"Put these damned candles out," he said. "I'm going to sleep."
And without looking back, Heshaikvo rose and tramped up the stairs. Maati moved through the house, dousing the flames Heshaikvo had lit, dimming the room as he did so. His mind churned with half-formed questions. Above him, he heard Heshaikvo's footsteps, and then the clatter of shutters closing, and then silence. The master had gone to bed—likely already asleep. Maati had snuffed the last flame but the night candle when the new voice spoke.
"You didn't accept my apology."
Seedless stood in the doorway, his pale skin glowing in the light of the single candle. His robes were dark—blue or black or red so deep Maati couldn't make it out. The thin hands took a pose of query.
"Is there a reason I should?"
"Charity?"
Maati coughed out a mirthless laugh and turned as if to go, but the andat stepped into the house. His movements were as graceful as an animal's—as beautiful as the Khai, but unstudied, as much a part of his nature as the shape of a leaf was natural to a tree.
"I am sorry," the andat said. "And you should forgive our mutual master as well. He had a bad day."
"Did he?"
"Yes. He met with the Khai and discovered that he's going to have to do something he doesn't enjoy. But now that it's just the two of us . . ."
The andat sat on the stairs, black eyes amused, pale hands cradling a knee.
"Ask," Seedless said.
"Ask what?"
"Whatever the question is that's making your face pull in like that. Really, you look like you've been sucking lemons."
Maati hesitated. If he could have walked away, he would have. But the path to his cot was effectively blocked. He considered calling out to Heshaikvo, waking him so that he could walk up the stairway without brushing against the beautiful creature in his way.
"Please, Maati. I said I was sorry for my little misdirection. I won't do it again."
"I don't believe you."
"No? Well, then you're wise beyond your years. I probably will at some point. But here, tonight, ask me what you'd like, and I'll tell you the truth. For a price."
"What price?"
"That you accept my apology."
Maati shook his head.
"Fine," Seedless said, rising and moving to the shelves. "Don't ask. Tie yourself in knots if it suits you."
The pale hand ran along the spines of books, plucking one in a brown leather binding free. Maati turned, walked up two steps, and then faltered. When he looked back, Seedless had curled up on a couch beside the night candle, his legs pulled up beneath him. He seemed engaged in the open book on his knee.
"He told you the story about Miyani-kvo, didn't he?" Seedless asked, not looking up from the page.
Maati was silent.
"It's like him to do that. He doesn't often say things clearly when an oblique reference will do. It was about how Three-Bound-As-One loved her poet, wasn't it? Here. Look at this."
Seedless turned the book over and held it out. Maati walked back down the steps. The book was written in Heshaikvo's script. The page Seedless held out was a table marking parallels between the classic binding of Three-Bound-As-One and Removing-The-Part-That-Continues. Seedless.
"It's his analysis of his error," the andat said. "You should take it. He means for you to have it, I think."
Maati took the soft leather in his hands. The pages scraped softly.
"He did bind you," Maati said. "He didn't pay your price, so there wasn't an error. It worked."
"Some prices are subtle. Some are longer than others. Let me tell you a little more about our master. He was never lovely to look at. Even fresh from the womb, he made an ugly babe. He was cast out by his father, much the same way you were. But when he found himself an apprentice in the courts of the Khai Pathai, he fell in love. Hard to imagine, isn't it? Our fat, waddling pig of a man in love. But he was, and the girl was willing enough. The allure of power. A poet controls the andat, and that's as near to holding a god in your hands as anyone is ever likely to get.
"But when he got her with child, she turned away from him," Seedless continued. "Drank some nasty teas and killed out the baby. It broke his heart. Partly because he might have liked being a father. Partly because it proved that his lady love had never meant to build her life with his."
"I didn't know."
"He doesn't tell many people. But . . . Maati, please, sit down. This is important for you to understand, and if I have to keep looking up at you, I'll get a sore neck."
He knew that the wise thing was to turn, to walk up the stairs to his room. He sat.
"Good," Seedless said. "Now. You know, don't you, that andat are only ideas. Concepts translated into a form that includes volition. The work of the poet is to include all those features which the idea itself doesn't carry. So for example Water-Moving-Down had perfectly white hair. Why? There isn't anything about that thought that requires white hair. Or a deep voice. Or, with Three-Bound-As-One, love. So where do those attributes come from?"