'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 Gods 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. 't'hese are strange times that men such as you and I should find common cause. The structures of the I)ai-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 parse, but that seemed to be a farewell from a superior to someone of a lower class. 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 space 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 space. 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 he best if we stepped out, left him to-'
'No,' Balasar said. 'Watch this. It's the last time it's ever going to happen.' lr, ustin 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 space 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?' hlaati asked and then sipped his tea. It was just slightly overhrewed, 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. laati had seen Nayiit hack 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 butter pastry, blackberries still just slightly underripe, overhrewed 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. I Ie'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 bastard came before anything.'
Stone-blade-Soft smiled placidly. Nlaati had the uncomfortable sense that it was accepting a compliment.
'But you can see his dilemma,' Nlaati 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,' StoneMade-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 hinds 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
