A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (15 page)

can find me there when he isn't-"

"Oh, we haven't put him there. Gods! He has his own rooms."

"His own rooms?"

"Yes. We have a poet of our own, you know. We aren't going to put

Cehmai-cha on a cot in the granary every time the Dai-kvo sends us a

guest. Maati-cha has apartments near the library."

The air seemed to leave the room. A dull roar filled Otah's ears, and he

had to put a hand to the wall to keep from swaying. Maati-cha. The name

came like an unforeseen blow.

Maati Vaupathai. Maati whom Otah had known briefly at the school, and to

whom he had taught the secrets he had learned before he turned his back

on the poets and all they offered. Maati whom he had found again in

Saraykeht, who had become his friend and who knew that Irani Noygu was

the son of the Khai Machi.

The last night they had seen one another-thirteen, fourteen summers

ago-Maati had stolen his lover and Otah had killed Maati's master. He

was here now, in Machi. And he was looking for Otah. He felt like a deer

surprised by the hunter at its side.

The servant girl fumbled with her strings, the notes of the tune coming

out a jangle, and Otah shifted his gaze to her as if she'd shouted. For

a moment, their eyes met and he saw discomfort in her as she hurried

back to her song. She might have seen something in his face, might have

realized who was standing before her. Otah balled his fists at his

sides, pressing them into his thighs to keep from shaking. The assistant

had been speaking. Otah didn't know what he'd said.

"Forgive me, but before we do anything, would you be so kind . . . "

Otah feigned an embarrassed simper. "I'm afraid I had one bowl of tea

too many this morning, and waters that run in, run out...."

"Of course. I'll have a slave take you to-"

"No need," Otah said as he stepped to the door. No one shouted. No one

stopped him. "I'll be back with you in a moment."

He walked out of the hall, forcing himself not to run though he could

feel his heartbeat in his neck, and his ribs seemed too small for his

breath. He waited for the warning yell to come-armsmen with drawn blades

or the short, simple pain of an arrow in his breast. Generations of his

uncles had spilled their blood, spat their last breaths perhaps here,

under these arches. He was not immune. Irani Noygu would not protect

him. He controlled himself as best he could, and when he reached the

gardens, boughs shielding him from the eyes of the palaces, he bolted.

IDAAN SAT AT THE OPEN SKY DOORS, HER LEGS HANGING OUT OVER THE VOID, and

let her gaze wander the moonlit valley. The glimmers of the low towns to

the south. The Daikani mine where her brother had gone to die. The

Poinyat mines to the west and southeast. And below the soles of her bare

feet, Machi itself: the smoke rising from the forges, the torches and

lanterns glimmering in the streets and windows smaller and dimmer than

fireflies. The winches and pulleys hung in the darkness above her, long

lengths of iron chain in guides and hooks set in the stone, ready to be

freed should there be call to haul something tip to the high reaches of

the tower or lower something down. Chains that clanked and rattled,

uneasy in the night breeze.

She leaned forward, forcing herself to feel the vertigo twist her

stomach and tighten her throat. Savoring it. Scoot forward a few inches,

no more effort really than standing from a chair, and then the sound of

wind would fill her ears. She waited as long as she could stand and then

drew hack, gasping and nauseated and trembling. But she did not pull her

legs back in. That would have been weakness.

It was an irony that the symbols of Machi's greatness were so little

used. In the winter, there was no heating them-all the traffic of the

city went in the streets, or over the snows, or through the networks of

tunnels. And even in summer, the endless spiraling stairways and the

need to haul up any wine or food or musical instruments made the gardens

and halls nearer the ground more inviting. The towers were symbols of

power, existing to show that they could exist and little enough more. A

boast in stone and iron used for storage and exotic parties to impress

visitors from the other courts of the Khaiem. And still, they made Idaan

think that perhaps she could imagine what it would he to fly. In her way

she loved them, and she loved very few things these days.

It was odd, perhaps that she had two lovers and still felt alone. Adrah

had been with her for longer, it felt, than she had been herself. And so

it had surprised her that she was so ready to betray him in another

man's bed. Perhaps she'd thought that by being a new man's lover, she

would strip off that old skin and become innocent again.

Or perhaps it was only that Cehmai had a sweet face and wanted her. She

was young, she thought, to have given tip flirtation and courtship.

She'd been angry with Adrah for embarrassing Cchmai at the dance. She'd

promised herself never to be owned by a man. And also, killing Biitrah

had left a hunger in her-a need that nothing yet had sated.

She liked Cehmai. She longed for him. She needed him in a way she

couldn't quite fathom, except to say that she hated herself less when

she was with him.

"Idaan!" a voice whispered from the darkness behind her. "Conic away

from there! You'll he seen!"

"Only if you're fool enough to bring a torch," she said, but she pulled

her feet hack in from the abyss and hauled the great bronze-bound oaken

sky doors shut. For a moment, there was nothing-black darker than

closing her eyes-and then the scrape of a lantern's hood and the flame

of a single candle. Crates and boxes threw deep shadows on the stone

walls and carved cabinets. Adrah looked pale, even in the dim light.

Idaan found herself amused and annoyed-pulled between wanting to comfort

him and the desire to point out that it wasn't his family they were

killing. She wondered if he knew yet that she had taken the poet to bed

and whether he would care. And whether she did. He smiled nervously and

glanced around at the shadows.

"He hasn't come," Idaan said.

"He will. Don't worry," Adrah said, and then a moment later: "My father

has drafted a letter. Proposing our union. He's sending it to the Khai

tomorrow."

"Good," Idaan said. "We'll want that in place before everyone finishes

dying."

"Don't."

"If we can't speak of it to each other, Adrah-kya, when will we ever? It

isn't as if I can go to our friends or the priest." Idaan took a pose of

query to some imagined confidant. "Adrah's going to take me as his wife,

but it's important that we do it now, so that when I've finished

slaughtering my brothers, he can use me to press his suit to become the

new Khai without it seeming so clearly that I'm being traded at market.

And don't you love this new robe? It's Westlands silk."

She laughed bitterly. Adrah did not step back, quite, but he did pull away.

"What is it, Idaan-kya?" he said, and Idaan was surprised by the pain in

his voice. It sounded genuine. "Have I done something to make you angry

with me?"

For a moment, she saw herself through his eyes-cutting, ironic, cruel.

It wasn't who she had been with him. Once, before they had made this

bargain with Chaos, she had had the luxury of being soft and warm. She

had always been angry, only not with him. How lost he must feel.

Idaan leaned close and kissed him. For one terrible moment, she meant

it-the softness of his lips against hers stirring something within her

that cried out to hold and be held, to weep and wail and take com fort.

Her flesh also remembered the poet, the strange taste of another man's

skin, the illusion of hope and of safety that she'd felt in her betrayal

of the man who was destined to share her life.

"I'm not angry, sweet. Only tired. I'm very tired."

"This will pass, Idaan-kya. Remember that this part only lasts a while."

"And is what follows it better?"

He didn't answer.

The candle had hardly burned past another mark when the moonfaced

assassin appeared, moving like darkness itself in his back cotton robe.

He put down his lantern and took a pose of welcome before dusting a

crate with his sleeve and sitting. His expression was pleasant as a

fruit seller in a summer market. It only made Idaan like him less.

"So," Oshai said. "You called, I've come. What seems to be the problem?"

She had intended to begin with Maati Vaupathai, but the pretense of

passive stupidity in Oshai's eyes annoyed her. Idaan raised her chin and

her brows, considering him as she would a garden slave. Adrah looked

back and forth between the two. The motion reminded her of a child

watching his parents fighting. When she spoke, she had to try not to spit.

"I would know where our plans stand," she said. "My father's ill, and I

hear more from Adrah and the palace slaves than from you."

"My apologies, great lady," Oshai said without a hint of irony. "It's

only that meetings with you are a risk, and written reports are

insupportable. Our mutual friends ..."

"The Galtic High Council," Idaan said, but Oshai continued as if she had

not spoken.

". . . have placed agents and letters of intent with six houses.

Contracts for iron, silver, steel, copper, and gold. The negotiations

are under way, and I expect we will be able to draw them out for most of

the summer, should we need to. When all three of your brothers die, you

will have been wed to Adrah, and between the powerful position of his

house, his connection with you, and the influence of six of the great

houses whose contracts will suddenly ride on his promotion to Khai, you

should be sleeping in your mother's bed by Candles Night."

"My mother never had a bed of her own. She was only a woman, remember.

Traded to the Khai for convenience, like a gift."

"It's only an expression, great lady. And remember, you'll be sharing

Adrah here with other wives in your turn."

"I won't take others," Adrah said. "It was part of our agreement."

"Of course you won't," Oshai said with a nod and an insincere smile. "My

mistake."

Idaan felt herself flush, but kept her voice level and calm when she spoke.

"And my brothers? Danat and Kaiin?"

"They are being somewhat inconvenient, it's true. They've gone to

ground. Frightened, I'm told, by your ghost brother Utah. We may have to

wait until your father actually dies before they screw up the courage to

stand against each other. But when they do, I will be ready. You know

all this, Idaan-cha. It can't be the only reason you've asked me here?"

The round, pale face seemed to harden without moving. "There had best be

something more pressing than seeing whether I'll declaim when told."

"Maati Vaupathai," Idaan said. "The Dai-kvo's sent him to study in the

library."

"Hardly a secret," Oshai said, but Idaan thought she read a moment's

unease in his eyes.

"And it doesn't concern your owners that this new poet has come for the

same prize they want? What's in those old scrolls that makes this worth

the risk for you, anyway?"

"I don't know, great lady," the assassin said. "I'm trusted with work of

this delicate nature because I don't particularly care about the points

that aren't mine to know."

"And the Galts? Are they worried about this Maati Vaupathai poking

through the library before them?"

"It's ... of interest," Oshai said, grudgingly.

"It was the one thing you insisted on," Idaan said, stepping toward the

man. "When you came to Adrah and his father, you agreed to help us in

return for access to that library. And now your price may be going away.

Will your support go, too? The unasked question hung in the chill air.

If the Galts could not have what they wanted from Adrah and Idaan and

the books of Machi, would the support for this mad, murderous scheme

remain? Idaan felt her heart tripping over faster, half hoping that the

answer might be no.

"It is the business of a poet to concern himself with ancient texts,"

Oshai said. "If a poet were to come to Machi and not avail himself of

its library, that would be odd. 't'his coincidence of timing is of

interest. But it's not yet a cause for alarm."

"He's looking into the death of Biitrah. He's been down to the mines.

He's asking questions."

"About what?" Oshai said. The smile was gone.

She told him all she knew, from the appearance of the poet to his

interest in the court and high families, the low towns and the mines.

She recounted the parties at which he had asked to he introduced, and to

whom. The name he kept mentioning-Itani Noygu. 'T'he way in which his

interest in the ascension of the next Khai Machi seemed to be more than

academic. She ended with the tale she'd heard of his visit to the

Daikani mines and to the wayhouse where her brother had died at Oshai's

hands. When she was finished, neither man spoke. Adrah looked stricken.

Oshai, merely thoughtful. At length, the assassin took a pose of gratitude.

"You were right to call me, Idaan-cha," he said. "I doubt the poet knows

precisely what he's looking for, but that he's looking at all is had

enough."

"What do we do?" Adrah said. The desperation in his voice made Oshai

look up like a hunting dog hearing a bird.

"You do nothing, most high," Oshai said. "Neither you nor the great lady

does anything. I will take care of this."

"You'll kill him," Idaan said.

"If it seems the best course, I may...."

Idaan took a pose appropriate to correcting a servant. Oshai's words faded.

"I was not asking, Oshai-cha. You'll kill him."

The assassin's eyes narrowed for a moment, but then something like

amusement flickered at the corners of his mouth and the glimmer of

candlelight in his eyes grew warmer. He seemed to weigh something in his

mind, and then took a pose of acquiescence. Idaan lowered her hands.

"Will there be anything else, most high?" Oshai asked without taking his

gaze from her.

"No," Adrah said. "'T'hat will be all."

"Wait half a hand after I've gone," Oshai said. "I can explain myself,

and the two of you together borders on the self-evident. All three would

be difficult."

And with that, he vanished. Idaan looked at the sky doors. She was