then the heat will come on. Still nothing like the summer cities, even
at its worst. I remember in Saraykeht, I had a trail of sweat down my
hack for weeks at a time."
"We call that pleasantly warm," Nayiit said, and Maati chuckled.
In truth, the chill, moonless night was hardly anything to him now. For
over a decade, he'd lived through the bone-cracking cold of Machi
winters. He'd seen snowdrifts so high that even the second-story doors
couldn't be opened. He'd been out on days so cold the men coated their
faces with thick-rendered fat to keep their skin from freezing. "There
was no way to describe those brief, bitter days to someone who had never
seen them. So instead, he told Nayiit of the life below ground, the
tunnels of Machi, the bathhouses hidden deep below the surface, the
streets and apartments and warehouses, the glitter of winter dew turning
to frost on the stone of the higher passages. He spoke of the choirs who
took the long, empty weeks to compose new songs and practice old
ones-weeks spent in the flickering, buttery light of oil lamps
surrounded by music.
"I'm amazed people don't stay down there," Nayiit said as they turned a
corner and left the white and silver paths of the palaces behind for the
black-cobbled streets of the city proper. "It sounds like one huge, warm
bed."
"It has its pleasures," Maati agreed. "But people get thirsty for
sunlight. As soon as they can stand it, people start making treks up to
the streets. "They'll go up and lie naked on an ice sheet sometimes just
to drink in a little more light. And the river freezes, so the children
will go skating on it. There's only about seven weeks when no one comes
up. Here. This street. There's a sweet wine they serve at this place
that's like nothing you've ever tasted."
It was less awkward than he'd expected, spending the evening with
Nayiit. The first time the boy had come to the library alone-tentative
and uncertain-Maati had been acutely aware of Liat's absence. She had
always been there, even in the ancient days before they had parted.
Maati knew how to speak with Liat whether she was alone or with their
son, and Nlaati had discovered quickly how much he'd relied upon her to
mediate between him and the boy. The silences had been awkward, the
conversations forced. Nlaati had said something of how pleased he was
that Nayiit had come to Machi and felt in the end that he'd only managed
to embarrass them both.
It was going to the teahouses and bathhouses and epics that let them
speak at last. Once there was a hit of shared experience, a toehold,
Maati was able to make conversation, and Nayiit was an expert listener
to stories. For several nights in a row, Maati found himself telling
tales of the Dai-kvo and the school, the history of Machi and the perils
he had faced years ago when he'd been sent to hunt Otah-kvo down. In the
telling, he discovered that, to his profound surprise, his life had been
interesting.
The platform rested at the base of one of the lower towers, chains thick
as a man's arm clanking against it and against the stone as they rose up
into the sky like smoke. Nayiit paused to stare up at it, and Maati