An Autumn War

that opened to the courtyard gardens of the Radaani, torches flickering

and guttering in the damp air. A boy in sodden robes rushed up and

lifted the crate from Nayiit's back to his own. Liat was about to

address him when another voice, a woman's voice lovely and low as a

singer's, came from the dim.

"Liat-cha, I must assume. I'd sent men to meet you at the docks, but I'm

afraid they came too late."

The woman who stepped out from the fog had seen no more than twenty

summers. Her robes were white snowfox, eerie in the combination of pale

mourning colors and the luxury of the fur. Her hair shone black with

cords of silver woven in the braids. She was beautiful, and likely would

be for another five summers. Liat could already see the presentiment of

jowls at the borders of her jaw.

"Ceinat Radaani," Liat said, taking a pose of gratitude. "I am pleased

to meet you in person at last. This is my son, Nayiit."

The Radaani girl adopted a welcoming pose that included them both.

Nayiit returned it, and Liat couldn't help noticing the way his eyes

lingered on her and hers on him. Liat coughed, bringing their attention

back to the moment. The girl took a pose of apology, and turned to lead

them into the chambers and corridors of the compound.

In Saraykcht, the architecture tended to he open, encouraging the

breezes to flow and cool. Northern buildings were more like great kilns,

built to hold heat in their thick stone walls. The ceilings were low and

fire grates burned in every room. The Radaani girl led them through a

wide entrance chamber and hack through a narrow corridor, speaking as

she walked.

"My father is in Council with the Khai, but sends his regards and

intends to join us as soon as he can return from the city proper. He

would very much regret missing the opportunity to meet with the head of

our trading partner in the South."

It was bald flattery. Radaani was among the richest houses in the winter

cities, and had agreements with dozens of houses, all through the cities

of the Khaiem.'I'he whole of House Kyaan would hardly have made up one

of the Radaani compounds, and there were four such compounds that Liat

knew of. Liat accepted it, though, as if it were true, as if the

hospitality extended to her were more than etiquette.

"I look forward to speaking with him," Liat said. "I am most interested

in hearing news of the winter cities."

"Oh, there'll be quite a bit to say, I'm sure," the girl laughed. "There

always is once winter's ended. I think people save up all the gossip of

the winter to haul out in spring."

She opened a pair of wide wooden doors and led them into small, cozy

apartments. A fire popped and murmured in the grate, bowls of mulled

wine waited steaming on a low wooden table, and archways to either side

showed rooms with real beds waiting for them. Liat's body seemed drawn

to the bed like a stone rolling downhill. She had not realized how much

she loathed shipboard hammocks.

She took a pose of thanks that the girl responded to neatly as the

servant boy put the crate down gently by the fire.

"I will let you rest," the girl said. "If you have need of me, any of

the servants can find me for you. And I will, of course, send word when

my father returns."

"You're very kind," Nayiit said, smiling his disarming smile. "Forgive

me, but is there a bathhouse near? I don't think shipboard life has left

me entirely prepared for good company."

"Of course," the girl said. "I would be pleased to show you the way."

I'm sure you would, Liat thought. Was I so obvious at her age?

"Mother," Nayiit said, "would you care to. .

Liat waved the offer away.

"A basin and a sponge will be enough for me. I have letters to write

before di

couriers that I will have things to send south?"

The girl took an acknowledging pose, then turned to Nayiit with a

flutter of a smile and gestured for him to follow her.

"Nayiit," Liat said, and her son paused in the apartment's doorway.

"Find out what you can about the situation in Machi. I'd like to know

what we're walking into."

Nayiit smiled, nodded, and vanished. The servant boy also left,

promising the basin and sponge shortly. Liat sighed and sat down,

stretching her feet out toward the burning logs. The wine tasted good,

though slightly overspiced to her taste.

Machi. She was going to Machi. She let her mind turn the fact over

again, as if it were a puzzle she had nearly solved. She was going to

present her discoveries and her fears to the man she'd once called a

lover, back when he'd been a seafront laborer and called himself Itani.

Now he was the Khai Machi. And Maati, with whom she had betrayed him.

The idea tightened her throat every time she thought of it.

Maati. Nayiit was going to see hlaati, perhaps to confront him, perhaps

to seek the sort of advice that a son can ask only of a father.

Something, perhaps, that touched on the finer points of going to foreign

bathhouses with young women in snowfox robes. Liat sighed.

Nayiit had been thinking about what it would he to walk away from his

wife, the son he'd brought to the world. He'd said as much, and more

than once. She had thought it was a question based in anger-an

accusation against Nlaati. It only now occurred to her that perhaps

there was also longing in it, and she thought to wonder how complex her

quiet, pleasant son's heart might he.

BALASAR LEANED OVER THE BALCONY AND LOOKED DOWN A'1" HE COVRTYARI)

below. A crowd had gathered, talking animatedly with the brownski

almond-eyed curiosity he had spirited from across the sea. They peppered

him with questions-why was he called a poet when he didn't write poems,

what did he think of Acton, how had he learned to speak Galtic so well.

"Their eyes were bright and the conversation as lively as water dropped

on a hot skillet. For his part, Riaan Vaudathat drank it all in,

answering everything in the slushy singsong accent of the Khaiem. When

the people laughed, he joined in as if they were not laughing at him.

Perhaps he truly didn't know they were.

Riaan glanced up and saw him, raising his hands in a pose that Balasar

recognized as a form of greeting, though he couldn't have said which of

the half-thousand possible nuances it held. He only waved in return and

stepped away from the edge of the balcony.

"It's like I've taught a dog to wear clothes and talk," Balasar said,

lowering himself onto a bench beside Tustin.

"Yes, sir."