“The Dai-kvo isn’t taking a hand in it,” Maati said, “but that hardly means he should embrace ignorance. The better he knows the world, the better he can direct the poets to everyone’s benefit, ne?”
“Spoken like a man of the court,” Radaani said, and despite the smile in his voice, Maati didn’t think it had been a compliment.
“I have heard that the Radaani might have designs on the Khai’s chair,” Maati said, dropping the oblique path he had intended. It would have done no good here. “Is that the case?”
Radaani smiled and pointed for the servant boy to go. The boy dropped into a formal pose and retreated, sliding the door closed behind him. Maati sat, smiling pleasantly, but not filling the silence. It was a small room, richly appointed—wood varnished until it seemed to glow and ornaments of worked gold and carved stone. The windows were adorned with shutters of carved cedar so fine that they let the breeze in and kept the birds and insects out even as they scented the air. Radaani tilted his head, distant eyes narrowing. Maati felt like a gem being valued by a merchant.
“I have one son in Yalakeht, overseeing our business interests. I have a grandson who has recently learned how to sing and jump sticks at the same time. I can’t see that either of them would be well suited to the Khai’s chair. I would have to either abandon my family’s business or put a child in power over the city.”
“Certainly there must be some financial advantages to being the Khai Machi,” Maati said. “I can’t think it would hurt your family to exchange your work in Yalakeht to join the Khaiem.”
“Then you haven’t spoken to my overseers,” Radaani laughed. “We are pulling in more gold from the ships in Yalakeht and Chaburi-Tan than the Khai Machi can pull out of the ground, even with the andat. No. If I want power, I can purchase it and not have to compromise anything. Besides, I have six or eight daughters I’d be happy for the new Khai to marry. He could have one for every day of the week.”
“You could take the chair for yourself,” Maati said. “You’re not so old….”
“And I’m not so young as to be that stupid. Here, Vaupathai, let me lay this out for you. I am old, gouty as often as not, and rich. I have what I want from life, and being the Khai Machi would mean that if I were lucky, my grandsons would be slitting each other’s throats. I don’t want that for them, and I don’t want the trouble of running a city for myself. Other men want it, and they can have it. None of them will cross me, and I will support whoever takes the name.”
“So you have no preference,” Maati said.
“Now I didn’t go so far as to say that, did I? Why does the Dai-kvo care which of us becomes the Khai?”
“He doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he’s uninterested.”
“Then let him wait two weeks, and he can have the name. It doesn’t figure. Either he has a favorite or … or is this about your belly getting opened for you?” Radaani pursed his lips, his eyes darting back and forth over Maati’s face. “The upstart’s dead, so it isn’t that. You think someone was working with Otah Machi? That one of the houses was backing him?”
“I didn’t go so far as to say that, did I? And even if they were, it’s no concern of the Dai-kvo’s,” Maati said.
“True, but no one tried to fish-gut the Dai-kvo. Could it be, Maati-cha, that you’re here on your own interest?”
“You give me too much credit,” Maati said. “I’m only a simple man trying to make sense of complex times.”
“Yes, aren’t we all,” Radaani said with an expression of distaste.
Maati kept the rest of the interview to empty niceties and social forms, and left with the distinct feeling that he’d given out more information than he’d gathered. Chewing absently at his inner lip, he turned west, away from the palaces and out into the streets of the city. The pale mourning cloth was coming down already, and the festival colors were going back up for the marriage of Adrah Vaunyogi and Idaan Machi. Maati watched as a young boy, skin as 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 last week. Adaut Kamau had denied any interest in the Khai’s chair, but had spent enough time intimating that support from the Daikvo might sway his opinion that Maati 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. He 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 Daaya Vaunyogi, the soon-to-be father of Idaan Machi. He’d been putting off that moment, dreading the awkwardness of condolence and congratulations mixed. He 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, drug-laced 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. He’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 waterseller’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 come had brought him much closer. He understood more of the court politics, he knew the names of the great houses and trivia about them: Kamau was supported by the breeders who raised mine dogs and the copper workers, the Vaunani by the goldsmiths, tanners and leatherworkers, Vaunyogi had business ties 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 Otahkvo, 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 bitter, 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 themselves. 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 Maati’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 Dai-kvo 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,” Cehmai 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 be 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 least 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 as 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 are men beneath these robes, he thought, and we do what we must.
SINJA SPUN, the thick wooden cudgel hissing through 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,” Sinja 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 back 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. The 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 Amiit 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 never been trained as a fighter, an
d Sinja was happy to offer a day’s instruction. There was an easy camaraderie that Otah had enjoyed on the way out. The work itself reminded him that Sinja had slaughtered his last comrades, and the walk back was somehow much longer than the one out had been.
“A little practice, and you’d be a decent soldier,” Sinja said as they walked. “You’re too cautious. You’ll lose a good strike in order to protect yourself, and that’s a vice. You’ll need to be careful of it.”
“I’m actually hoping for a life that doesn’t require much blade work of me.”
“I wasn’t only talking about fighting.”
When they reached the farmhouse, the stables had four unfamiliar horses in them, hot from the road. An armsman of House Siyanti—one Otah recognized, but whose name he’d never learned—was caring for them. Sinja traded a knowing look with the man, then strode up the stairs to the main rooms. Otah followed, his aches half-forgotten in the mingled curiosity and dread.
Amiit Foss and Kiyan were sitting at the main table with two other men. One—an older man with heavy, beetled brows and a hooked nose—wore robes embroidered with the sun and stars of House Siyanti. The other, a young man with round cheeks and a generous belly, wore a simple blue robe of inexpensive cloth, but enough rings on his fingers to pay for a small house. Their conversation stopped as Otah and Sinja entered the room. Amiit smiled and gestured toward the benches.
“Well timed,” Amiit said. “We’ve just been discussing the next step in our little dance.”
“What’s the issue?” Sinja asked.
“The mourning’s ending. Tomorrow, the heads of all the houses of the utkhaiem meet. I expect it will take them a few days before the assassinations start, but within the month it’ll be decided who the new Khai is to be.”
A Betrayal in Winter (The Long Price Quartet Book 2) Page 28