transformed reality had a place for Machi in it.
She found herself back at her apartments-feet sore, back achingbefore
the sun had touched the peaks to the west. As she approached her door, a
young man rose from the step. For a moment, her mind tricked her into
thinking Nayiit had returned. But no, this boy was too thin through the
shoulders, his hair too long, his robes the black of a palace servant.
He took a pose of greeting as she approached, and Liat made a brief
response.
"Liat Chokavi?"
"Yes."
"Kiyan Machi, first wife of the Khai Machi, extends her invitation. If
you would he so kind, I will take you to her."
"Now?" Liat asked, but of course it was now. She waved away the question
even before the servant boy could recover from the surprise of being
asked in so sharp a tone. When he turned, spine straight and stiff with
indignation, she followed him.
They found Otah's wife standing on a balcony overlooking a great hall.
Her robes were delicate pink and yellow, and they suited her skin. Her
head was turned down, looking at the wide fountain that took up the hall
below, the sprays of water reaching up almost to the high domed ceiling
above. The servant boy took a pose of obeisance before her, and she
replied with one that both thanked and dismissed him. Her greeting of
Liat was only a nod and a smile, and then Kiyan's attention turned back
to the fountain.
There were children playing in the pool-splashing one another or
running, handy-legged, through water that reached above their knees and
would only have dampened half of Liat's own calves. Some wore robes of
cotton that clung to their tiny bodies. Some wore loose canvas trousers
like a common laborer's. They were, Liat thought, too young to be
utkhaiem yet. They were still children, and free from the bindings that
would hold them when there was less fat in their cheeks, less joy in
their movement. But that was only sentiment. The children of privilege
knew when they were faced with a child of the lower orders. 'T'hese
dancing and shouting in the clean, clear water could dress as they saw
fit because they were all of the same ranks. 'T'hese were the children
of the great houses, brought to play with the one boy, there, in the
robe. The one deep in disagreement with the petulant-looking girl. The
one who had eyes and mouth the same shape as Utah's.
Liat looked up and found Kiyan considering her. The woman's expression
was unreadable.
""['hank you for coming," Kiyan said over the sounds of falling water
and shrieking children.
"Of course," Liat said. She nodded down at the boy. "That's I)anat- cha?"
"Yes. lie's having a good day," she said. "Then, "Please, come this way."
Liat followed her through a doorway at the balcony's rear and into a
small resting room where Kiyan sat on a low couch and motioned Liat to
do the same. The sounds of play were muffled enough to speak over, but
they weren't absent. Liat found them oddly comforting.
"I heard that Nayiit-cha chose to go with the men," Kiyan said.
"Yes," Liat said, and then stopped, because she didn't know what more
there was to say.
"I can't imagine that," Kiyan said. "It's hard enough imagining Utah
going, but he's my husband. Tie's not my son."
"I understand why he went. Nayiit, I mean. But his father asked the Khai
to take care of him."
Kiyan looked tip, confused for a moment, then nodded.
"Maati, you mean?"
"Of course," Liat said.
"Do we have to keep tip that pretense?"
"I think we do, Kiyan-cha."
"I suppose," she said. And then a moment later, "No. You're right.
You're quite right. I don't know what I was thinking."
Liat considered Otah's wife-thin face, black hair shot with threads of
white, so little paint on her cheeks that Liat could see where the lines
that came with age had been etched by pain and laughter. There was an
intelligence in her face and, Liat thought, a sorrow. Kiyan took a deep
breath and seemed to pull herself back from whatever place her mind had
gone. She smiled.
"Otah has left the city with a problem," she said. "With so many men
gone, the business of things is hound to suffer. "There are crops that
need bringing in and others that need planting. Roofs need the tiles
repaired before autumn comes. There are still parts of the winter
quarters that haven't been cleaned out since we've all resurfaced. And
the men who coordinate those things or else who oversee the men who do
are all off with ()tali playing at war."
"'T'hat is a problem," Liat agreed, unsure why Kiyan had brought her
here to tell her this.
"I'm calling a Council of wives," Kiyan said. "I think we're referring
to it as an afternoon banquet, but I mean it to be more than light
gossip and sweet breads. I'm going to take care of Machi until Otah
comes hack. I'll see to it that we have food and coal to see us through
the winter."
If, Kiyan didn't need to say, we all live that long. Liat looked at her
hands and pressed the dark thoughts away.
""That seems wise," she said.
"I want you to come to the Council, Liat-cha. I want your help."
Liat looked up. Kiyan's whole attention was on her. It made her feel
awkward, but also oddly flattered.
"I don't know what I could do-"
"You're a woman of business. You understand schedules and how to
coordinate different teams in different tasks so that the whole of a
thing comes together the way it should. I understand that too, but
frankly most of these women would be totally lost. They've bent their
minds to face paints and robes and trading gossip and bedroom tricks,"
Kiyan said, and then immediately took a pose that asked forgiveness. "I
don't mean to make them sound dim. They aren't. But they're the product
of a Khai's court, and the things that matter there aren't things that
matter, if you see what I mean?"
"Quite well," Liat said with a chuckle.
Kiyan leaned forward and scooped up Liat's hand as if it were the most
natural thing to do.
"You helped Otah when he asked it of you. Will you help me now?"
The assent came as far as Liat's lips and then died there. She saw the
distress in Kiyan's eyes, but she couldn't say it.
"Why?" Liat whispered. "Why me? Why, when we are what we are to each other."