A Betrayal in Winter

Chapter Seventeen

There wasn't a soft quarter set aside for the comfort houses in Machi as there had been in Saraykeht. Here the whores and gambling, druglaced wine and private rooms were distributed throughout the city. Maati was sorry for that. For all its subterranean entertainments, the soft quarter of Saraykeht had been safe-protected by an armed watch paid by all the houses. Ile'd never heard of another place like it. In most cities of the Khaiem, a particular house might guard the street outside its own door, but little more than that. In low towns, it was often wise to travel in groups or with a guard after dark.
Maati paused at a watcrseller's cart and paid a length of copper for a cup of cool water with a hint of peach to it. As he drank, he looked up at the sun. He'd spent almost a full hand's time reminiscing about Saraykeht and avoiding any real consideration of the Vaunyogi. He should have been thinking his way through the puzzles of who had killed the Khai and his son, who had spirited Otah-kvo away, and then falsified his death, and why.
The sad truth was, he didn't know and wasn't sure that anything he'd done since he'd cone had brought him much closer. He understood more of the court politics, he knew the names of the great houses and trivia about them: Kaman was supported by the breeders who raised mine dogs and the copper workers, the Vaunani by the goldsmiths, tanners and leatherworkers, Vaunvogi had business tics to Eddensea, Galt and the Westlands and little money to show for it when compared to the Radaani. But none of that brought him close to understanding the simple facts as he knew them. Someone had killed these men and meant the world to put the blame on Otah-kvo. And Otah-kvo had not done the thing.
Still, there had to be someone backing Otah-kvo. Someone who had freed him and staged his false death. He ran through his conversation with Radaani again, seeing if perhaps the man's lack of ambition masked support for Otah-kvo, but there was nothing.
He gave back the waterseller's cup and let his steps wander through the streets, his hands tucked inside his sleeves, until his hip and knee started to complain. The sun was shifting down toward the western mountains. Winter days here would be brief and hitter, the swift winter sun ducking behind stone before it even reached the horizon. It hardly seemed fair.
By the time he regained the palaces, the prospect of walking all the way to the Vaunyogi failed to appeal. They would be busy with preparations for the wedding anyway. There was no point intruding now. Better to speak to Daaya Vaunyogi afterwards, when things had calmed. Though, of course, by then the utkhaiem would be in council, and the gods only knew whether he'd be able to get through then, or if he'd be in time.
He might only find who'd done the thing by seeing who became the next Khai.
There was still the one other thing to do. He wasn't sure how he would accomplish it either, but it had to be tried. And at least the poet's house was nearer than the Vaunyogi. He angled down the path through the oaks, the gravel of the pathway scraping under his weight. The mourning cloth had already been taken from the tree branches and the lamp posts and benches, but no bright banners or flowers had taken their places.
When he stepped out from the trees, he saw Stone-Made-Soft sitting on the steps before the open doorway, its wide face considering him with a calm half-smile. Maati had the impression that had he been a sparrow or an assassin with a flaming sword, the andat's reaction would have been the same. He saw the large form lean back, turning to face into the house, and heard the deep, rough voice if not the words them selves. Cehmai was at the door in an instant, his eyes wide and bright, and then bleak with disappointment before becoming merely polite.
With an almost physical sensation, it fit together-Cehmai's rage at holding back news of Otah's survival, the lack of wedding decoration, and the disappointment that Maati was only himself and not some other, more desired guest. The poor bastard was in love with Idaan Machi.
Well, that was one secret discovered. It wasn't much, but the gods all knew he'd take anything these days. He took a pose of greeting and Cehmai returned it.
"I was wondering if you had a moment," Maati said.
"Of course, Maati-kvo. Come in."
The house was in a neat sort of disarray. Tables hadn't been overturned or scrolls set in the brazier, but things were out of place, and the air seemed close and stifling. Memories rose in his mind. He recalled the moments in his own life when a woman had left him. The scent was very much the same. He suppressed the impulse to put his hand on the boy's shoulder and say something comforting. Better to pretend he hadn't guessed. At least he could spare Cehmai that indignity. He lowered himself into a chair, groaning with relief as the weight left his legs and feet.
"I've gotten old. When I was your age I could walk all day and never feel it."
"Perhaps if you made it more a habit," Cehmai said. "I have some tea. It's a little tepid now, but if you'd like ..
Maati raised a hand, refusing politely. Cehmai, seeming to notice the state of the house now there were someone else's eyes on it, opened the shutters wide before he came to sit at Nlaati's side.
"I've come to ask for more time," Maati said. "I can make excuses first if you like, or tell you that as your elder and an envoy of the Daikvo it's something you owe me. Any of that theater you'd like. But it comes to this: I don't know yet what's happening, and it's important to me that if something does go wrong for Otah-kvo it not have been my doing."
Cehmai seemed to weigh this.
"Baarath tells me you had a message from the Dai-kvo," Cehmai said.
"Yes. After he heard I'd turned Otah-kvo over to his father, he called me back."
"And you're disobeying that call."
"I'm exercising my own judgment."
"Will the Dai-kvo make that distinction?"
"I don't know," Maati said. "If he agrees with me, I suppose he'll agree with me. If not, then not. I can only guess what he would have said if he'd known everything I know, and move from there."
"And you think he'd want Otah's secret kept?"
Maati laughed and rubbed his hands together. His legs were twitching pleasantly, relaxing from their work. He stretched and his shoulder cracked.
"Probably not," he said. "He'd more likely say that it isn't our place to take an active role in the succession. That he'd sent me here with that story about rooting through the library so that it wouldn't be clear to everyone over three summers old what I was really here for. He might also mention that the questions I've been asking have been bad enough without lying to the utkhaiem while I'm at it."
"You haven't lied," Cchmai said, and then a moment later. "Well, actually, I suppose you have. You aren't really doing what you believe the Dai-kvo would want."
"No."
"And you want my complicity?"
"Yes. Or, that is, I have to ask it of you. And I have to persuade you if I can, though in truth I'd he as happy if you could talk me out of it."
"I don't understand. Why are you doing this? And don't only say that you want to sleep well after you've seen another twenty summers. You've done more than anyone could have asked of you. What is it about Otah Machi that's driving you to this?"
Oh, Maati thought, you shouldn't have asked that question, my boy. Because that one I know how to answer, and it'll sting you as much as me.
He steepled his fingers and spoke.
"He and I loved the same woman once, when we were younger men. If I do him harm or let him come to harm that I could have avoided, I couldn't look at her again and say it wasn't my anger that drove me. My anger at her love for him. I haven't seen her in years, but I will someday. And when I do, I need it to be with a clear conscience. The Dai-kvo may not need it. The poets may not. But despite our reputations, we're men under these robes, and as a man ... As a man to a man, it's something I would ask of you. Another week. Just until we can see who's likely to be the new Khai."
There was a shifting sound behind him. The andat had come in silently at some point and was standing at the doorway with the same simple, placid smile. Cehmai leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair three times in fast succession, as if he were washing himself without water.
"Another week," Cehmai said. "I'll keep quiet another week."
Maati blinked. He had expected at least an appeal to the danger he was putting Idaan in by keeping silent. Some form of at /east let me warn her... Maati frowned, and then understood.
He'd already done it. Cehmai had already told Idaan Machi that Otah was alive. Annoyance and anger flared brief as a firefly, and then faded, replaced by something deeper and more humane. Amusement, pleasure, and even a kind of pride in the young poet. We arc men beneath these robes, he thought, and we do what we must.
SINJA SPUN, TIIE THICK WOODEN CUDGEL HISSING TIIROUGII THE AIR. OTAH stepped inside the blow, striking at the man's wrist. He missed, his own rough wooden stick hitting Sinja's with a clack and a shock that ran up his arm. Sinja snarled, pushed him back, and then ruefully considered his weapon.
"That was decent," Sinla said. "Amateur, granted, but not hopeless."
Otah set his stick down, then sat-head between his knees-as he fought to get his breath back. His ribs felt as though he'd rolled down a rocky hill, and his fingers were half numb from the shocks they'd absorbed. And he felt good-exhausted, bruised, dirty, and profoundly hack in control of his own body again, free in the open air. His eyes stung with sweat, his spit tasted of blood, and when he looked up at Sinja, they were both grinning. Otah held out his hand and Sinja hefted him to his feet.
"Again?" Sinja said.
"I wouldn't ... want to ... take advantage ... when you're ... so tired."
Sinja's face folded into a caricature of helplessness as he took a pose of gratitude. They turned back toward the farmhouse. "l'he high summer afternoon was thick with gnats and the scent of pine resin. The thick gray walls of the farmhouse, the wide low trees around it, looked like a painting of modest tranquility. Nothing about it suggested court intrigue or violence or death. That, Otah supposed, was why Amur had chosen it.
They had gone out after a late breakfast. Otah had felt well enough, he thought, to spar a bit. And there was the chance that this would all come to blades before it was over, whether he chose it or not. He'd never been trained as a fighter, and Sinja was happy to offer a day's instruction. There was an easy camaraderie that Otah had enjoyed on the way out. The work itself reminded him that Sinja had slaughtered his last comrades, and the walk back was somehow much longer than the one out had been.
"A little practice, and you'd be a decent soldier," Sinja said as they walked. "You're too cautious. You'll lose a good strike in order to protect yourself, and that's a vice. You'll need to be careful of it."
"I'm actually hoping for a life that doesn't require much blade work of me."
"I wasn't only talking about fighting."
When they reached the farmhouse, the stables had four unfamiliar horses in them, hot from the road. An armsman of House Siyanti-one Otah recognized, but whose name he'd never learned-was caring for them. Sinja traded a knowing look with the man, then strode up the stairs to the main rooms. Otah followed, his aches half-forgotten in the mingled curiosity and dread.
Amiit Foss and Kiyan were sitting at the main table with two other men. One-an older man with heavy, beetled brows and a hooked nose-wore robes embroidered with the sun and stars of House Siyanti. The other, a young man with round cheeks and a generous belly, wore a simple blue robe of inexpensive cloth, but enough rings on his fingers to pay for a small house. Their conversation stopped as Otah and Sinja entered the room. Amiit smiled and gestured toward the benches.
"Well timed," Amiit said. "We've just been discussing the next step in our little dance."
"What's the issue?" Sinja asked.
"The mourning's ending. Tomorrow, the heads of all the houses of the utkhaiem meet. I expect it will take them a few days before the assassinations start, but within the month it'll be decided who the new Khai is to be."
"We'll have to act before that," Otah said.
"True enough, but that doesn't mean we'd be wise to act now," Amiit said. "We know, or guess well enough, what power is behind all thisthe Galts. But we don't know the mechanism. Who are they backing? Why? I don't like the idea of moving forward without that in hand. And yet, time's short."
Amiit held out his open hands, and Otah understood this choice was being laid at his door. It was his life most at risk, and Amiit wasn't going to demand anything of Otah that he wasn't prepared to do. Otah sat, laced his fingers together, and frowned. It was Kiyan's voice that interrupted his uncertainty.
"Either we stay here or we go to Machi. If we stay here, we're unlikely to be discovered, but it takes half a day for us to get news, and half a day at least to respond to it. Amiit-cha thinks the safety might be worth it, but Lamara-cha," she gestured to the hook-nosed man, "has been arguing that we'll want the speed we can only have by being present. He's arranged a place for us to stay-in the tunnels below the palaces."
"I have an armsman of the Saya family in my employ," the hooknosed Lamara said. His voice was a rough whisper, and Otah noticed for the first time a long, deep, old scar across the man's throat. "The Saya are a minor family, but they will be at the council. We can keep clear on what's said and by whom."
"And if you're discovered, we'll all be killed," Sinja said. "As far as the world's concerned, you've murdered a Khai. It's not a precedent anyone wants set. Especially not the other Khaiem. Bad enough they have to watch their brothers. If it's their sons, too...."
"I understand that," Otah said. Then, to Amiit, "Are we any closer to knowing who the Galts are backing?"
"We don't know for certain that they're backing anyone," Amiit said. "That's an assumption we've made. We can make some educated guesses, but that's all. It may be that their schemes are about the poets, the way you suggested, and not the succession at all."
"But you don't believe that," Otah said.
"And the poets don't either," the round-checked man said. "At least not the new one."
"Shojen-cha is the man we set to follow Maati Vaupathai," Amiit said.
"He's been digging at all the major houses of the utkhaiem," Shojen said, leaning forward, his rings glittering in the light. "In the last week, he's had audiences with all the highest families and half the low ones. And he's been asking questions about court politics and money and power. He hasn't been looking to the Galts in particular, but it's clear enough he thinks some family or families of the utkhaiem are involved in the killings."
"What's he found out?" Otah asked,
"We don't know. I can't say what he's looking for or what he's found, but there's no question he's conducting an investigation."
"He's the one who gave you over to the Khai in the first place, isn't he, Otah-cha?" Lamara said in his ruined voice.
"He's also the one who took a knife in the gut," Sinja said.
"Can we say why he's looking?" Otah asked. "What would he do if he discovered the truth? Report it to the utkhaiem? Or only the Daikvo?"
"I can't say," Shojen said. "I know what he's doing, not what he's thinking."
"We can say this," Amiit said, his expression dour and serious. "As it stands, there's no one in the city who'll think you innocent, Otah-cha. If you're found in Machi, you'll be killed. And whoever sticks the first knife in will use it as grounds that he should he Khai. The only protection you'll have is obscurity."
"No armsmen?" Otah asked.
"Not enough," Amiit said. "First, they'd only draw attention to you, and second, there aren't enough guards in the city to protect you if the utkhaiem get your scent in their noses."
"But that's true wherever he is," Lamara said. "If they find out he's alive on a desolate rock in the middle of the sea, they'll send men to kill him. He's murdered the Khai!"
"Then best to keep him where he won't be found," Amiit said. There was an impatience in his tone that told Otah this debate had been going on long before he'd come in the room. Tempers were fraying, and even Amiit Foss's deep patience was wearing thin. He felt Kiyan's eyes on him, and looked up to meet her gaze. Her half-smile carried more meaning than half a hand's debate. They will never agree and you may as we//practice giving orders now-if itgoes well, you'll be doing it for the rest of your life and I'm sorry, love.
Otah felt a warmth in his chest, felt the panic and distress relax like a stiff muscle rubbed in hot oils. Lamara and Amiit were talking over each other, each making points and suggestions it was clear they'd made before. Otah coughed, but they paid him no attention. He looked from one, flushed, grim face to the other, sighed, and slapped his palm on the table hard enough to make the wine bowls rattle. The room went silent, surprised eyes turning to him.
"I believe, gentlemen, that I understand the issues at hand," Utah said. "I appreciate Amiit-cha's concern for my safety, but the time for caution has passed."
"It's a vice," Sinja agreed, grinning.
"Next time, you can give me your advice without cracking my ribs," Utah said. "Lamara-cha, I thank you for the offer of the tunnels to work from, and I accept it. We'll leave tonight."
"Otah-cha, I don't think you've...," Amiit began, his hands held out in an appeal, but Otah only shook his head. Amiit frowned deeply, and then, to Otah's surprise, smiled and took a pose of acceptance.
"Shojen-cha," Utah said. "I need to know what Maati is thinking. What he's found, what he intends, whether he's hoping to save me or destroy me. Both arc possible, and everything we do will he different depending on his stance."
"I appreciate that," Shojen said, "but I don't know how I'd discover it. It isn't as though he confides in me. Or in anyone else that I can tell."
Utah rubbed his fingertips across the rough wood of the table, considering that. He felt their eyes on him, pressing him for a decision. This one, at least, was simple enough. He knew what had to be done.
"Bring him to me," he said. "Once we've set ourselves up and we're sure of the place, bring him there. I'll speak with him."
"That's a mistake," Sinja said.
"Then it's the mistake I'm making," Otah said. "How long before we can be ready to leave?"
"We can have all the things we need on a cart by sundown," Amiit said. "That would put us in Machi just after the half-candle. We could be in the tunnels and tucked as safely away as we're likely to manage by dawn. But there are going to be some people in the streets, even then."
"Get flowers. Decorate the cart as if we're preparing for the wedding," Otah said. "Then even if they think it odd to see us, they'll have a story to tell themselves."
"I'll collect the poet whenever you like," Shojen said, his confident voice undermined by the nervous way he fingered his rings.
"Also tomorrow. And Lamara-cha, I'll want reports from your man at the council as soon as there's word to be had."
"As you say," Lamara said.
Otah moved his hands into a pose of thanks, then stood.
"Unless there's more to be said, I'm going to sleep now. I'm not sure when I'll have the chance again. Any of you who aren't involved in preparations for the move might consider doing the same."
They murmured their agreement, and the meeting ended, but when later Otah lay in the cot, one arm thrown over his eyes to blot out the light, he was certain he could no more sleep than fly. He was wrong. Sleep came easily, and he didn't hear the old leather hinges creak when Kiyan entered the room. It was her voice that pulled him into awareness.
"It's a mistake I'm making?'That's quite the way to lead men."
He stretched. His ribs still hurt, and worse, they'd stiffened.
"Was it too harsh, do you think?"
Kiyan pushed the netting aside and sat next to him, her hand seeking his.
"If Sinja-eha's that delicate, he's in the wrong line of work," she said. "He may think you're wrong, but if you'd turned back because he told you to, you'd have lost part of his respect. You did fine, love. Better than fine. I think you've made Amiit a very happy man."
"How so?"
"You've become the Khai Machi. Oh, I know, it's not done yet, but out there just then? You weren't speaking like a junior courier or an east islands fisherman."
Otah sighed. Her face was calm and smooth. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her wrist.
"I suppose not," he said. "I didn't want this, you know. The wayhouse would have been enough."
"I'm sure the gods will take that into consideration," she said. "They're usually so good about giving us the lives we expect."
Otah chuckled. Kiyan let herself be pulled down slowly, until she lay beside him, her body against his own. Otah's hand strayed to her belly, caressing the tiny life growing inside her. Kiyan raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.
"You look sad," she said. "Are you sad, "Tani?"
"No, love," Otah said. "Not sad. Only frightened."
"About going back to the city?"
"About being discovered," he said. And a moment later, "About what I'm going to have to say to Maati."
Cehmai sat hack on a cushion, his hack aching and his mind askew. Stone-Made-Soft sat beside him, its stillness unbroken even by breath. At the front of the temple, on a dais where the witnesses could see her, sat Idaan. Her eyes were cast down, her robe the vibrant rose and blue of a new bride. The distance between them seemed longer than the space within the walls, as if a year's journey had been fit into the empty air.
The crowd was not as great as the occasion deserved: women and the second sons of the utkhaiem. Elsewhere, the council was meeting, and those who had a place in it were there. Given the choice of spectacle, many others would choose the men, their speeches and arguments, the debates and politics and subtle drama, to the simple marrying off of an orphan girl of the best lineage and the least influence to the son of a good, solid family.
Cehmai stared at her, willing the kohl-dark eyes to look up, the painted lips to smile at him. Cymbals chimed, and the priests dressed in gold and silver robes with the symbols of order and chaos embroidered in black began their chanting procession. "Their voices blended and rose until the temple walls themselves seemed to ring with the melody. Cehmai plucked at the cushion. He couldn't watch, and he couldn't look away. One priest-an old man with a bare head and a thin white beard-stopped behind Idaan in the place that her father or brother should have taken. The high priest stood at the hack of the dais, lifted his hands slowly, palms out to the temple, and, with an embracing gesture, seemed to encompass them all. When he spoke, it was in the language of the Old Empire, syllables known to no one on the cushions besides himself.
Eyan to nyot baa, don salaa khai dan rnnsalaa.
The will of the gods has always been that woman shall act as servant to man.
An old tongue for an old thought. Cehmai let the words that followed it-the ancient ritual known more by its rhythm than its significancewash over him. He closed his eyes and told himself he was not drowning. He focused on his breath, smoothing its ragged edges until he regained the appearance of calm. Ike watched the sorrow and the anger and the jealousy writhe inside him as if they were afflicting someone else.
When he opened his eyes, the andat had shifted, its gaze on him and expressionless. Cehmai felt the storm on the back of his mind shift, as if taking stock of the confusion in his heart, testing him for weakness. Cehmai waited, prepared for Stone-Made-Soft to press, for the struggle to engulf him. He almost longed for it.
But the andat seemed to feel that anticipation, because it pulled back. The pressure lessened, and Stone-Made-Soft smiled its idiot, empty smile, and turned back to the ceremony. Adrah was standing now, a long cord looped in his hand. The priest asked him the ritual questions, and Adrah spoke the ritual answers. His face seemed drawn, his shoulders too square, his movements too careful. Celunai thought he seemed exhausted.
The priest who stood behind ldaan spoke for her family in their absence, and the end of the cord, cut and knotted, passed from Adrah to the priest and then to Idaan's hand. The rituals would continue for some time, Cehmai knew, but as soon as the cord was accepted, the binding was done. Idaan Machi had entered the house of the Vaunyogi and only Adrah's death would cast her back into the ghost arms of her dead family. Those two were wed, and he had no right to the pain the thought caused him. He had no right to it.
He rose and walked silently to the wide stone archway and out of the temple. If Idaan looked up at his departure, he didn't notice.
The sun wasn't halfway through its arc, and a fresh wind from the north was blowing the forge smoke away. I ligh, thin clouds scudded past, giving the illusion that the great stone towers were slowly, endlessly toppling. Cehmai walked the temple grounds, Stone-Made-Soft a pace behind him. "There were few others there-a woman in rich robes sitting alone by a fountain, her face a mask of grief; a round-faced man with rings glittering on his fingers reading a scroll; an apprentice priest raking the gravel paths smooth with a long metal rake. And at the edge of the grounds, where temple became palace, a familiar shape in brown poet's robes. Cchmai hesitated, then slowly walked to him, the andat close by and trailing him like a shadow.
"I hadn't expected to see you here, Maati-kvo."
"No, but I expected you," the older poet said. "I've been at the council all morning. I needed some time away. May I walk with you?"
"If you like. I don't know that I'm going anywhere in particular."
"Not marching with the wedding party? I thought it was traditional for the celebrants to make an appearance in the city with the new couple. Let the city look over the pair and see who's allied themselves with the families. I assume that's what all the flowers and decorations out there are for."
"There will he enough without me."
Cehmai turned north, the wind blowing gently into his face, drawing his robes out behind him as if he were walking through water. A slave girl was standing beside the path singing an old love song, her high, sweet voice carrying like a flute's. Cehmai felt Maati-kvo's attention, but wasn't sure what to make of it. He felt as examined as the corpse on the physician's table. At length, he spoke to break the silence.
"How is it?"
"The council? Like a very long, very awkward dinner party. I imagine it will deteriorate. The only interesting thing is that a number of houses are calling for Vaunyogi to take the chair."
"Interesting," Cehmai said. "I knew Adrah-cha was thinking of it, but I wouldn't have thought his father had the money to sway many people."
"I wouldn't have either. But there are powers besides money."
The comment seemed to hang in the air.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Maati-kvo."
"Symbols have weight. The wedding coming as it does might sway the sentimental. Or perhaps Vaunyogi has advocates we aren't aware of."
"Such as?"
Maati stopped. They had reached a wide courtyard, rich with the scent of cropped summer grass. The andat halted as well, its broad head tilted in an attitude of polite interest. Cehmai felt a brief flare of hatred toward it, and saw its lips twitch slightly toward a smile.
"If you've spoken for the Vaunyogi, I need to know it," Matti said.
"We're not to take sides in these things. Not without direction from the Dai-kvo."
"I'm aware of that, and I don't mean to accuse you or pry into what's not mine, but on this one thing, I have to know. They did ask you to speak for them, didn't they?"
"I suppose," Cehmai said.
"And did you speak for them?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Because Idaan Machi is your lover," Maati said, his voice soft and full of pity.
Cehmai felt the blood come into his face, his neck. The anger at everything that he had seen and heard pressed at him, and he let himself borrow certainty from the rage.
"Idaan Machi is Adrah's wife. No, I did not speak for Vaunyogi. Despite your experience, not everyone falls in love with the man who's taken his lover."
Maati leaned back. The words had struck home, and Cehmai pressed on, following the one attack with another.
"And, forgive me, Maati-cha, but you seem in an odd position to take me to task for following my private affairs where they don't have a place. You are still doing all this without the l)ai-kvo's knowledge?"
"He might have a few of my letters," Nlaati-kvo said. "If not yet, then soon."