A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (4 page)

as a man preparing to dive from a cliff into shallow water and entered.

The Dai-kvo was sitting at his table. He had not had hair since Maati

had met him twenty-three summers before when the Dai-kvo had only been

Tahi-kvo, the crueler of the two teachers set to sift through the

discarded sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem for likely candidates to send

on to the village. His brows had gone pure white since he'd become the

Dai-kvo, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. His black eyes

were just as alive.

The other two men in the room were strangers to Maati. The thinner one

sat at the table across from the Dai-kvo, his robes deep blue and gold,

his hair pulled back to show graying temples and a thin whiteflecked

heard. The thicker-with both fat and muscle, Maati thought-stood at

window, one foot up on the thick ledge, looking into the gardens, and

Maati could see where his clean-shaven jaw sagged at the jowl. His robes

were the light brown color of sand, his boots hard leather and travel

worn. He turned to look at Maati as the door closed, and there was

something familiar about him-about both these new men-that he could not

describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the

school.

"I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo."

The Dai-kvo grunted and gestured to him for the benefit of the two

strangers.

"This is the one," the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him,

graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati

imagined what they saw him for-a man of thirty summers, his forehead

already pushing hack his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft

man in a poet's robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt

himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show

neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two

men.

"Forgive me," he said. "I don't believe we have met before, or if we

have, I apologize that I don't recall it."

"We haven't met," the thicker one said.

"He isn't much to look at," the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the

Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic

poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Nlaati found

himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.

"Sit down, Maati-cha," the Dal-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. "Have a

bowl of tea. There's something we have to discuss. Tell me what you've

heard of events in the winter cities."

Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.

"I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most

high. There's trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about

the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven't

heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer

fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi ..."

Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar;

who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across

the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks

without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.

"The Khai Machi is dying," the Dal-kvo said. "I Iis belly's gone rotten.

It's a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered.

Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?"

"That it was poor form," Maati said. "'t'hat no one has seen the Khaiem

resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the

brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one ... Gods! You two

are ..."

"You see?" the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. "No,

not much to look at, but a decent stew between his ears. Yes, Maati-cha.

The man scraping my windowsill with his boots there is Danat Machi. This

is his eldest surviving brother, Kaiin. And they have come here to speak

with me instead of waging war against each other because neither of them

killed their elder brother Biitrah."

"So they ... you think it was Otah-kvo?"

"The Dai-kvo says you know my younger brother," the thickset

man-Danat-said, taking his own seat at the only unoccupied side of the

table. "Tell me what you know of Otah."

"I haven't seen him in years, Danat-cha," Maati said. "He was in

Saraykcht when ... when the old poet there died. He was working as a

laborer. But I haven't seen him since."

"Do you think he was satisfied by that life?" the thin one-Kaiin- asked.

"A laborer at the docks of Saraykeht hardly seems like the fate a son of

the Khaiem would embrace. Especially one who refused the brand."

Maati picked up the bowl of tea, sipping it too quickly as he tried to

gain himself a moment to think. The tea scalded his tongue.

"I never heard Otah speak of any ambitions for his father's chair,"

Maati said.

"And is there any reason to think he would have spoken of it to you?"

Kaiin said, the faintest sneer in his voice. Maati felt the blush

creeping into his cheeks again, but it was the Dai-kvo who answered.

""There is. Otah Machi and Maati here were close for a time. They fell

out eventually over a woman, I believe. Still, I hold that if Otah had

been bent on taking part in the struggle for Machi at that time, he

would have taken Maati into his confidence. But that is hardly our

concern. As Maati here points out, it was years ago. Otah may have

become ambitious. Or resentful. There's no way for us to know that-"

"But he refused the brand-" Danat began, and the Dai-kvo cut him off

with a gesture.

"There were other reasons for that," the Dai-kvo said sharply. "They

aren't your concern."

Danat Nlachi took a pose of apology and the Dai-kvo waved it away. Maati

sipped his tea again. 't'his time it didn't burn. To his right, Kaiin

Machi took a pose of query, looking directly at Maati for what seemed

the first time.

"Would you know him again if you saw him?"

"Yes," Maati said. "I would."

"You sound certain of it."

"I am, Kaiin-cha."

The thin man smiled. All around the table a sense of satisfaction seemed

to come from his answer. Maati found it unnerving. The Daikvo poured

himself more tea, the liquid clicking into his bowl like a stream over

stones.

"'T'here is a very good library in Machi," the Dai-kvo said. "One of the

finest in the fourteen cities. I understand there are records there from

the time of the Empire. One of the high lords was thinking to go there,

perhaps, to ride out the war, and sent his hooks ahead. I'm sure there

are treasures hidden among those shelves that would be of use in binding

the andat."

"Really?" Maati asked.

"No, not really," the Dai-kvo said. "I expect it's a mess of poorly

documented scraps overseen by a librarian who spends his copper on wine

and whores, but I don't care. For our purposes, there are secrets hidden

in those records important enough to send a low-ranking poet like

yourself to sift though. I have a letter to the Khai Machi that will

explain why you are truly there. IIc will explain your presence to the

utkhaiem and Cehmai 'Ivan, the poet who holds Stone-Made-Soft. Let them

think you've come on my errand. What you will be doing instead is

discovering whether Otah killed Biitrah Machi. If so, who is hacking

him. If not, who did, and why."

"Most high-" Maati began.

"Wait for me in the gardens," the Dal-kvo said. "I have a few more

things to discuss with the sons of Machi."

The gardens, like the apartments, were small, well kept, beautiful, and

simple. A fountain murmured among carefully shaped, deeply fragrant pine

trees. Maati sat, looking out. From the side of mountain, the world

spread out before him like a map. He waited, his head buzzing, his heart

in turmoil. Before long he heard the steady grinding sound of footsteps

on gravel, and he turned to see the Dai-kvo making his way down the path

toward him. Maati stood. He had not known the Dai-kvo had started

walking with a cane. A servant followed at a distance, carrying a chair,

and did not approach until the Dai-kvo signaled. Once the chair was in

place, looking out over the same span that Maati had been considering,

the servant retreated.

"Interesting, isn't it?" the Dai-kvo said.

Maati, unsure whether he meant the view or the business with the sons of

Machi, didn't reply. The Dai-kvo looked at him, something part smile,

part something less congenial on his lips. He drew forth two

packets-letters sealed in wax and sewn shut. Maati took them and tucked

them in his sleeve.

"Gods. I'm getting old. You see that tree?" the Dai-kvo asked, pointing

at one of the shaped pines with his cane.

"Yes, most high."

"There's a family of robins that lives in it. They wake me up every

morning. I always mean to have someone break the nest, but I've never

quite given the order."

"You are merciful, most high."

The old man looked up at him, squinting. His lips were pressed thin, and

the lines in his face were black as charcoal. Maati stood waiting. At

length, the Dai-kvo turned away again with a sigh.

"Will you be able to do it?" he asked.

"I will do as the Dai-kvo commands," Maati said.

"Yes, I know you'll go there. But will you be able to tell me that he's

there? You know if he is behind this, they'll kill him before they go on

to each other. Are you able to bear that responsibility? Tell me now if

you aren't, and I'll find some other way. You don't have to fail again."

"I won't fail again, most high."

"Good. That's good," the Dai-kvo said and went silent. Maati waited so

long for the pose that would dismiss him that he wondered whether the

Dai-kvo had forgotten he was there, or had chosen to ignore him as an

insult. But the old man spoke, his voice low.

"How old is your son, Maati-cha?"

"Twelve, most high. But I haven't seen him in some years."

"You're angry with me for that." Maati began to take a pose of denial,

but checked himself and lowered his arms. This wasn't the time for court

politics. The Dai-kvo saw this and smiled. "You're getting wiser, my

boy. You were a fool when you were young. In itself, that's not such a

bad thing. Many men are. But you embraced your mistakes. You de fended

them against all correction. That was the wrong path, and don't think

I'm unaware of how you've paid for it."

"As you say, most high."

"I told you there was no place in a poet's life for a family. A lover

here or there, certainly. Most men are too weak to deny themselves that

much. But a wife? A child? No. There isn't room for both what they

require and what we do. And I told you that. You remember? I told you

that, and you ..

The Dai-kvo shook his head, frowning in remembered frustration. It was a

moment, Maati knew, when he could apologize. He could repent his pride

and say that the Dai-kvo had indeed known better all along. He remained

silent.

"I was right," the Dai-kvo said for him. "And now you've done half a job

as a poet and half a job as a man. Your studies are weak, and the woman

took your whelp and left. You've failed both, just as I knew you would.

I'm not condemning you for that, Maati. No man could have taken on what

you did and succeeded. But this opportunity in Machi is what will wipe

clean the slate. Do this well and it will be what you're remembered for."

"Certainly I will do my best."

"Fail at it, and there won't be a third chance. Few enough men have two."

Maati took a pose appropriate to a student receiving a lecture.

Considering him, the Dal-kvo responded with one that closed the lesson,

then raised his hand.

"Don't destroy this chance in order to spite me, Maati. Failing in this

will do me no harm, and it will destroy you. You're angry because I told

you the truth, and because what I said would happen, did. Consider while

you go north, whether that's really such a good reason to hate me."

THE OPEN WINDOW LET IN A COOT, BREEZE THAT SMELLED OF PINE AND RAIN.

Otah Mach], the sixth son of the Khai Machi, lay on the bed, listening

to the sounds of water-rain pattering on the flagstones of the

wayhouse's courtyard and the tiles of its roof, the constant hushing of

the river against its banks. A fire danced and spat in the grate, but

his bare skin was still stippled with cold. The night candle had gone