Otah's pen hung in the cool night air, the brass nib just above the
paper. The night breeze smelled of the sea and the city, rich and heavy
as an overripe grape whose skin has only just split. In Machi, they
would already be moving down to the tunnels beneath the city. In Utani,
where his central palace stood wrapped in cloth, awaiting his return,
the leaves would have turned to red and yellow and gold. In Pathai,
where Eiah worked with her latest pet physician and pointedly ignored
all matters of politics and power, there might be frost in the mornings.
Here in Saraykeht, the change of seasons was only a difference of scent
and the surprise that the sun, which had so plagued them at summer's
height, could grow tired so early. He wrote a few more sentences, the
pen sounding like bird's feet against the paper, and then blew on the
ink to cure it, folded the letter, and put it in with all the others he
had written to her.
His eyes ached. His back ached. The joints of his hands were stiff, and
his spine felt carved from wood. For days, he had been poring over
records and agendas, letters and accountancy reports, searching for some
connection that would uncover Maati's suspected patron. There were
patterns to be looked for-people who had traveled extensively in the
past few years who might be moving with the poet, supplies that had
vanished with no clear destination, opposition to the planned alliance
with Galt. And, with that, Maati's boast of an ear in the palaces. And
the gods all knew there were patterns to be found. The courts of the
Khaiem were thick with petty intrigue. Flushing out any one particular
scheme was like plucking a particular thread from a tapestry.
To make matters worse, the servants and high families that Idaan had
chided him for not making better use of had no place here. Even if Maati
didn't have the well-placed spy he'd claimed, Otah still couldn't afford
the usual gossip. Maati had to be found and the situation resolved
before he managed to bind some new andat, and no one-Galt, Westlander,
no one-could hear of it for fear of the reaction it would bring.
That meant that the records and reports were brought to Otah's private
chambers. Crate after crate until they piled near the ceiling. And the
only eyes that he could trust to the task were his own and, through the
twisted humor that gods seemed to enjoy, Idaan's.
She was stretched out on a long silk divan now, half a month's lading
records from the harbor master's office arrayed about her. Her closed
eyes shifted beneath their lids, but her breath was as steady as the
tide. Otah found a thin wool blanket and draped it over her.
It had not particularly been his intention to embrace his exiled sister
and make her a part of the hunt for Maati, but the work was more than he
could manage on his own. The only other person who knew of the problem
was Sinja, and he was busy with Balasar and the creation of the unlikely
fleet whose mission was to save Chaburi-Tan. Idaan knew the workings of
the poets as well as any woman alive; she had been the enemy of one, the
lover of another. She knew a great deal about court intrigue and also
the mechanics of living an unobtrusive life. There was no one better
equipped for the investigation.
He did not trust her, but had resolved to behave as if he did. At least