could I not be? You're like a daughter to me. You always have been."
"I might not fail," she said. And a moment later, rose, kissed his hair,
and walked in, leaving him alone with the world. Maati sank deeper into
his cloak, determined to watch the birds until his mind calmed. Half a
hand later, he went inside the building, muttering to himself.
The evening meal was a soup of ground lentils, rice, and a sweet, hot
spice that made Maati's eyes water. He paid an extra length of copper
for a second bowl. The commons with its low ceilings and soot-stained
walls also served as a teahouse for the nearby low towns. By the time
he'd finished eating, local men and women had begun to appear. They took
little notice of the travelers, which suited Maati quite well.
In less interesting times, the table talk would have turned on matters
of weather, of crop yields and taxes and the small jealousies and dramas
that humanity drew about itself in all places and times. Instead, they
spoke of the Emperor, his small caravan on its way to Pathai or else
Lachi or else some unknown destination in the Westlands. He was going to
broker a new contract for women, now that the Galts had been destroyed,
or else retrieve the new poet and march back in triumph. He had been
secretly harboring the poets all this time, or had become one himself.
Nothing that approached the truth. Small Kae, listening to two of the
local men debate, looked on the edge of laughter the whole evening.
As the last of the sunset faded, a pair of the older men took up drums,
and the tables nearest the fire grate were pulled aside to clear space
for dancers. Maati was prevented from excusing himself from the
proceedings only by Vanjit's appearance at his side.
"Maati-kvo," she murmured, her hand slipping around his arm, "I spoke to
Eiah-kya. I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but please, please,
will you reconsider?"
The older of the two men set up a low throbbing beat on his drum. The
second drummer closed his eyes and bobbed his head almost in time with
the first. Maati suspected that both were drunk.
"This isn't the place to discuss it," Maati said. "Later, we can ..."
"Please," Vanjit said. Her breath wasn't free from the scent of
distilled wine. Her cheeks were flushed. "Without you, none of us
matter. You know that. You're our teacher. We need you. And if Eiah ...
she pays its price, you know that I'll be there. I can do the thing.
I've already managed once, and I know that I could do it again."
The second drum began, dry and light and not quite on its mark. No one
seemed to be paying attention to the old man in the corner or the young
woman attached to his arm. Maati leaned close to Vanjit, speaking low.
"What is it, Vanjit-kya?" he asked. "This is the second time you've
offered to bind Wounded. Why do you want that?"
She blinked and released his arm. Her eyes were wider, her mouth thin.
It was his turn to take her arm, and he did, leaning close enough to
speak almost into her ear.
"I have known more poets than I can count," he said. "Only a few held
the andat, and none of them took joy in it. My own first master, Heshai
of Saraykeht, planned out a second binding of Seedless. It could never
have worked. It was too near what he'd done before, and part of