horses unhitched. The two women, she knew, were presenting themselves as
travelers. The man-old, fat, unpleasant to speak withwas posing as their
slave. Eiah let the servant take her horse to be cared for, but instead
of going up the steps to the main house, she followed him back to the
stables. A small shack stood away at an angle. Quarters for servants and
slaves. Eiah felt her lips press thin at the thought. Rough straw
ticking, thin blankets, whatever was left to eat after the paying guests
were done.
"How many servants are here now?" Eiah asked of the young maneighteen
summers, so four years old when it had happened-brushing down her horse.
He looked at her as if she'd asked what color ducks laid the eggs they
served at table. She smiled.
"Three," the servant said.
"Tell me about them," she said.
He shrugged.
"There's an old woman came in two days ago. Her master's laid up sick.
Then a boy from the Westlands works for a merchant staying on the ground
floor. And an old bastard just came in with two women from Chaburi-Tan."
"Chaburi-Tan?"
"What they said," the servant replied.
Eiah took two lengths of silver from her sleeve and held them out in her
palm. The servant promptly forgot about her horse.
"When you're done," she said, "take the woman and the Westlander to the
back of the house. Buy them some wine. Don't mention me. Leave the old man."
The servant took a pose of acceptance so total it was just short of an
open pledge. Eiah smiled, dropped the silver in his palm, and pulled up
a shoeing stool to sit on while she waited. The night was cool, but
still not near as cold as her home in the north. An owl hooted deep and
low. Eiah pulled her arms up into her sleeves to keep her fingers warm.
The scent of roasting pork wafted from the wayhouse, and the sounds of a
flute and a voice lifted together.
The servant finished his work and with a deferential nod to Eiah, made
his way to the servants' house. It was less than half a hand before he
emerged with a thin woman and a sandy-haired Westlands boy trailing him.
Eiah pushed her hands back through her sleeves and made her way to the
small, rough shack.
He was sitting beside the fire, frowning into the flames and eating a
mush of rice and raisins from a small wooden bowl. The years hadn't been
kind to him. He was thicker than he'd been when she knew him, an
unhealthy fatness that had little to do with indulgence. His color was
poor; what remained of his hair was white stained yellow by neglect. He
looked angry. He looked lonesome.
"Uncle Maati," she said.
He startled. His eyes flashed. Eiah couldn't tell if it was anger or
fear. But whatever it was had a trace of pleasure to it.
"Don't know who you mean," he said. "Name's Daavit."
Eiah chuckled and stepped into the small room. It smelled of bodies and
smoke and the raisins in Maati's food. Eiah found a small chair and
pulled it to the fire beside the old poet, her chosen uncle, the man who