his face. Danat's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. The whisperers
paused, and then a heartbeat later, the words went out where they could
never be called back. The voice of the crowd rose up like the waters of
chaos come to drown them all.
6
Maati relived his conversation with Cehmai a thousand times in the weeks
that followed. He rose in the morning from whatever rough camp or
wayhouse bed he'd fallen into the night before, and he muttered his
arguments to Cehmai. He rode his weary mule along overgrown tracks thick
with heat and heavy with humidity, and he spoke aloud, gesturing. He ate
his evening meals with the late sunset of summer, and in his mind,
Cehmai sat across from him, dumbfounded and ashamed, persuaded at last
by the force of Maati's argument. And when Maati's imagination returned
him to the world as it was, his failure and shame poured in on him afresh.
Every low town he passed through, the mud streets empty of the sound of
children, was a rebuke. Every woman he met, an accusation. He had
failed. He had gone to the one man in the world who might have lightened
his burden, and he had been refused. The better part of the season was
lost to him now. It was time he should have spent with the girls,
preparing the grammar and writing his book. They were days he would
never win back. If he had stayed, perhaps they would have had a
breakthrough. Perhaps there would already be an andat in the world, and
Otah's plans ruined.
And what if by going after Cehmai, Maati had somehow lost that chance?
With every day, it seemed more likely. As the trees and deer of the
river valleys gave way to the high, dry plains between Pathai and ruined
Nantani, Maati became more and more sure that his error had been
catastrophic. Irretrievable. And so it was also another mark against
Otah Machi. Otah, the Emperor, to whom no rules applied.
Maati found the high road, and then the turning that would lead, given
half a day's ride, to the school. To his students. To Eiah. He camped at
the crossroads.
He was too old to be living on muleback. Lying in the thin folds of his
bedroll, he ached as if he'd been beaten. His back had been suffering
spasms for days; they had grown painful enough that he hadn't slept
deeply. And his exhaustion seemed to make his muscles worse. The high
plains grew cool at night, almost cold, and the air smelled of dust. He
heard the skittering of lizards or mice and the low call of owls. The
stars shone down on him, each point of light smeared by his aging eyes
until the whole sky seemed possessed by a single luminous cloud.
There had been a time he'd lain under stars and picked out
constellations. There was a time his body could have taken rest on
cobblestone, had the need arisen. There was a time Cehmai, poet of Machi
and master of Stone-Made-Soft, had looked up to him.
It was going to be hard to tell Eiah that he'd failed. The others as
well, but Eiah knew Cehmai. She had seen them work together. The others
might be disappointed, but Eiah alone would understand what he had lost.
His dread slowed him. At this, his last camp, he ate his breakfast and
watched the slow sunrise. He packed his mule slowly, then walked