A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (13 page)

Westlands and Galt, Bakta, and the east islands. But something had

happened, or was happening, that had captured the Dai-kvo's interest.

And Maati Vaupathai was an odd poet. He held no post, trained under no

one. He was old to attempt a new binding. By many standards, he was

already a failure. The only thing Cehmai knew of him that stood out at

all was that Maati had been in Saraykeht when that city's poet was

murdered and the andat set free. He thought of the man's eyes, the

darkness that they held, and a sense of unease troubled him.

"I don't know what the point of that sort of grammar would be," Baarath

said. "Dalani Toygu's was better for one thing, and half the length."

Cehmai realized that the Baarath had been talking this whole time, that

the subject had changed, and in fact they were in the middle of a debate

on a matter he couldn't identify. All this without the need that he speak.

"I suppose you're right," Cehmai said. "I hadn't seen it from that angle."

Stone-Made-Soft's calm, constant near-smile widened slightly.

"You should have, though. That's my point. Grammars and translations and

the subtleties of thought are your trade. That I know more about it than

you and that Maati person is a bad sign for the world. Note this,

Cehmai-kya, write down that I said it. It's that kind of ignorance that

will destroy the Khaiem."

"I'll write down that you said it," Cehmai said. "In fact, I'll go back

to my apartments right now and do that. And afterwards, I'll crawl into

bed, I think."

"So soon?"

"The night candle's past its center mark," Cehmai said.

"Fine. Go. When I was your age, I would stay up nights in a row for the

sake of a good conversation like this, but I suppose the generations

weaken, don't they?"

Cehmai took a pose of farewell, and Baarath returned it.

"Come by tomorrow, though," Baarath said as they left. "There's some old

imperial poetry I've translated that might interest you."

Outside, the night had grown colder, and few lanterns lit the paths and

streets. Cehmai pulled his arms in from their sleeves and held his

fingers against his sides for warmth. His breath plumed blue-white in

the faint moonlight, and even the distant scent of pine resin made the

air seem colder.

"He doesn't think much of our guest," Cehmai said. "I would have thought

he'd be pleased that Maati took little interest in the books, after all

the noise he made."

When Stone-Made-Soft spoke, its breath did not fog. "He's like a girl

bent on protecting her virginity until she finds no one wants it."

Cehmai laughed.

"That is entirely too apt," he said, and the andat took a pose accepting

the compliment.

"You're going to do something," it said.

"I'm going to pay attention," Cehmai said. "If something needs doing,

I'll try to be on hand."

They turned down the cobbled path that led to the poet's house. The

sculpted oaks that lined it rustled in the faint breeze, rubbing new

leaves together like a thousand tiny hands. Cehmai wished that he'd

thought to bring a candle from Baarath's. He imagined Maati Vaupathai

standing in the shadows with his appraising gaze and mysterious agenda.

"You're frightened of him," the andat said, but Cehmai didn't answer.

There was someone there among the trees-a shape shifting in the

darkness. He stopped and slid his arms back into their sleeves. The

andat stopped as well. They weren't far from the house-Cehmai could see

the glow of the lantern left out before his doorway. The story of a poet

slaughtered in a distant city raced in his mind until the figure came

out between him and his doorway, silhouetted in the dim light. Cehmai's

heart didn't slow, but it did change contents.

She still wore the half-mask she'd had at the gathering. Her black and

white robes shifted, the cloth so rich and soft, and he could hear it

even over the murmur of the trees. He stepped toward her, taking a pose

of welcome.

"Idaan," he said. "Is there something ... I didn't expect to find you

here. I mean ... I'm doing this rather badly, aren't l?"

"Start again," she said.

"Idaan."

"Cehmai."

She took a step toward him. He could see the flush in her cheek and

smell the faint, nutty traces of distilled wine on her breath. When she

spoke, her words were sharp and precise.

"I saw what you did to Adrah," she said. "He left a heel mark in the stone."

"Have I given offense?" he asked.

"Not to me. He didn't see it, and I didn't say."

In the back of his mind, or in some quarter of his flesh, Cehmai felt

Stone-Made-Soft receding as if in answer to his own wish. They were

alone on the dark path.

"It's difficult for you, isn't it?" she said. "Being a part of the court

and yet not. Being among the most honored men in the city, and yet not

of Machi."

"I bear it. You've been drinking."

"I have. But I know who I am and where I am. I know what I'm doing."

"What are you doing, Idaan-kya?"

"Poets can't take wives, can they?"

"We don't, no. There's not often room in our lives for a family."

"And lovers?"

Cehmai felt his breath coming faster and willed it to slow. An echo of

amusement in the back of his mind was not his own thought. He ignored it.

"Poets take lovers," he said.

She stepped nearer again, not touching, not speaking. There was no chill

to the air now. There was no darkness. Cehmai's senses were as fresh and

bright and clear as midday, his mind as focused as the first day he'd

controlled the andat. Idaan took his hand and slowly, deliberately, drew

it through the folds of her robes until it cupped her breast.

"You ... you have a lover, Idaan-kya. Adrah ..."

"Do you want me to sleep here tonight?"

"Yes, Idaan. I do."

"And I want that too."

He struggled to think, but his skin felt as though he was basking in

some hidden sun. There seemed to be some sound in his ears that he

couldn't place that drove away everything but his fingertips and the

cold-stippled flesh beneath them.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," he said.

Her lips parted, and she moved half an inch back. His hand pressed

against her skin, his eyes were locked on hers. Fear sang through him

that she would take another step back, that his fingers would only

remember this moment, that this chance would pass. She saw it in his

face, she must have, because she smiled, calm and knowing and sure of

herself, like something from a dream.

"Do you care?" she asked.

"No," he said, half-surprised at the answer. "No, I truly don't."

THE CARAVAN LEFT THE LOW TOWN BEFORE DAWN, CARTWHEELS RATTLING on the

old stone paving, oxen snorting white in the cold, and the voices of

carters and merchants light with the anticipation of journey's end. The

weeks of travel were past. By midday, they would cross the bridge over

the Tidat and enter Machi. The companionship of the roadalready somewhat

strained by differences in political opinions and some unfortunate words

spoken by one of the carters early in the journeywould break apart, and

each of them would be about his own business again. Otah walked with his

hands in his sleeves and his heart divided between dread and

anticipation. Irani Noygu was going to Machi on the business of his

house-the satchel of letters at his side proved that. There was nothing

he carried with him that would suggest anything else. He had come away

from this city as a child so long ago he had only shreds of memory left

of it. A scent of musk, a stone corridor, bathing in a copper tub when

he was small enough to be lifted with a single hand, a view from the top

of one of the towers. Other things as fragmentary, as fleeting. He could

not say which memories were real and which only parts of dreams.

It was enough, he supposed, to be here now, walking in the darkness. He

would go and see it with a man's eyes. He would see this place that had

sent him forth and, despite all his struggles, still had the power to

poison the life he'd built for himself. Itani Noygu had made his way as

an indentured laborer at the seafronts of Saraykeht, as a translator and

fisherman and midwife's assistant in the east islands, as a sailor on a

merchant ship, and as a courier in House Siyanti and all through the

cities. He could write and speak in three tongues, play the flute badly,

tell jokes well, cook his own meals over a half-dead fire, and comport

himself well in any company from the ranks of the utkhaiem to the

denizens of the crudest dockhouse. This from a twelve-year-old boy who

had named himself, been his own father and mother, formed a life out of

little more than the will to do so. Irani Noygu was by any sane standard

a success.

It was Otah Machi who had lost Kiyan's love.

The sky in the east lightened to indigo and then royal blue, and Otah

could see the road out farther ahead. Between one breath and the next,

the oxen came clearer. And the plains before them opened like a vast

scroll. Far to the north, mountains towered, looking flat as a painting

and blued by the distance. Smoke rose from low towns and mines on the

plain, the greener pathway of trees marked the river, and on the

horizon, small as fingers, rose the dark towers of Machi, unnatural in

the landscape.

Otah stopped as sunlight lit the distant peaks like a fire. The

brilliance crept down and then the distant towers blazed suddenly, and a

moment later, the plain flooded with light. Otah caught his breath.

This is where I started, he thought. I come from here.

He had to trot to catch hack up with the caravan, but the questioning

looks were all answered with a grin and a gesture. The enthusiastic

courier still nave enough to be amazed by a sunrise. There was nothing

more to it than that.

House Siyanti kept no quarters in Machi, but the gentleman's trade had

its provisions for this. Other Houses would extend courtesy even to

rivals so long as it was understood that the intrigues and prying were

kept to decorous levels. If a courier were to act against a rival House

or carried information that would too deeply tempt his hosts, it was

better form to pay for a room elsewhere. Nothing Otah carried was so

specific or so valuable, and once the caravan had made its trek across

the plain and passed over the wide, sinuous bridge into Machi, Otah made

his way to the compound of House Nan.

The structure itself was a gray block three stories high that faced a

wide square and shared walls with the buildings on either side. Otah

stopped by a street cart and bought a bowl of hot noodles in a smoky

black sauce for two lengths of copper and watched the people passing by

with a kind of doubled impression. He saw them as the subjects of his

training: people clumped at the firekeepers' kilns and streetcarts meant

a lively culture of gossip, women walking alone meant little fear of

violence, and so on in the manner that was his profession. He also saw

them as the inhabitants of his childhood. A statue of the first Khai

Machi stood in the square, his noble expression undermined by the pigeon

streaks. An old, rag-wrapped beggar sat on the street, a black lacquer

box before her, and chanted songs. The forges were only a few streets

away, and Otah could smell the sharp smoke; could even, he thought, hear

the faint sound of metal on metal. He sucked down the last of the

noodles and handed back the howl to a man easily twice his age.

"You're new to the north," the man said, not unkindly.

"Does it show?" Otah asked.

"Thick robes. It's spring, and this is warm. If you'd been here over

winter, your blood would be able to stand a little cold."

Otah laughed, but made note. If he were to fit in well, it would mean

suffering the cold. He would have to sit with that. He did want to

understand the place, to see it, if only for a time, through the eyes of

a native, but he didn't want to swim in ice water just because that was

the local custom.

The door servant at the gray House Nan left him waiting in the street

for a while, then returned to usher him to his quarters-a small,

windowless room with four stacked cots that suggested he would be

sharing the small iron brazier in the center of the room with seven

other men, though he was the only one present just then. He thanked the