a northern winter might not kill someone who had been horn and bred
there. A northerner would know the secrets of carving snow into shelter
and warming the air without drenching himself. He, on the other hand,
would simply have died, and so he made certain that his guide and the
dogs were well housed and fed. Even so, when the time came to sleep in a
bed piled high with blankets and dogs, he often found himself as
exhausted from the cold as from a full day's work.
What in summer would have been the journey of weeks took him from just
before Candles Night almost halfway to the thaw. The days began to blend
together-blazing bright white and then warm, close darkness-until he
felt he was traveling through a dream and might wake at any moment.
When at last the dark stone towers of Machi appeared in the
distance-lines of ink on a pale parchment-it was difficult to believe.
He had lost track of the days. He felt as if he had been traveling
forever, or perhaps that he had only just begun. As they drew nearer, he
opened his hood despite the stinging air and watched the towers thicken
and take form.
He didn't know when they passed over the river. The bridge would have
been no more than a rise in the snow, indistinguishable from a random
drift. Still, they must have passed it, because they entered into the
city itself. The high snow made the houses seemed shorter. Other dog
teams yipped and called, pulled wide sledges filled with boxes or ore or
the goods of trade; even the teeth of winter would not stop Machi. Maati
even saw men with wide, leather-laced nets on their shoes and goods for
sale strapped to their backs tramping down worn paths that led from one
house to the next. He heard voices lifted in loud conversation and the
harking of dogs and the murmur of the platform chains that rose up with
the towers and shifted, scraping against the stone.
The city seemed to have nothing in common with the one he had known, and
still there was a beauty to it. It was stark and terrible, and the wide
sky forgave it nothing, but he could imagine how someone might boast
they lived here in the midst of the desolation and carved out a life
worth living. Only the verdigris domes over the forges were free from
snow, the fires never slackening enough to how before the winter.
On the way to the palace of the Khai Machi, his guide passed what had
once been the palaces of the Vaunyogi. The broken walls jutted from the
snow. He thought he could still make out scorch marks on the stones.
There were no bodies now. The Vaunyogi were broken, and those who were
not dead had scattered into the world where they would be wise never to
mention their true names again. The hones of their house made Maati
shiver in a way that had little to do with the biting air. Otah-kvo had
done this, or ordered it done. It had been necessary, or so Maati told
himself. He couldn't think of another path, and still the ruins
disturbed him.
He entered the offices of the Master of Tides through the snow door,
tramping up the slick painted wood of the ramp and into rooms he'd known
in summer. When he had taken off his outer cloaks and let himself be led
to the chamber where the servants of the Khai set schedules, Piyun See,
the assistant to the Master of Tides, fell at once into a pose of welcome.
"It's a pleasure to have you back," he said. "The Khai mentioned that we
should expect you. But he had thought you might be here earlier."
Though the air in the offices felt warm, the man's breath was still
visible. Maati's ideas of cold had changed during his journey.
"The way was slower than I'd hoped," Maati said.
"The most high is in meetings and cannot be disturbed, but he has left
us with instructions for your accommodation...."
Maati felt a pang of disappointment. It was naive of him to expect
Otah-kvo to be there to greet him, and yet he had to admit that he had
harbored hopes.
"Whatever is most convenient will, I'm sure, suffice," Maati said.
"Don't bother yourself Piyun-cha," a woman's voice said from behind
them. "I can see to this."
The changes of the previous months had left Kiyan untransformed. Her
hair-black with its lacing of white-was tied hack in a simple knot that
seemed out of place above the ornate robes of a Khai's wife. Her smile
didn't have the chill formal distance or false pleasure of a player at
court intrigue. When she embraced him, her hair smelled of lavender oil.
For all her position and the incarcerating power of being her husband's
wife she would, Maati thought, still look at home at a wayhouse watching
over guests or haggling with the farmers, bakers and butchers at the at
the market.
But perhaps that was only his own wish that things could change and
still be the same.
"You look tired," she said, leading him down a long flight of smnooth-
worn granite stairs. "How long have you been traveling?"
"I left the Dai-kvo before Candles Night," he said.
"You still dress like a poet," she said, gently. So she knew.
"The Dai-kvo agreed to Otah-kvo's proposal. I'm not formally removed so
long as I don't appear in public ceremony in my poet's robes. I'm not
permitted to live in a poet's house or present myself in any way as
carrying the authority of the Dal-kvo."
"And Cehmai?"
"Cehmai's had some admonishing letters, I think. But I took the worst of
it. It was easier that way, and I don't mind so much as I might have
when I was younger."
The doors at the stairway's end stood open. They had descended below the
level of the street, even under its burden of snow, and the candlelit
tunnel before them seemed almost hot. His breath had stopped ghosting.
"I'm sorry for that," Kiyan said, leading the way. "It seems wrong that
you should suffer for doing the right thing."
"I'm not suffering," Maati said. "Not as badly as I did when I was in
the Dai-kvo's good graces, at least. The more I see of the honors I was
offered, the better I feel about having lost them."
She chuckled.
The passageway glowed gold. A high, vaulted arch above them was covered
with tiles that reflected the light hack into the air where it hung like
pollen. An echo of song came from a great distance, the words blurred by
the tunnels. And then the melody was joined and the whispering voices of
the gods seemed to touch the air. Maati's steps faltered, and Kiyan
turned to look at him and then followed his gaze into the air.
"The winter choir," she said. Her voice was suddenly smaller, sharing
his awe. "There are a lot of idle hands in the colder seasons. Music