It might only have been her imagination that there were fewer men in the streets. Surely there were still laborers and warehouse guards and smiths at their forges. The force marching to the west could account for no more than one man in fifteen. The sense that Machi had become a city of women and old men and boys could only be her mind playing tricks. And still, there was something hollow about the city. A sense of loss and of uncertainty. The city itself seemed to know that the world had changed, and held its breath in dread anticipation, waiting to see whether this 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."
"When we're what to each other?"
"Women who've loved the same man," Liat said. "Mothers of… of our sons. How can you put that aside, even only for a little while?"
Kiyan smiled. It was a hard expression. Determined. She did not let go of Liat's hand, but neither did she hold it captive.
"I want you with me because we can't have other enemies now," she said. "And because you and I aren't so different. And because I think perhaps the distraction is something you need as badly as I do. There's war enough coming. I want there to be peace between us."
"I have a price," Liat said.
Kiyan nodded that she continue.
"When Nayiit comes back, spend time with him. Talk with him. Find out who he is. Know him."
"Because?"
"Because if you're going to have me fall in love with your boy, you owe it to fall a little in love with mine."