A Betrayal in Winter

Chapter Twenty-One

"I have some conversations I'll have to conduct, Maati-cha," he said. "You understand that I'm taking a great personal risk doing this? Me and my family both."
"And I know that Otah-kvo will appreciate that," Maati said. "In my experience, he has always been good to his friends."
"TThat's best," Radaani said. "After this, I expect he'll have about two of them. Just so long as he remembers what he owes me."
"He will. And so will the Kamau and the Vaunani. And I imagine a fair number of your rival families will be getting less favorable terms from the Galts in the future."
"Yes. That had occurred to me too."
Radaani smiled broadly and took a formal pose of leavetaking that ineluded the room and all three of them in it-the two poets, the one spirit. When he was gone, Maati went to the window again. Radaani was walking fast down the street, his servants half-skipping to keep the canopy over him. His limp was almost gone.
Maati closed the shutters.
"He's agreed?" Cehmai asked.
"As near as we can expect. He smells profit in it for himself and disappointment for his rivals. That's the best we can offer, but I think he's pleased enough to do the thing."
"That's good."
Maati sat in the chair Radaani had used, sighing. Cehmai leaned against the table, his arms folded. His mouth was thin, his eyes dark. He looked more than half ill. The andat pulled out the chair beside him and sat with a mild, companionable expression.
"What did the Dai-kvo say?" Cehmai asked. "In the letter?"
"He said I was under no circumstances to take sides in the succession. He repeated that I was to return to his village as soon as possible. He seems to think that by involving myself in all this court intrigue, I may he upsetting the utkhaiem. And then he went into a long commentary about the andat being used in political struggle as the reason that the Empire ate itself."
"He's not wrong," Cchmai said.
"Well, perhaps not. But it's late to undo it."
"You can blame me if you'd like," Cehmai said.
"I think not. I chose what I'd do, and I don't think I chose poorly. If the Dai-kvo disagrees, we can have a conversation about it."
"He'll throw you out," Cchmai said.
Maati thought for a moment of his little cell at the village, of the years spent in minor tasks at the will of the Dal-kvo and the poets se nior to himself. Liat had asked him to leave it all a hundred times, and he'd refused. The prospect of failure and disgrace faced him now, and he heard her words, saw her face, and wondered why it had all seemed so wrong when she'd said it and so clear now. Age perhaps. Experience. Some tiny sliver of wisdom that told him that in the balance between the world and a woman, either answer could be right.
"I'm sorry for all this, Cehmai. About Idaan. I know how hard this is for you."
"She picked it. No one made her plot against her family."
"But you love her."
The young poet frowned now, then shrugged.
"Less now than I did two days ago," he said. "Ask again in a month. I'm a poet, after all. There's only so much room in my life. Yes, I loved her. I'll love someone else later. Likely someone that hasn't set herself to kill off her relations."
"It's always like this," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Every one of them. The first love always comes closest. I had hopes for this one. I really did."
"You'll live with the disappointment," Cehmai said.
"Yes," the andat said amiably. "There's always another first girl."
Maati laughed once, amused though it was also unbearably sad. The andat shifted to look at him quizzically. Cehmai's hands took a pose of query. Maati tried to find words to fit his thoughts, surprised by the sense of peace that the prospect of his own failure brought him.
"You're who I was supposed to be, Cehmai-kvo, and you're much better at it. I never did very well."
IDAAN LEANED FORWARD, HER HANDS ON THE RAIL. THE GALLERY BEHIND her was full but restless, the air thick with the scent of their bodies and perfumes. People shifted in their seats and spoke in low tones, prepared for some new attack, and Idaan had noticed a great fashion for veils that covered the heads and necks of men and women alike that tucked into their robes like netting on a bed. The wasps had done their work, and even if they were gone now, the feeling of uncertainty remained. She took another deep breath and tried to play her role. She was the last blood of her murdered father. She was the bride of Adrah Vaunyogi. Looking down over the council, her part was to remind them of how Adrah's marriage connected him to the old line of the Khaiem.
And yet she felt like nothing so much as an actor, put out to sing a part on stage that she didn't have the range to voice. It had been so recently that she'd stood here, inhabiting this space, owning the air and the hall around her. Today, everything was the same-the families of the utkhaiem arrayed at their tables, the leaves-in-wind whispering from the galleries, the feeling of eyes turned toward her. But it wasn't working. The air itself seemed different, and she couldn't begin to say why.
"The attack leveled against this council must not weaken us," Daaya, her father now, half-shouted. His voice was hoarse and scratched. "We will not be bullied! We will not be turned aside! When these vandals tried to make mockery of the powers of the utkhaiem, we were preparing to consider my son, the honorable Adrah Vaunyogi, as the proper man to take the place of our lamented Khai. And to that matter we must return."
Applause filled the air, and Idaan smiled sweetly. She wondered how many of the people now present had heard her cry out Cehmai's name in her panic. Those that hadn't had no doubt heard it from other lips. She had kept clear of the poet's house since then, but there hadn't been a moment her heart hadn't longed toward it. He would understand, she told herself. He would forgive her absence once this was all finished. All would be well.
And yet, when Adrah looked up to her, when their gaze met, it was like looking at a stranger. He was beautiful: his hair fresh cut, his robes of jeweled silk. He was her husband, and she no longer knew him.
Daaya stepped down, glittering, and Adaut Kamau rose. If, as the gossipmongers had told, the wasps had been meant to keep old Kamau silent that day, this would be the moment when something more should follow. The galleries became suddenly quiet as the old man stepped to the stage. Even from across the hall, Idaan could see the red weal on his face where the sting had marked him.
"I had intended," he said, "to speak in support of Ghiah Vaunani in his urging of caution and against hasty decision. Since that time, however, my position has changed, and I would like to invite my old, dear friend Porsha Radaani to address the council."
With nothing more than that, old Kamau stepped down. Idaan leaned forward, looking for the green and gray robes of the Radaani. And there, moving between the tables, was the man striding toward the speaker's dais. Adrah and his father were bent together, speaking swiftly and softly. Idaan strained to hear something of what they said. She didn't notice how tight she was holding the rail until her fingers started to ache with it.
Radaani rose up in the speaker's pulpit, looking over the council and the galleries for the space of a half-dozen breaths. His expression was considering, like a man at a fish market judging the freshest catch. Idaan felt her belly tighten. Below her and across the hall, Radaani lifted his arms to the crowd.
"Brothers, we have come here in these solemn times to take the fate of our city into our hands," he intoned, and his voice was rich as cream. "We have suffered tragedy and in the spirit of our ancestors, we rise to overcome it. No one can doubt the nobility of our intentions. And yet the time has come to dissolve this council. There is no call to choose a new Khai Machi when a man with legitimate claim to the chair still lives."
The noise was like a storm. Voices rose and feet stamped. On the council floor, half the families were on their feet, the others sitting with stunned expressions. And yet it was as if it were happening in some other place. Idaan felt the unreality of the moment wash over her. It was a dream. A nightmare.
"I have not stood down!" Radaani shouted. "I have not finished! Yes, an heir lives! And he has the support of my family and my house! Who among you will refuse the son of the Khai Machi his place? Who will side with the traitors and killers that slaughtered his father?"
"Porsha-cha!" one of the men of the council said, loud enough to carry over the clamor. "Explain yourself or step down! You've lost your mind!"
"I'll better that! Brothers, I give my place before you to the son of the Khai and his one surviving heir!"
Had she thought the hall loud before? It was deafening. No one was left seated. Bodies pressed at her hack, jostling her against the railing as they craned and stretched for a glimpse of the man entering the chamber. He stood tall and straight, his dark robes with their high collar looking almost priestly. Otah Machi, the upstart, strode into the hall, with the grace and calm of a man who owned it and every man and woman who breathed air.
He's mad, she thought. He's gone mad to come here. They'll tear him apart with their hands. And then she saw behind him the brown robes of a poet-Maati Vaupathai, the envoy of the Dal-kvo. And behind him ...
Her mouth went dry and her body began to tremble. She shrieked, she screamed, but no one could hear her over the crowd. She couldn't even hear herself. And yet, walking at Maati's side, Cehmai looked tip. His face was grim and calm and distant. The poets strode together behind the upstart. And then the armsmen of Radaani and Vaunani, Kaman and Daikani and Saya. Hardly a tenth of the families of the utkhaicm, but still a show of power. The poets alone would have been enough.
She didn't think, couldn't recall pushing back the people around her, she only knew her own intentions when she was over the rail and falling. It wasn't so far to the ground-no more than the height of two men, and yet in the roar and chaos, the drop seemed to last forever. When she struck the floor at last, it jarred her to the hone. Her ankle bloomed with pain. She put it aside and ran as best she could through the stunned men of the utkhaiem. Men all about her, unable to act, unable to move. They were like statues, frozen by their uncertainty and confusion. She knew that she was screaming-shc could feel it in her throat, could hear it in her cars. She sounded crazed, but that was unimportant. Her attention was single, focused. The rage that possessed her, that lifted her up and sped her steps by its power alone, was only for the upstart, Otah Machi, who had taken her lover from her.
She saw Adrah and Daaya already on the floor, an armsman kneeling on each back. "There was a blade still in Adrah's hand. And then there before her like a fish rising to the surface of a pond was Otah Machi, her brother. She launched herself at him, her hands reaching for him like claws. She didn't see how the andat moved between them; perhaps it had been waiting for her. Its wide, cold body appeared, and she collided with it. Huge hands wrapped her own, and the wide, inhuman face bent close to hers.
"Stop this," it said. "It won't help."
"'t'his isn't right!" she shouted, aware now that the pandemonium had quieted, that her voice could be heard, but she could no more stop herself now than learn to fly. "He swore he'd protect me. He swore it. It's not right!"
"Nothing is," the andat agreed, as it pulled her aside, lifted her as if she was still a child, and pressed her against the wall. She felt herself sinking into it, the stone giving way to her like mud. She fought, but the wide hands were implacable. She shrieked and kicked, sure that the stone would close over her like water, and then she stopped fighting. Let it kill her, let her die.
Let it end.
The hands went away, and Idaan found herself immobile, trapped in stone that had found its solidity again. She could breathe, she could see, she could hear. She opened her mouth to scream, to call for Cehmai. To beg. Stone-Made-Soft put a single finger to her lips.
"It won't help," the andat said again, then turned and lumbered up beside the speaker's pulpit where Cehmai stood waiting for it. She didn't look at her brother as he took the pulpit, only Cehmai. He didn't look back at her. When Utah spoke, his words cut through the air, clean and strong as wine.
"I am Otah 1MIachi, sixth son of the Khai Machi. I have never renounced my claim to this place; I have never killed or plotted to kill my brothers or my father. But I know who has, and I have come here before this council to show you what has been done, and by whom, and to claim what is mine by right."
Idaan closed her eyes and wept, surprised to find her desolation complicated by relief.
"I NOTICE YOU NEVER MENTIONED THE MALTS," AM1IIT SAID.
The waiting area to which the protocol servant had led them was open and light, looking out over a garden of flowering vines. A silver howl with water cooling fresh peaches sat on a low table. Amiit leaned against the railing. He looked calm, but Otah could see the white at the corners of his mouth and the small movements of his hands; Amiit's belly was as much in knots as his own.
"There was no call," Utah said. "The families that were involved know that they were being used, and if they only suspect that I know it, that's almost as good as being sure. How long are we going to have to wait?"
"Until they've finished deciding whether to kill you as a murderer or raise you up as the Khai Maehi," Amiit said. "It shouldn't take long. You were very good out there."
"You could sound more sure of all this."
"We'll be fine," Amiit said. "We have hacking. We have the poets."
"And yet?"
Amiit forced a chuckle.
"This is why I don't play tiles. Just before the tiles man turns the last chit, I convince myself that there's something I've overlooked."
"I hope you aren't right this time."
"If I am, I won't have to worry about next. They'll kill me as dead as you.
Otah picked up a peach and hit into it. The fuzz made his lips itch, but the taste was sweet and rich and complex. He sighed and looked out. Above the garden wall rose the towers, and beyond them the blue of the sky.
"If we win, you will have to have them killed, you know," Amiit said. "Adrah and his father. Your sister, Idaan."
"Not her."
"Otah-cha, this is going to be hard enough as it stands. The utkhaiem are going to accept you because they have to. But you won't be hailed as a savior. And Kiyan-cha's a common woman from no family. She kept a wayhouse. Showing mercy to the girl who killed your father isn't going to win you anyone's support."
"I am the Khai Machi," Otah said. "I'll make my way."
"You don't understand how complex this is likely to be."
Otah shrugged.
"I trust your advice, Amiit-cha," Otah said. "You'll have to trust my judgment."
The overseer's expression soured for a moment, and then he laughed. They lapsed into silence. It was true. It was early in his career to appear weak, and the Vaunyogi had killed two of his brothers and his father, and had tried to kill Maati as well. And behind them, the Galts. And the library. There had been something in there, some book or scroll or codex worth all those lives, all that money, and the risk. By the time the sun fled behind the mountains in the west, he would know whether he'd have the power to crush their nation, reduce their houses to slag, their cities to ruins. A word to Cehmai would put it in motion. All it would require of him would be to forget that they also had children and lovers, that the people of Galt were as likely as anyone in the cities of the Khaiem to love and betray, lie and dream. And he was having pangs over executing his own father's killer. He took another bite of the peach.
"You've gone quiet," Amiit said softly.
"Thinking about how complex this is likely to be," Otah said.
He finished the last of the peach flesh and threw the stone out into the garden before he washed his hands clean in the water howl it had come from. A company of armsmen in ceremonial mail appeared at the door with a grim-faced servant in simple black robes.
"Your presence is requested in the council chamber," the servant said.
"I'll see you once it's over," Amiit said.
Otah straightened his robes, took and released a deep breath, and adopted a pose of thanks. The servant turned silently, and Otah followed with armsmen on either side of him and behind. Their pace was solemn.
The halls with their high, arched ceilings and silvered glass, adornments of gold and silver and iron, were empty except for the jingle of mail and the tread of boots. Slowly the murmur of voices and the smells of bodies and lamp oil filled the air. The black-robed servant turned a corner, and a pair of double doors swung open to the council hall. The Master of Tides stood on the speaker's pulpit.
The black lacquer chair reserved for the Khai Machi had been brought, and stood empty on a dais of its own. Otah held himself straight and tall. He strode into the chamber as if his mind were not racing, his heart not conflicted.
He walked to the base of the pulpit and looked up. The Master of "hides was a smaller man than he'd thought, but his voice was strong enough.
"Otah Machi. In recognition of your blood and claim, we of the high families of Machi have chosen to dissolve our council, and cede to you the chair that was your father's."
Otah took a pose of thanks that he realized as he took it was a thousand times too casual for the moment, dropped it, and walked up the dais. Someone in the second gallery high above him began to applaud, and within moments, the air was thick with the sound. Otah sat on the black and uncomfortable chair and looked out. There were thousands of faces, all of them fixed upon him. Old men, young men, children. The highest families of the city and the palace servants. Some were exultant, some stunned. A few, he thought, were dark with anger. He picked out Maati and Cehmai. Even the andat had joined in. The ta bles at which the Kamau and Vaunani, Radaani and Saya and Daikani all sat were surrounded by cheering men. The table of the Vaunyogi was empty.
They would never all truly believe him innocent. They would never all give him their loyalty. He looked out into their faces and he saw years of his life laid out before him, constrained by necessity and petty expedience. He guessed at the mockery he would endure behind his hack while he struggled to learn his new-acquired place. He tried to appear gracious and grave at once, certain he was failing at both.
For this, he thought, I have given up the world.
And then, at the far back of the hall, he caught sight of Kiyan. She, perhaps alone, wasn't applauding him. She only smiled as if amused and perhaps pleased. He felt himself soften. Amid all the meaningless celebration, all the empty delight, she was the single point of stillness. Kiyan was safe, and she was his, and their child would he born into safety and love.
If all the rest was the price for those few things, it was one he would pay.
It was winter when Maati Vaupathai returned to Mlachi. "I'he days were brief and hitter, the sky often white with a scrim of cloud that faded seamlessly into the horizon. Roads were forgotten; the snow covered road and river and empty field. "I'hc sledge dogs ran on the thick glaze of ice wherever the teamsman aimed them. Maati sat on the skidding waxed wood, his arms pulled inside his clothes, the hood of his cloak pulled low and tight to warm the air before he breathed it. He'd been told that he must above all else be careful not to sweat. If his robes got wet, they would freeze, and that would be little better than running naked through the drifts. He had chosen not to make the experiment.
His guide seemed to stop at every wayhouse and low town. INlaati learned that the towns had been planned by local farmers and merchants so that no place was more than a day's fast travel from shelter, even on the short days around Candles Night when the darkness was three times as long as the light. When Maati walked up the shallow ramps and through the snow doors, he appreciated their wisdom. A night in the open during a northern winter might not kill someone who had been horn and bred there. A northerner would know the secrets of carving snow into shelter and warming the air without drenching himself. He, on the other hand, would simply have died, and so he made certain that his guide and the dogs were well housed and fed. Even so, when the time came to sleep in a bed piled high with blankets and dogs, he often found himself as exhausted from the cold as from a full day's work.
What in summer would have been the journey of weeks took him from just before Candles Night almost halfway to the thaw. The days began to blend together-blazing bright white and then warm, close darkness-until he felt he was traveling through a dream and might wake at any moment.
When at last the dark stone towers of Machi appeared in the distance-lines of ink on a pale parchment-it was difficult to believe. He had lost track of the days. He felt as if he had been traveling forever, or perhaps that he had only just begun. As they drew nearer, he opened his hood despite the stinging air and watched the towers thicken and take form.
He didn't know when they passed over the river. The bridge would have been no more than a rise in the snow, indistinguishable from a random drift. Still, they must have passed it, because they entered into the city itself. The high snow made the houses seemed shorter. Other dog teams yipped and called, pulled wide sledges filled with boxes or ore or the goods of trade; even the teeth of winter would not stop Machi. Maati even saw men with wide, leather-laced nets on their shoes and goods for sale strapped to their backs tramping down worn paths that led from one house to the next. He heard voices lifted in loud conversation and the harking of dogs and the murmur of the platform chains that rose up with the towers and shifted, scraping against the stone.
The city seemed to have nothing in common with the one he had known, and still there was a beauty to it. It was stark and terrible, and the wide sky forgave it nothing, but he could imagine how someone might boast they lived here in the midst of the desolation and carved out a life worth living. Only the verdigris domes over the forges were free from snow, the fires never slackening enough to how before the winter.
On the way to the palace of the Khai Machi, his guide passed what had once been the palaces of the Vaunyogi. The broken walls jutted from the snow. He thought he could still make out scorch marks on the stones. There were no bodies now. The Vaunyogi were broken, and those who were not dead had scattered into the world where they would be wise never to mention their true names again. The hones of their house made Maati shiver in a way that had little to do with the biting air. Otah-kvo had done this, or ordered it done. It had been necessary, or so Maati told himself. He couldn't think of another path, and still the ruins disturbed him.
He entered the offices of the Master of Tides through the snow door, tramping up the slick painted wood of the ramp and into rooms he'd known in summer. When he had taken off his outer cloaks and let himself be led to the chamber where the servants of the Khai set schedules, Piyun See, the assistant to the Master of Tides, fell at once into a pose of welcome.
"It's a pleasure to have you back," he said. "The Khai mentioned that we should expect you. But he had thought you might be here earlier."
Though the air in the offices felt warm, the man's breath was still visible. Maati's ideas of cold had changed during his journey.
"The way was slower than I'd hoped," Maati said.
"The most high is in meetings and cannot be disturbed, but he has left us with instructions for your accommodation...."
Maati felt a pang of disappointment. It was naive of him to expect Otah-kvo to be there to greet him, and yet he had to admit that he had harbored hopes.
"Whatever is most convenient will, I'm sure, suffice," Maati said.
"Don't bother yourself Piyun-cha," a woman's voice said from behind them. "I can see to this."
The changes of the previous months had left Kiyan untransformed. Her hair-black with its lacing of white-was tied hack in a simple knot that seemed out of place above the ornate robes of a Khai's wife. Her smile didn't have the chill formal distance or false pleasure of a player at court intrigue. When she embraced him, her hair smelled of lavender oil. For all her position and the incarcerating power of being her husband's wife she would, Maati thought, still look at home at a wayhouse watching over guests or haggling with the farmers, bakers and butchers at the at the market.
But perhaps that was only his own wish that things could change and still be the same.
"You look tired," she said, leading him down a long flight of smnooth- worn granite stairs. "How long have you been traveling?"
"I left the Dai-kvo before Candles Night," he said.
"You still dress like a poet," she said, gently. So she knew.
"The Dai-kvo agreed to Otah-kvo's proposal. I'm not formally removed so long as I don't appear in public ceremony in my poet's robes. I'm not permitted to live in a poet's house or present myself in any way as carrying the authority of the Dal-kvo."
"And Cehmai?"
"Cehmai's had some admonishing letters, I think. But I took the worst of it. It was easier that way, and I don't mind so much as I might have when I was younger."
The doors at the stairway's end stood open. They had descended below the level of the street, even under its burden of snow, and the candlelit tunnel before them seemed almost hot. His breath had stopped ghosting.
"I'm sorry for that," Kiyan said, leading the way. "It seems wrong that you should suffer for doing the right thing."
"I'm not suffering," Maati said. "Not as badly as I did when I was in the Dai-kvo's good graces, at least. The more I see of the honors I was offered, the better I feel about having lost them."
She chuckled.
The passageway glowed gold. A high, vaulted arch above them was covered with tiles that reflected the light hack into the air where it hung like pollen. An echo of song came from a great distance, the words blurred by the tunnels. And then the melody was joined and the whispering voices of the gods seemed to touch the air. Maati's steps faltered, and Kiyan turned to look at him and then followed his gaze into the air.
"The winter choir," she said. Her voice was suddenly smaller, sharing his awe. "There are a lot of idle hands in the colder seasons. Music becomes more important, I think, when things are cold and dark."
"It's beautiful," Maati said. "I knew there were tunnels, but ..."
"It's another city," Kiyan said. "Think how I feel. I didn't know half the depth of it until I was supposed to help rule it."
They began walking again, their words rising above the song.
"How is he?"
"Not idle," she said with both amusement and melancholy in her tone. "He's been working until he's half exhausted every day and then getting up early. There's a thousand critical things that he's called on to do, and a thousand more that are nothing more than ceremony that only swallow his time. It makes him cranky. He'll be angry that he wasn't free to meet you, but it will help that I could. "That's the best I can do these days. Make sure that the things most important to him are seen to while he's off making sure the city doesn't fall into chaos."
"I'd think it would be able to grind on without him for a time just from habit," Maati said.
"Politics takes all the time you can give it," Kiyan said with distaste.
They walked through a wide gate and into a great subterranean hall. A thousand lanterns glowed, their white light filling the air. Men and women and children passed on their various errands, the gabble of voices like a brook over stones. A beggar sang, his lacquered begging box on the stone floor before him. Maati saw a waterseller's cart, and another vendor selling waxpaper cones of rice and fish. It was almost like a street, almost like a wide pavilion with a canopy of stone.
"Your rooms?" Kiyan asked. "Or would you rather have something to eat first? There's not much fresh this deep into winter, but I've found a woman who makes a hot barley soup that's simply lovely."
"Actually ... could I meet the child?"
Kiyan's smile seemed to have a light of its own.
"Can you imagine a world where I said no?" she asked.
She nodded to a branching in the wide hall, and led him west, deeper into the underground. The change was subtle, moving from the public space of the street to the private tunnels beneath the palaces. There were gates, it was true, but they were open. There were armsmen here and there, but only a few of them. And yet soon all the people they passed wore the robes of servants or slaves of the Khai, and they had entered the Khai's private domain. Kiyan stopped at a thin oak door, pulled it open and gestured him to follow her up the staircase it revealed.
The nursery was high above the tunnel-world. The air was kept warm by a roaring fire in a stone grate, but the light was from the sun. The nurse, a young girl, no more than sixteen summers, sat dozing in her chair while the baby cooed and gurgled to itself. Maati stepped to the edge of the crib, and the child quieted, staring up at him with distrustful eyes, and then breaking into a wide toothless grin.
"She's only just started sleeping through the night," Kiyan said, speaking softly to keep from waking her servant. "And there were two weeks of colic that were close to hell. I don't know what we'd have done with her if it hadn't been for the nurses. She's been doing better now. We've named her Eiah."
She reached down, scooped up her daughter, and settled her in her arms. It was a movement so natural as to seem inevitable. Maati remembered having done it himself, many years ago, in a very different place. Kiyan seemed almost to know his mind.
" "Iani-kya said that if things went as you'd expected with the Daikvo you were thinking of seeking out your son. Nayiit?"
"Nayiit," Maati agreed. "I sent letters to the places I knew to send them, but I haven't heard hack yet. I may not. But I'll be here, in one place. If he and his mother want to find me, it won't be difficult."
"I'm sorry," Kiyan said. "Not that it will be easy for them, only that ..."
Maati only shook his head. In Kiyan's arms, the tiny girl with deep brown eyes grasped at air and gurgled, unaware, he knew, of all the blood and pain and betrayal that had gone into bringing her here.
"She's beautiful," he said.
"BE REASONABLE!"
Cehmai lay back in his bath. Beside him, Stone-Made-Soft had put its feet into the warm water and was gazing placidly out into the thick salt-scented steam that rose from the water and filled the bathhouse. Against the far wall, a group of young women was rising from the pool and walking back toward the dressing rooms, leaving a servant to fish the floating trays with their teapots and bowls from the small, bobbing waves. Baarath slapped the water impatiently.
"You can look at naked girls later," he said. "This is important. If Maati-cha's come back to help me catalog the library ..."
"He might quibble on `help you,'" Cehmai said, and might as well have kept silent.
"... then it's clearly of critical importance to the Dai-kvo. I've heard the rumors. I know the Vaunyogi were looking to sell the library to some Westlands warden. That's why Maati was sent here in the first place."
Cehmai closed his eyes. Rumors and speculation had run wild, and perhaps it would have been a kindness to correct Baarath. But Otah had asked him to keep silent, and the letters from the Dai-kvo had encouraged this strategy. If it were known what the Galts had done, what they had intended to do, it would mean the destruction of their nation: cities drowned, innocent men and women and children starved when a quiet word heavy with threat might suffice instead. There was always recourse to destruction. So long as one poet held one andat, they could find a path to ruin. So instead of slaughtering countless innocents, Cehmai put up with the excited, inaccurate speculation of his old friend and waited for the days to grow longer and warmer.
"If the collection is split," Baraath went on, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, "we might overlook the very thing that made the library so important. You have to move your collection over to the library, or terrible things might happen."
"Terrible things like what?"