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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, Heshai-kvo, 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, Heshai-kvo.’
    ‘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, Heshai-kvo.’
    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 it wasn’t my place. But later I decided that the real test was how I spent my time. Being patient and idle wouldn’t teach me anything, and the Khai has the largest library in the summer cities.’
    ‘You spent your time in the library?’
    Maati took a pose of confirmation, unsure what to make of the teacher’s tone.
    ‘These are the palaces of the Khai Saraykeht, Maati-kya,’ he said with sudden familiarity as he gestured out the window at the grounds, the palaces, the long flow of streets and red tile roofs that sprawled to the sea. ‘There are scores of utkhaiem and courtiers. I don’t think a night passes here without a play being performed, or singers, or dancing. And you spent all your time with the scrolls?’
    ‘I did spend one evening with a group of the utkhaiem. They were from the west . . . from Pathai. I lived there before I went to the school.’
    ‘And you thought they might have news of your family.’
    It wasn’t an accusation, though it could have been. Maati pressed his lips thinner, embarrassed, and repeated the pose of confirmation. The smile it brought seemed sympathetic.
    ‘And what did you learn in your productive, studious days with Saraykeht’s books?’
    ‘I studied the history of the city and its andat.’
    The elegant fingers made a motion that both approved and invited him to continue. The dark eyes held an interest that told Maati he had done well.
    ‘I learned, for example, that the Dai-kvo - the last one - sent you here when Iana-kvo failed to hold Petals-Falling-Away after the old poet, Miat-kvo, died.’
    ‘And tell me, why do you think he did that?’
    ‘Because Petals-Falling-Away had been used to speed cotton harvests for the previous fifty years,’ Maati said, pleased to know the answer. ‘It could make the plant . . . open, I guess. It made it easier to get the fibers. With the loss, the city needed another way to make the process - bringing in the raw cotton and turning it to cloth - better and faster than they could in Galt or the Westlands, or else the traders might go elsewhere, and the whole city would have to change. You had captured Removing-The-Part-That-Continues. Called Sterile in the north, or Seedless in the summer cities. With it, the merchant houses can contract with the Khai, and they won’t have to comb the seeds out of the cotton. Even if it took twice as long to harvest, the cotton can still get