tongue?"
"No," she said. "I had to take something from the Empire and rewrite it
for a tutor once."
Cchmai closed his eyes. He could feel sleep pulling at him, but he
fought against it a hit. He wasn't ready to let the moment pass.
"That's near enough. You had to make choices when you did that. Tiff',
could mean take or it could mean give or it could mean exchangeit's
yours to choose, depending on how it's used in the original document.
And so a letter or a poem doesn't have a set translation. You could have
any number of ways that you say the same thing. Binding the andat means
describing them-what the thought of them is-so well that you can
translate it perfectly into a form that includes will and volition. Like
translating a Galtic contract so that all the nuances of the trade are
preserved perfectly."
"But there's any number of ways to do that," she said.
"There are very few ways to do it perfectly. And if a binding goes wrong
... Existing isn't normal for them. If you leave an imprecision or an
inaccuracy, they escape through it, and the poet pays a price for that.
Usually it comes as some particularly gruesome death. And knowing what
an andat is can be subtle. Stone-Made-Soft. What do you mean by stone?
Iron comes from stone, so is it stone? Sand is made of tiny stones. Is
it stone? Bones are like stone. But are they like enough to be called
the same name? All those nuances have to be balanced or the binding
fails. Happily, the Empire produced some formal grammars that were very
precise."
"And you describe this thing...."
"And then you hold that in your mind until you die. Only it's the kind
of thought that can think back, so it's wearing sometimes."
"Do you resent it?" Idaan asked, and something in her voice had changed.
Cehmai opened his eyes. Idaan was looking past him. Her expression was
unfathomable.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"You have to carry this thing all your life. Do you ever wish that you
hadn't been called to do it?"
"No," he said. "Not really. It's work, but it's work that I like. And I
get to meet the most interesting women."
Her gaze cooled, flickered over him, and then away.
"Lucky to be you," she said as she sat up. He watched her as she pulled
her robes from the puddle of cloth on the floor. Cehmai sat up. "I have
meetings in the morning. I'll need to be in my own rooms to be ready
anyway. I might as well go now."
"I might say fewer things that angered you if you talked to me," Cehmai
said, gently.
Idaan's head snapped around to him like a hunting cat's, but then her
expression softened to chagrin, and she took an apologetic pose.
"I'm overtired," she said. "'T'here are things that I'm carrying, and I
don't do it as gracefully as you. I don't mean to take them out on you."
"Why do you do this, Idaan-kya? Why do you come here? I don't think it's
that you love me."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No," Cehmai said. "I don't. But if you choose to, that will be fine as
well."
"'That's flattering," she said, sarcasm thick in her voice.
"Are you doing this to be flattered?"
He was awake again now. He could see something in her expression pain,
anger, something else. She didn't answer him now, only knelt by the bed
and felt beneath it for her hoots. He put his hand on her arm and drew
her up. He could sense that she was close to speaking, that the words
were already there, just below the surface.
"I don't mind only being your bed mate," he said. "I've known from the
start that Adrah is the man you plan to be with, and that I couldn't be
that for you even if you wanted it. I assume that's part of why you've
chosen me. But I am fond of you, and I would like to be your friend."
"You'd be my friend?" she said. "That's nice to hear. You've bedded me
and now you'll condescend to be a friend?"
"I think it's more accurate to say you bedded me," Cehmai said. "And it
seems to me that people do what we've done quite often without caring
about the other person. Or even while wishing them ill. I'll grant that
we haven't followed the usual order-I understand people usually know
each other first and then fall into bed afterwards-hut in a way that
means you should take me more seriously."
She pulled hack and took a pose of query.
"You know I'm not just saying it to get your robes open," he said. "When
I say I want to be someone you can speak with, it's truth. I've nothing
to gain by it but the thing itself."
She sighed and sat on the bed. The light of the single candle painted
her in shades of orange.
"Do you love me, Cehmai-kya?" she asked.
Cehmai took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. He had reached the
gate. Her thoughts, her fears. Everything that had driven this girl into
his bed was waiting to be loosed. All he would have to do was tell one,
simple, banal lie. A lie thousands of men had told for less reason. He
was badly tempted.
"Idaan-kya," he said, "I don't know you."
To his surprise, she smiled. She pulled on her hoots, not bothering to
lace the bindings, leaned over and kissed him again. Her hand caressed
his cheeks.
"Lucky to be you," she said softly.
Neither spoke as they walked down the corridor to the main rooms. The
shutters were closed against the night, and the air felt stuffy and
thick. He walked with her to the door, then through it, and sat on the
steps, watching her vanish among the trees. The crickets still sang. The
moon still hung overhead, bathing the night in blue. He heard the high
squeak of bats as they skimmed the ponds and pools, the flutter of an
owl's wings.
"You should be sleeping," the low, gravel voice said from behind him.
"Yes, I imagine so."
"First light, there's a meeting with the stone potters."
"Yes, there is."
Stone-Made-Soft stepped forward and lowered itself to sit on the step
beside him. The familiar bulk of its body rose and fell in a sigh that
could only be a comment.
"She's up to something," Cehmai said.
"She might only find herself drawn to two different men," the andat
said. "It happens. And you're the one she couldn't build a life with.