swath of silk caught in the wind.
"Stay here. I'll get Otah-kvo," hlaati said. "He'll know what to do."
THE WALLS OF THE AUDIENCE CHAMBER SWOOPED UP, GRACEFUL AS A DOVE'S wing.
The high, pale stone looked as soft as fresh butter, seamless where the
stones had joined and been smoothed into one piece by the power of the
andat. 'T'iny webworks of stone fanned out from the walls at shoulder
height, incense smoke rising from them in soft gray lines. High above,
windows had been shaped by hand. Spare and elegant and commanding, it
was a place of impossible beauty, and Otah suspected the world would
never see another like it.
He sat in the black chair his father had sat in, and his father before
him, and on hack through the generations to when the Empire had still
stood, and the name Khai had meant honored servant. Before him, seated
on soft red cushions and intricately woven rugs, were the heads of the
highest families of the utkhaiem. Vaunani, Radaani, Kamau, I)aikani,
Dun, Isadan, and half a dozen others. For each of these, there were ten
more families. Twenty more. But these were the highest, the richest, the
most powerful men of %fachi. And they were the ones who had just
suffered the worst loss. Otah waited while his news sank in, watched the
blood drain from their faces. Otah kept his visage stern and his posture
formal and rigid. His robes were simple, pale, and severe. His first
impulse-a ceremonial black shot with red and long, flexible bone sewn in
to give it shape-had been too gaudy; he would have seemed to be taking
refuge in the cloth. The important things now were that they know he was
in control and that they put trust in him. It would he too easy for the
city to fall into panic, and here, now, through the force of his own
will, he could hold it hack. If these men left the room unsure, it would
be too late. He could hold a stone, but he couldn't stop a rockslide.
"C-Can we get it hack?" Wetai I)un asked, his voice shaking. "There are
andat that poets have caught three, four times. Water-MovingDown was..."
Otah took a deep breath. "There is a chance," he said. "It has been
done, but it will be harder than it was the first time. The poet who
does will have to create a binding sufficiently different from the
original. Or it could he that the Dai-kvo will be able to give us an
andat that is different, but that still speeds the mining trades."
"How long will it take?" Ashua Radaani asked. The Radaani were the
richest family in the city, with more silver and gold in their coffers
than even Otah himself could command.
"We can't know until we hear from the Dai-kvo," Otah said. "I've sent my
best courier with enough gold in his sleeve to buy a fresh horse every
time he needs one. We will hear back as soon as it is possible to know.
Until that happens, we will work as we always have. Stone-MadeSoft made
the mines here and in the North the most productive in the world, that's
true. But it didn't run the forges. It didn't smelt the ore. The stone
potters will have to go back to working clay, that's true, but-"
"How did this happen?" Caiin Dun cried. His voice was as anguished as if
he'd lost a son. "There was a stirring in the air. Fear. Without
thinking, Otah rose, his hands flowing into a pose of censure.
"Dun-cha," he said, his voice cold as stone and harder. "You are not