A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (40 page)

Maati watched as a young boy, skin brown as a nut, sat atop a lantern

pole with pale mourning rags in one hand and a garland of flowers in the

other. Maati wondered if a city had ever gone from celebration to sorrow

and back again so quickly.

Tomorrow ended the mourning week, marked the wedding of the dead Khai's

last daughter, and began the open struggle to find the city's new

master. The quiet struggle had, of course, been going on for the week.

Adaut Kamau had denied any interest in the Khai's chair, but had spent

enough time intimating that support from the Dai-kvo might sway his

opinion that Nlaati felt sure the Kamau hadn't abandoned their

ambitions. Ghiah Vaunani had been perfectly pleasant, friendly, open,

and had managed in the course of their conversation to say nothing at

all. Even now, Maati saw messengers moving through the streets and

alleyways. The grand conversation of power might put on the clothes of

sorrow, but the chatter only changed form.

Maati walked more often these days. The wound in his belly was still

pink, but the twinges of pain were few and widely spaced. While he

walked the streets, his robes marked him as a man of importance, and not

someone to interrupt. Ile was less likely to be disturbed here than in

the library or his own rooms. And moving seemed to help him think.

He had to speak to l)aaya Vaunyogi, the soon-to-be father of Idaan

Machi. He'd been putting off that moment, dreading the awkwardness of

condolence and congratulations mixed. Ile wasn't sure whether to be

long-faced and formal or jolly and pleasant, and he felt a deep

certainty that whatever he chose would be the wrong thing. But it had to

be done, and it wasn't the worst of the errands he'd set himself for the

day.

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