'I suppose I'll be getting prepared, then,' Balasar said. 'If this isn't a full-dress occasion, I don't know what is.'

'I've sent men to wait for the signal. We should know by nightfall. '

Balasar nodded. All along the highest hills from Nantani to Aren, bonfires were set. If all worked as they hoped, there would be a signal from the agents he had placed in the city, and they would be lit, each in turn. A thin line of fire would reach from the Khaiem to his own door.

'Have a mug of kafe and some bread sent to my rooms,' Balasar said. 'I'll meet you before the ceremony.'

'Not more than that, sir? The bacon's good here . . .'

'After,' Balasar said. 'I'll eat a decent meal after.'

The room given them by the Warden had been in its time a warehouse, a meeting hall, and a temple, the last being the most recent. Tapestries of the Four G.o.ds the Warden worshipped had been taken down, rolled up, and stacked in the corner like carpet. The smooth stone walls were marked with symbols, some familiar to Balasar, others obscure. The eastern wall was covered with the flowing script of the fallen Empire, like a page from a book of poetry. A single pillow rested in the center of the room, and beside it a stack of books, two with covers of ruined leather, one whose cover had been ripped from it, and one last closed in bright metal. It had been years since Balasar had carried those books out of the desert wastes. He nodded to them when he saw them, as if they were old friends or perhaps enemies.

Riaan himself was walking around the room with long, slow strides. He breathed in audibly with one step, blew the air out on the next. His face was deeply relaxed; his arms were swinging free at his sides. To look at the two of them, Balasar guessed he would look more like the man about to face death. He took a pose of respect and greeting. The poet came slowly to a halt, and returned the gesture.

'I trust all is well with you,' Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiem.

'I am ready,' Riaan said, with a smile that made him seem almost gentle. 'I wanted to thank you, Balasar-cha, for this opportunity. These are strange times that men such as you and I should find common cause. The structures of the Dai-kvo have caused good men to suffer for too many generations. I honor you for the role you have played in bringing me here.'

Balasar bowed his head. Over the years he had known many men whose minds had been touched by wounds - blows from swords or stones, or fevers like the one that had prompted Riaan's fall from favor. Balasar knew how impulsive and unreliable a man could become after such an injury. But he also knew that with many there was also a candor and honesty, if only because they lacked the ability they had once had to dissemble. Against his own will, he found himself touched by the man's words.

'We all do what fate calls us to,' he said. 'It's no particular virtue of mine.'

The poet smiled because he didn't understand what Balasar meant. And that was just as well. Eustin arrived moments later and made formal greeting to them both.

'There's breakfast waiting for us, when we're done here,' Eustin said, and even such mundane words carried a depth.

'Well then,' Balasar said, turning to Riaan. The poet nodded and took a pose more complex than Balasar could pa.r.s.e, but that seemed to be a farewell from a superior to someone of a lower cla.s.s. Then Riaan dropped his pose and walked with a studied grace to the cushion in the room's center. Balasar stood against the back wall and nodded for Eustin to join him. He was careful not to obscure the symbols painted there, though Riaan wasn't looking back toward them.

For what seemed half a day and was likely no more than two dozen breaths together, the poet was silent, and then he began, nearly under his breath, to chant. Balasar knew the basic form of a binding, though the grammars that were used for the deepest work were beyond him. It was thought, really. Like a translation - a thought held that became something like a man as a song in a Westlands tongue might take new words in Galt but hold the same meaning. The chant was a device of memory and focus, and Balasar remained silent.

Slowly, the sound of the poet's voice grew, filling the s.p.a.ce with words that seemed on the edge of comprehension. The sound began to echo, as if the room were much larger than the walls that Balasar could see, and something like a wind that somehow did not stir the air began to twist through the s.p.a.ce. For a moment, he was in the desert again, feeling the air change, hearing Little Ott's shriek. Balasar put his arm back, palm pressed against the stone wall. He was here, he was in Aren. The chanting grew, and it was as if there were other voices now. Beside him, Eustin had gone pale. Sweat stood on the man's lip.

Under Balasar's fingertips, the wall seemed to shift. The stone hummed, dancing with the words of the chant. The script on the front wall shifted restlessly until Balasar squinted and the letters remained in their places. The air was thick.

'Sir,' Eustin whispered, 'I think it might be best if we stepped out, left him to-'

'No,' Balasar said. 'Watch this. It's the last time it's ever going to happen.'

Eustin nodded curtly and turned with what seemed physical strain to look ahead. Riaan had risen, standing where the cushion had been, or perhaps he was floating. Or perhaps he was sitting just as he had been. Something had happened to the nature of the s.p.a.ce between them. And then, like seven flutes moving from chaos to harmony, the world itself chimed, a note as deep as oceans and pure as dawn. Balasar felt his heart grow light for a moment, a profound joy filling him that had nothing to do with triumph, and there, standing before the seated poet, was a naked man, bald as a baby, with eyes white as salt.

The blast pressed Balasar back against the wall. His ears rang, and Eustin's voice seemed to come from a great distance.

'Riaan, sir!'

Balasar fought to focus his eyes. Riaan was still seated where he had been, but his shoulders were slumped, his head bowed is if in sleep. Balasar walked over to him, the sound of his own footsteps lost in his half-deafened state. It was like floating.

He was breathing. The poet breathed.

'Did it work, sir?' Eustin yelled from half a mile away or else there at his shoulder. 'Does that mean it worked?'

9.

'What is he to do?' Maati asked and then sipped his tea. It was just slightly overbrewed, a bitter aftertaste haunting the back of his mouth. Or perhaps it was only that he'd drunk too much the night before, sitting up with his son until the full moon set and the eastern sky began to lighten. Maati had seen Nayiit back to the boy's apartments, and then, too tired to sleep, wandered to the poet's house where Cehmai was just risen for breakfast. He'd sent the servants back to the kitchens to bring a second meal, and while they waited, Cehmai shared what he had - thin b.u.t.ter pastry, blackberries still just slightly underripe, overbrewed tea. Everything tasted of early summer. Already the morning had broken the chill of the previous night.

'Really, he's been good to the woman. He's acknowledged the babe, he's married her. But if he doesn't love her, what's he to do? Love's not something you can command.'

'Not usually,' Stone-Made-Soft said, and smiled wide enough to bare its too-even white marble teeth. It wasn't a human mouth.

'I don't know,' Cehmai said, ignoring the andat. 'Really, you and I are probably the two worst men in the city to ask about things like that. I've never been in the position to have a wife. All the women I've been with knew that this old b.a.s.t.a.r.d came before anything.'

Stone-Made-Soft smiled placidly. Maati had the uncomfortable sense that it was accepting a compliment.

'But you can see his dilemma,' Maati said.

Outside, beyond the carefully sculpted oaks that kept the poet's house separate from the palaces, the city was in shadow. The sun, hidden behind the mountains to the east, filled the blue dome of air with soft light. The towers stood dark against the daylight, birds wheeling far below their highest reaches.

'I see that he's in a difficult position,' Cehmai said. 'And I'm in no position to say that good men never lose their hearts to . . . what? Inappropriate women?'

'If you mean the Khai's sister, the term is vicious killers,' Stone-Made-Soft said. 'But I think we can generalize from there.'

'Thank you,' Cehmai said. 'But you've made the point yourself, Maati. Nayiit's married her. He's acknowledged the child. Doing that binds him to something, doesn't it? He's made an agreement. He's made a kind of promise, or else why say that he's been good to her? If he can put those things aside, then that goodness is just a formality.'

Maati sighed. His mind felt thick. Too much wine, too little rest. He was old to be staying up all night; it was a young man's game. And still, he felt it important that Cehmai understand. If he could explain Nayiit to someone else, it would make the night and all their conversations through it real. It would put them into the world in a way that now might only have been a dream. He was silent too long, struggling to put his thoughts in order. Cehmai cleared his throat, shot an uncomfortable glance at Maati, and changed the subject.

'Forgive me, Maati-cha, but I thought there was some question about Nayiit's . . . ah . . . parentage? I know the Khai signed a doc.u.ment denying him, but that was when there was some question about the succession, and I'd always thought he'd done it as a favor. If you see what I . . .'

Maati put down his tea bowl and took a pose that disagreed.

'There's more to being a father than a few moments between the sheets,' Maati said. 'I was there when Nayiit took his first steps. I sang him to sleep as often as I could. I brought food for him. I held him. And tonight, Cehmai. He came to me. He talked to me. I don't care whose blood he has, that boy's mine.'

'If you say so,' Cehmai said, but there was something in his voice, some reservation. Maati felt his face begin to flush. Anger straightened his back. Stone-Made-Soft raised a wide, thick hand, palm out, silencing them both. Its head tilted, as if hearing some distant sound.

Its brow furrowed.

'Well,' the andat said. 'That's interesting.'

And then it vanished.

Maati blinked in confusion. A few heartbeats later, Cehmai drew a long, shuddering breath. The poet's face was bloodless.

Maati sat silently as Cehmai stood, hands trembling, and walked back into the dimness of the house, and then out again. Cehmai's gaze darted one direction and another, searching for something. His eyes were so wide, the whites showed all the way around.

'Oh,' Cehmai said, and his voice was thin and reedy. 'Maati . . . Oh G.o.ds. I didn't do anything. I didn't . . . Oh G.o.ds. Maati-kvo, he's gone.'

Maati rose, brushing the crumbs from his robes with a sense of profound unreality. Once before, he had seen the last moments of an andat in the world. It wasn't something he'd expected to suffer again. Cehmai paced the wide porch, his head turning one way and another, directionless as a swath of silk caught in the wind.

'Stay here. I'll get Otah-kvo,' Maati 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 b.u.t.ter, seamless where the stones had joined and been smoothed into one piece by the power of the andat. Tiny web-works 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 back 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, Daikani, 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 Machi. 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 be too easy for the city to fall into panic, and here, now, through the force of his own will, he could hold it back. 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 back?' Wetai Dun asked, his voice shaking. 'There are andat that poets have caught three, four times. Water-Moving-Down 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 be 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-Made-Soft 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 here to shout me down. I have brought you here as a courtesy. Do you understand that?'

The man took an apologetic pose, but Otah pressed.

'I asked whether you understood, not whether you were regretful.'

'I understand, Most High,' the man muttered.

'The potters will have to work clay until some other accommodation can be made,' Otah said. 'With proper control, this will be an inconvenience, not a catastrophe. The city is wounded, yes. We all know that, and I won't have that made worse by panic. I expect each of you to stand with your Khai, and make your people know that there is nothing to fear. The contracts directly affected by this loss will be brought to me personally. I will see to it that any losses are recompensed so that no one family or house carries more of this burden than its share. And any contracts not directly affected by the andat's absence are still in force. Do each of you understand that?'

A low chorus of affirmation rose. They sounded as reluctant as boys before a tutor.

'Also I have put armsmen on the bridge. Any house who chooses this time to relocate its wealth to some other city will forfeit their holdings here. Any silver over a hundred lengths that leaves Machi at one time must be allowed by me.'

Ashua Radaani took a pose that begged permission to speak. It was proper etiquette, and Otah felt the tightness in his chest release by half a turn. At least they were now respecting forms.

'Most High,' Radaani said, 'this may not be the best time to put restrictions on trade. Machi will need to keep its ties to the other cities strong if we're to weather this tragedy.'

'If the smaller houses see carts of gold rolling away to Cetani and Udun, they'll start talking of how the rats all run when the house catches fire,' Otah said. 'My house hasn't caught fire.'

Radaani pursed his lips, his eyes shifting as if reading some invisible text as he reconsidered some internal plan that Otah had just ruined, but he said nothing more.

'Machi needs your loyalty and your obedience,' Otah said. 'You are all good men, and the leaders of respected families. Understand that I value each of you, and your efforts to keep the peace in this time will be remembered and honored.'

And the first of you to bolt, I will destroy and sow your lands with salt, Otah thought but didn't say. He let his eyes carry that part of the message, and from the unease in the men before him, he knew that they had understood. For over a decade, they had thought themselves ruled by a softhearted man, an upstart put in his father's chair by strange fortune and likely less suited to the role than his lady wife, the innkeep. And as terrible as this day was, Otah found he felt some small joy in suggesting they might have been mistaken.

Once they had been dismissed, Otah waved away his servants and walked to his private apartments. Kiyan came to him, taking his hand in her own. Cehmai sat on the edge of a low couch, his face still empty with shock. He had been weeping openly when Otah left.

'How did it go?' Kiyan asked.

'Well, I think. Strangely, it's much easier than dealing with Eiah.'

'You don't love them,' Kiyan said.

'Ah, is that the difference?'

A plate of fresh apples stood on a copper table, a short, wicked knife beside it. Otah sliced a bit of the white flesh and chewed thoughtfully.

'They'll still move their wealth away, you know,' Kiyan said. 'Blocking the bridge won't stop a ferry crossing in the night with its lanterns shuttered or wagons looping up north and crossing the water someplace in the mountains.'

'I know it. But if I can keep the thing down to a few ferries and wagons, that will do. I'll also need to send messages to the Khaiem,' Otah said. 'Cetani and Amnat-Tan to start.'

'Better they hear the bad news from you,' she agreed. 'Should I call for a scribe?'

'No. Just paper and a fresh ink brick. I'll do the thing myself.'

'I'm sorry, Most High,' Cehmai said again. 'I don't know . . . I don't know how it happened. He was there, and then . . . he just wasn't. There wasn't even a struggle. He just . . .'

'It doesn't matter,' Otah said. 'It's gone, and so it's gone. We'll move forward from that.'

'It does matter, though,' the poet said, and his voice was a cry of despair. Otah wondered what it would feel like, dedicating a life to one singular thing and then in an instant, losing it. He himself had led a half-dozen lives - laborer, fisherman, midwife's a.s.sistant, courier, father, Khai - but Cehmai had never been anything besides a poet. Exalted above all other men, honored, envied. And now, suddenly, he was only a man in a brown robe. Otah put a hand to the man's shoulder, and saw a moment's pa.s.sing shame in Cehmai's expression. It was, perhaps, too early still for comfort.

A scratch came at the door and a servant boy entered, took a formal pose, and announced the poet Maati Vaupathai and Liat Chokavi. A moment later, Maati rushed in, his cheeks an alarming red, his breath hard, his belly heaving. Liat was no more than a step behind. He could see the alarm in her expression. Kiyan stepped forward and helped Maati to a seat. The two women met each other's gaze, and there was a moment's tension before Otah stepped forward.

'Liat-cha,' he said. 'Thank you for coming.'

'Of course,' she said. 'I came as soon as Maati asked me. Is something wrong? Have we heard from the Dai-kvo?'

'No,' Maati said between gasps. 'Not that.'

Otah took a questioning pose, and Maati shook his head.

'Didn't say. People around. Would have been heard,' Maati said. Then, 'G.o.ds, I need to eat less. I'm too fat to run anymore.'

Otah took Liat's elbow and guided her to a chair, then sat beside Cehmai. Only Kiyan remained standing.

'Liat-cha, you worked with Amat Kyaan,' Otah said. 'You've taken over the house she founded. She must have spoken with you about how those first years were. After Heshai-kvo died and Seedless escaped.'

'Of course,' Liat said.

'I need you to tell us about that,' Otah said. 'I need to know what she did to keep Saraykeht together. What she tried that worked, what failed. What she wished the Khai Saraykeht had done in response, what she would have preferred he had not. Everything.'

Liat's gaze went to Maati and then Cehmai and then back to Otah. There was still a deep confusion in her expression.

'It's happened again,' Otah said.