something familiar about him-about both these new men-that he could not describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the school.
"I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo."
The Dai-kvo grunted and gestured to him for the benefit of the two strangers.
"This is the one," the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him, graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati imagined what they saw him for-a man of thirty summers, his forehead already pushing hack his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft man in a poet's robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two men.
"Forgive me," he said. "I don't believe we have met before, or if we have, I apologize that I don't recall it."
"We haven't met," the thicker one said.
"He isn't much to look at," the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Nlaati found himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.
"Sit down, Maati-cha," the Dal-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. "Have a bowl of tea. There's something we have to discuss. Tell me what you've heard of events in the winter cities."
Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.
"I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most high. There's trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven't heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi ..."
Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar; who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.
"The Khai Machi is dying," the Dal-kvo said. "I Iis belly's gone rotten. It's a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered. Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?"
"That it was poor form," Maati said. "'t'hat no one has seen the Khaiem resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one ... Gods! You two are ..."
"You see?" the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. "No, not much to look at, but a decent stew between his ears. Yes, Maati-cha. The man scraping my windowsill with his boots there is Danat Machi. This is his eldest surviving brother, Kaiin. And they have come here to speak with me instead of waging war against each other because neither of them killed their elder brother Biitrah."
"So they ... you think it was Otah-kvo?"
"The Dai-kvo says you know my younger brother," the thickset man-Danat-said, taking his own seat at the only unoccupied side of the table. "Tell me what you know of Otah."
"I haven't seen him in years, Danat-cha," Maati said. "He was in Saraykcht when ... when the old poet there died. He was working as a laborer. But I haven't seen him since."
"Do you think he was satisfied by that life?" the thin one-Kaiin- asked. "A laborer at the docks of Saraykeht hardly seems like the fate a son of the Khaiem would embrace. Especially one who refused the brand."
Maati picked up the bowl of tea, sipping it too quickly as he tried to gain himself a moment to think. The tea scalded his tongue.
"I never heard Otah speak of any ambitions for his father's chair," Maati said.
"And is there any reason to think he would have spoken of it to you?" Kaiin said, the faintest sneer in his voice. Maati felt the blush creeping into his cheeks again, but it was the Dai-kvo who answered.
""There is. Otah Machi and Maati here were close for a time. They fell out eventually over a woman, I believe. Still, I hold that if Otah had been bent on taking part in the struggle for Machi at that time, he would have taken Maati into his confidence. But that is hardly our concern. As Maati here points out, it was years ago. Otah may have