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haven't."
    "Then why shut me out of this when you never have before?"
    "If I could tell you that, I wouldn't have to shut you out of it," Marchat said. "Just take it that it's not my choice."
    "Your uncle asked that I be left out? Or is it the client?"
    "I need a bodyguard. At the half-candle."
    Amat took a complex pose of agreement that also held a nuance of annoyance. He wouldn't catch the second meaning. Talking over his level was something she did when he'd upset her. She rose, and he scooped the lacquer tray closer and poured himself more tea.
    "The client. Can you tell me who she is?" Amat asked.
    "No. Thank you, Amat," Wilsin said.
    In the women's chamber again, she dried herself and dressed. The street, when she stepped into it, seemed louder, more annoying, than when she went in. She turned toward the House Wilsin compound, to the north and uphill. She had to pause at a waterseller's stall, buy herself a drink, and rest in the shade to collect her thoughts. The sad trade—using the andat to end a pregnancy—wasn't the sort of business House Wilsin had undertaken before now, though other houses had acted as brokers in some instances. She wondered why the change in policy, and why the secrecy, and why Marchat Wilsin would have told her to arrange for the bodyguard if he hadn't wanted her, on some level, to find answers.
    M AATI HELD a pose of greeting, his heart in his throat. The pale-skinned man walked slowly around him, black eyes taking in every nuance of his stance. Maati's hands didn't tremble; he had trained for years, first at the school and then with the Dai-kvo. His body knew how to hide anxiety.
    The man in poet's robes stopped, an expression half approval, half amusement on his face. Elegant fingers took a pose of greeting that was neither the warmest nor the least formal. With the reply made, Maati let his hands fall to his sides and stood. His first real thought, now that the shock of his teacher's sudden appearance was fading, was that he hadn't expected Heshaikvo to be so young, or so beautiful.
    "What is your name, boy?" the man asked. His voice was cool and hard.
    "Maati Vaupathi," Maati said, crisply. "Once the tenth son of Nicha Vaupathi, and now the youngest of the poets."
    "Ah. A westerner. It's still in your accent."
    The teacher sat in the window seat, his arms folded, still openly considering Maati. The rooms, which had seemed sumptuous during the long worrisome days of Maati's waiting, seemed suddenly squalid with the black-haired man in them. A tin setting for a perfect gem. The soft cotton draperies that flowed from the ceiling, shifting in the hot breeze of late afternoon, seemed dirty beside the poet's skin. The man smiled, his expression not entirely kind. Maati took a pose of obeisance appropriate to a student before his teacher.
    "I have come, Heshaikvo, by the order of the Dai-kvo to learn from you, if you will have me as your pupil."
    "Oh, stop that. Bowing and posing like we were dancers. Sit there. On the bed. I have some questions for you."
    Maati did as he was told, tucking his legs beneath him in the formal way a student did in a lecture before the Dai-kvo. The man seemed to be amused by this, but said nothing about it.
    "So. Maati. You came here . . . what? Six days ago?"
    "Seven, Heshaikvo."
    "Seven. And yet no one came to meet you. No one came to collect you or show you the poet's house. It's a long time for a master to ignore his student, don't you think?"
    It was exactly what Maati had thought, several times, but he didn't admit that now. Instead he took a pose accepting a lesson.
    "I thought so at first. But as time passed, I saw that it was a kind of test, Heshaikvo."
    A tiny smile ghosted across the perfect lips, and Maati felt a rush of pleasure that he had guessed right. His new teacher motioned him to continue, and Maati sat up a degree straighter.
    "I thought at first that it might be a test of my patience. To see whether I could be trusted not to hurry things when