“Yes,” Seedless agreed, smiling. “From the poet. Now. Picture our master as a boy not much older than you are now. He’s just lost a child that might otherwise have been his, a woman who might have loved him. The unspoken suspicion that his father hates him and the pain of his mother letting him be taken away gnaws at him like a cancer. And now he is called on to save Saraykeht—to bind the andat that will keep the wheels of commerce running. And he fashions me. “And look what he did, Maati,” the andat continued, spreading his arms as if he were on display. “I’m beautiful. I’m clever. I’m
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