain no one could see him, he trotted.
DANAT'S COUGH HAD RETURNED.
Otah had filled his day playing Khai Machi. He had reviewed the
preparations for the Grand Audience he was already past due holding.
There was an angry letter from the Khai "Ian-Sadar asking for an
explanation of Otah's decision not to take his youngest daughter as one
of his wives that he responded to with as much aplomb as he could
muster. His Master of Stone-responsible for keeping the books of the
cityhad discovered that two of the forms from which silver lengths were
struck had been tampered with and reported the progress of his
investigation into the matter. The widow of Adaiit Kamau demanded an
audience, insisting again that her husband had been murdered and
demanding justice in his name. The priests asked for money for the
temple and the procession of the beasts. A young playwright, son of Oiad
How of House How, had composed an epic in the honor to the Khai Machi,
and asked permission to perform it. Permission and funding. The
representative of the tinsmiths petitioned for a just distribution of
coal, as the ironworkers had been taking more than their share. The
ironworkers' explaining that they worked iron, not-sneering and smiling
as if Otah would understand-tin. And on and on and on until Otah was
more than half tempted to grab a passing servant, put him on the black
lacquer chair, and let the city take its chances. And at the end, with
all the weight of the city and the impending death of Galt besides, the
thing that he could not face was that Danat's cough had returned.
The nursery glowed by the light of the candles. Kiyan sat on the raised
bed, talking softly to their son. Great iron statues of strange,
imagined beasts had been kept in the fire grates all day and pulled out
when night fell, and as he quietly walked forward, Otah could feel the
heat radiating from them. The physician's assistant-a young man with a
serious expression-took a respectful pose and walked quietly from the
room, leaving the family alone.
Otah stepped up to the bedside. Danat's eyes, half closed in drowse,
shifted toward him and a smile touched Otah's mouth.
"I got sick again, Papa-kya," he said. His voice was rough and low; the
familiar sign of a hard day.