behind the mountains to the east, filled the blue dome of air with soft
light. The towers stood dark against the daylight, birds wheeling far
below their highest reaches.
"I see that he's in a difficult position," Cehmai said. "And I'm in no
position to say that good men never lose their hearts to ... what?
Inappropriate women?"
"If you mean the Khai's sister, the term is vicious killers,"
StoneMade-Soft said. "But I think we can generalize from there."
"Thank you," Cehmai said. "But you've made the point yourself, Maati.
Nayiit's married her. He's acknowledged the child. Doing that hinds him
to something, doesn't it? He's made an agreement. He's made a kind of
promise, or else why say that he's been good to her? If he can put those
things aside, then that goodness is just a formality."
Maati sighed. His mind felt thick. Too much wine, too little rest. He
was old to be staying up all night; it was a young man's game. And
still, he felt it important that Cehmai understand. If he could explain
Nayiit to someone else, it would make the night and all their
conversations through it real. It would put them into the world in a way
that now might only have been a dream. He was silent too long,
struggling to put his thoughts in order. Cehmai cleared his throat, shot
an uncomfortable glance at Maati, and changed the subject.
"Forgive me, Maati-cha, but I thought there was some question about
Nayiit's ... ah ... parentage? I know the Khai signed a document denying
him, but that was when there was some question about the succession, and
I'd always thought he'd done it as a favor. If you see what I ..."
Maati put down his tea bowl and took a pose that disagreed.
""There's more to being a father than a few moments between the sheets,"
Maati said. "I was there when Nayiit took his first steps. I sang him to
sleep as often as I could. I brought food for him. I held him. And
tonight, Cehmai. He came to me. He talked to me. I don't care whose
blood he has, that boy's mine."
"If you say so," Cehmai said, but there was something in his voice, some
reservation. Maati felt his face begin to flush. Anger straightened his
hack. Stone-Made-Soft raised a wide, thick hand, palm out, silencing
them both. Its head tilted, as if hearing some distant sound.
Its brow furrowed.
"Well," the andat said. "That's interesting."
And then it vanished.
Maati blinked in confusion. A few heartbeats later, Cehmai drew a long,
shuddering breath. The poet's face was bloodless.
Maati sat silently as Cehmai stood, hands trembling, and walked back
into the dimness of the house, and then out again. Cehmai's gaze darted
one direction and another, searching for something. His eyes were so
wide, the whites showed all the way around.
"Oh," Cehmai said, and his voice was thin and reedy. "Maati ... Oh gods.
I didn't do anything. I didn't ... Oh gods. Maati-kvo, he's gone."
Nlaati rose, brushing the crumbs from his robes with a sense of profound
unreality. Once before, he had seen the last moments of an andat in the
world. It wasn't something he'd expected to stiffer again. Cehmai paced