“Why? Why is my heart suddenly your business?”
“Let me ask this another way,” Maati said. “If you aren’t backing Vaunyogi, who is?”
Cehmai blinked. His rage whirled, lost its coherence, and left him feeling weaker and confused. On the ground beside them, Stone-Made-Soft sighed and rose to its feet. Shaking its great head, it gestured to the green streaks on its robe.
“The launderers won’t be pleased by that,” it said.
“What do you mean?” Cehmai said, not to the andat, but to Maati-kvo. And yet, it was Stone-Made-Soft’s deep rough voice that answered him.
“He’s asking you how badly Adrah Vaunyogi wants that chair. And he’s suggesting that Idaan-cha may have just married her father’s killer, all unaware. It seems a simple enough proposition to me. They aren’t going to blame you for these stains, you know. They never do.”
Maati stood silently, peering at him, waiting. Cehmai held his hands together to stop their shaking.
“You think that?” he asked. “You think that Adrah might have arranged the wedding because he knew what was going to happen? You think Adrah killed them?”
“I think it worth considering,” Maati said.
Cehmai looked down and pressed his lips together until they ached. If he didn’t—if he looked up, if he relaxed—he knew that he would smile. He knew what that would say about himself and his small, petty soul, so he swallowed and kept his head low until he could speak. Unbidden, he imagined himself exposing Adrah’s crime, rejoining Idaan with her sole remaining family. He imagined her eyes looking into his as he told her what Maati knew.
“Tell me how I can help,” he said.
MAATI SAT in the first gallery, looking down into the great hall and waiting for the council to go on. It was a rare event, all the houses of the utkhaiem meeting without a Khai to whom they all answered, and they seemed both uncertain what the proper rituals were and unwilling to let the thing move quickly. It was nearly dark now, and candles were being set out on the dozen long tables below him and the speaker’s pulpit beyond them. The small flames were reflected in the parquet floor and the silvered glass on the walls below him. A second gallery rose above him, where women and children of the lower families and representatives of the trading houses could sit and observe. The architect had been brilliant—a man standing as speaker need hardly raise his voice and the stone walls would carry his words through the air without need of whisperers. Even over the murmurs of the tables below and the galleries above, the prepared, elaborate, ornate, deathly dull speeches of the utkhaiem reached every ear. The morning session had been interesting at least—the novelty of the situation had held his attention. But apart from his conversation with Cehmai, Maati had filled the hours of his day with little more than the voices of men practiced at saying little with many words. Praise of the utkhaiem generally and of their own families in particular, horror at the crimes and misfortunes that had brought them here, and the best wishes of the speaker and his father or his son or his cousin for the city as a whole, and on and on and on.
Maati had pictured the struggle for power as a thing of blood and fire, betrayal and intrigue and danger. And, when he listened for the matter beneath the droning words, yes, all that was there. That even this could be made dull impressed him.
The talk with Cehmai had gone better than he had hoped. He felt guilty using Idaan Machi against him that way, but perhaps the boy had been ready to be used. And there was very little time.
He was relying now on the competence of his enemies. There would be only a brief window between the time when it became clear who would take the prize and the actual naming of the Khai Machi. In that moment, Maati would know who had engineered all this, who had used Otah-kvo as a cover, who had attempted his own slaughter. And if he were wise and lucky and well-positioned, he might be able to take action. Enlisting Cehmai in his service was only a way to improve the chances of setting a lever in the right place.
“The concern our kind brother of Saya brings up is a wise one to consider,” a sallow-faced scion of the Daikani said. “The days are indeed growing shorter, and the time for preparation is well upon us. There are roofs that must be made ready to hold their burden of snow. There are granaries to be filled and stocks to be prepared. There are crops to be harvested, for men and beasts both.”
“I didn’t know the Khai did all that,” a familiar voice whispered. “He must have been a very busy man. I don’t suppose there’s anyone could take up the slack for him?”
Baarath shifted down and sat beside Maati. He smelled of wine, his cheeks were rosy, his eyes too bright. But he had an oilcloth cone filled with strips of fried trout that he offered to Maati, and the distraction was almost welcome. Maati took a bit of the fish.
“What have I missed?” Baarath said.
“The Vaunyogi appear to be a surprise contender,” Maati said. “They’ve been mentioned by four families, and praised in particular by two others. I think the Vaunani and Kamau are feeling upset by it, but they seem to hate each other too much to do anything about it.”
“That’s truth,” Baraath said. “Ijan Vaunani came to blows with old Kamau’s grandson this afternoon at a teahouse in the jeweler’s quarter. Broke his nose for him, I heard.”
“Really?”
Baarath nodded. The sallow man droned on half forgotten now as Baarath spoke close to Maati’s ear.
“There are rumors of reprisal, but old Kamau’s made it clear that anyone doing anything will be sent to tar ships in the Westlands. They say he doesn’t want people thinking ill of the house, but I think it’s his last effort to keep an alliance open against Adrah Vaunyogi. It’s clear enough that someone’s bought little Adrah a great deal more influence than just sleeping with a dead man’s daughter would earn.”
Baarath grinned, then coughed and looked concerned.
“Don’t repeat that to anyone, though,” he said. “Or if you do, don’t say it was me. It’s terribly rude, and I’m rather drunk. I only came up here to sober up a bit.”
“Yes, well, I came up to keep an eye on the process, and I think it’s more likely to put your head on a pillow than clear it.”
Baarath chuckled.
“You’re an idiot if you came here to see what’s happening. It’s all out in the piss troughs where a man can actually speak. Didn’t you know that? Honestly, Maati-kya, if you went to a comfort house, you’d spend all your time watching the girls in the front dance and wondering when the fucking was supposed to start.”
Maati’s jaw went tight. When Baarath offered the fish again, Maati refused it. The sallow man finished, and an old, thick-faced man rose, took the pulpit, announced himself to be Cielah Pahdri, and began listing the various achievements of his house dating back to the fall of the Empire. Maati listened to the recitation and Baraath’s over-loud chewing with equal displeasure.
He was right before, Maati told himself. Baarath was the worst kind of ass, but he wasn’t wrong.
“I assume,” Maati said, “that ‘piss troughs’ is a euphemism.”
“Only half. Most of the interesting news comes to a few teahouses at the south edge of the palaces. They’re near the moneylenders, and that always leads to lively conversations. Going to try your luck there?”
“I thought I might,” Maati said as he rose.
“Look for the places with too many rich people yelling at each other. You’ll be fine,” Baarath said and went back to chewing his trout.
Maati took the steps two at a time, and slipped out the rear of the gallery into a long, dark corridor. Lanterns were lit at each end, and Maati strode through the darkness with the slow burning runout of annoyance that the librarian always seemed to inspire. He didn’t see the woman at the hallway’s end until he had almost reached her. She was thin, fox-faced, and dressed in a simple green robe. She smiled when she caught his eye and took a pose of greeting.
“Maati-cha?”
Maati hesitated, then answered her greeting.
“We haven’t met. My name is Kiyan. Itani’s told me all about you.”
It took the space of a breath for him to truly understand what she’d said and all it meant. The woman nodded confirmation, and Maati stepped close to her, looking back over his shoulder and then down the corridor behind her to be sure they were alone.
“We were going to send you an escort,” the woman said, “but no one could think of how to approach you without seeming like we were assassins. I thought an unarmed woman coming to you alone might suffice.”
“You were right,” he said, and then a moment later, “That’s likely naïve of me, isn’t it?”
“A bit.”
“Please. Take me to him.”
Twilight had soaked the sky in indigo. In the east, stars were peeking over the mountain tops, and the towers rose up into the air as if they led up to the clouds themselves. Maati and the woman walked quickly; she didn’t speak, and he didn’t press her. His mind was busy enough already. They walked side by side along darkening paths. Kiyan smiled and nodded to those who took notice of them. Maati wondered how many people would be reporting that he had left the council with a woman. He looked back often for pursuers. No one seemed to be tracking them, but even at the edge of the palaces, there were enough people to prevent him from being sure.
They reached a teahouse, its windows blazing with light and its air rich with the scent of lemon candles to keep off the insects. The woman strode up the wide steps and into the warmth and light. The keep seemed to expect her, because they were led without a word into a back room where red wine was waiting along with a plate of rich cheese, black bread, and the first of the summer grapes. Kiyan sat at the table and gestured to the bench across from her. Maati sat as she plucked two of the small bright green grapes, bit into them and made a face.
“Too early?” he asked.
“Another week and they’ll be decent. Here, pass me the cheese and bread.”
Kiyan chewed these and Maati poured himself a bowl of wine. It was good—rich and deep and clean. He lifted the bottle but she shook her head.
“He’ll be joining us, then?”
“No. We’re just waiting a moment to be sure we’re not leading anyone to him.”
“Very professional,” he said.
“Actually I’m new to all this. But I take advice well.”
She had a good smile. Maati felt sure that this was the woman Otah had told him about that day in the gardens when Otah had left in chains. The woman he loved and whom he’d asked Maati to help protect. He tried to see Liat in her—the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheek. There was nothing. Or perhaps there was something the two women shared that was simply beyond his ability to see.
As if feeling the weight of his attention, Kiyan took a querying pose. Maati shook his head.
“Reflecting on ages past,” he said. “That’s all.”
She seemed about to ask something when a soft knock came at the door and the keep appeared, carrying a bundle of cloth. Kiyan stood, accepted the bundle, and took a pose that expressed her gratitude only slightly hampered by her burden. The keep left without speaking, and Kiyan pulled the cloth apart—two thin gray hooded cloaks that would cover their robes and hide their faces. She handed one to Maati and pulled the other on.
When they were both ready, Kiyan dug awkwardly in her doubled sleeve for a moment before coming out with four lengths of silver that she left on the table. Seeing Maati’s surprise, she smiled.
“We didn’t ask for the food and wine,” she said. “It’s rude to underpay.”
“The grapes were sour,” Maati said.
Kiyan considered this for a moment and scooped one silver length back into her sleeve. They didn’t leave through the front door or out to the alley, but descended a narrow stairway into the tunnels beneath the city. Someone—the keep or one of Kiyan’s conspirators—had left a lit lantern for them. Kiyan took it in hand and strode into the black tunnels as assured as a woman who had walked this maze her whole life. Maati kept close to her, dread pricking at him for the first time.
The descent seemed as deep as the mines in the plain. The stairs were worn smooth by generations of footsteps, the path they traveled inhabited by the memory of men and women long dead. At length the stairs gave way to a wide, tiled hallway shrouded in darkness. Kiyan’s small lantern lit only partway up the deep blue and worked gold of the walls, the darkness above them more profound than a moonless sky.
The mouths of galleries and halls seemed to gape and close as they passed. Maati could see scorch marks rising up the walls where torches had been set during some past winter, the smoke staining the tiles. A breath seemed to move through the dim air, like the earth exhaling.
The tunnels seemed empty except for them. No glimmer of light came from the doors and passages they passed, no voices however distant competed with the rustle of their robes. At a branching of the great hallway, Kiyan hesitated, then bore left. A pair of great brass gates opened onto a space like a garden, the plants all designed from silk, the birds perched on the branches dead and dust-covered.
“Unreal, isn’t it?” Kiyan said as she picked her way across the sterile terrain. “I think they must go a little mad in the winters down here. All those months without seeing the sunlight.”
“I suppose,” Maati said.
After the garden, they went down a series of corridors so narrow that Maati could place his palms on both walls without stretching. She came to a high wooden doorway with brass fittings that was barred from within. Kiyan passed the lantern to Maati and knocked a complex pattern. A scraping sound spoke of the bar being lifted, and then the door swung in. Three men with blades in their hands stood. The center one smiled, stepped back and silently gestured them through.
Lanterns filled the stone-walled passage with warm, buttery light and the scent of burnt oil. There was no door at the end, only an archway that opened out into a wide, tall space that smelled of sweat and damp wool and torch smoke. A storehouse, then, its door frames stuffed with rope to keep out even a glimmer of light.
Half a dozen men stopped their conversations as Kiyan led him across the empty space to the overseer’s office—a shack within the structure that glowed from within.
Kiyan opened the office door and stood aside, smiling encouragement to Maati as he stepped past her and into the small room. A desk. Four chairs. A stand for scrolls. A map of the winter cities nailed to the wall. Three lanterns. And Otah-kvo rising now from his seat.
He was still thin, but there was an energy about him—in the way he held his shoulders and his hands. In the way he moved.
“You’re looking well for a dead man,” Maati said.
“Feeling better than expected, too,” Otah said, and a smile spread across his long, northern face. “Thank you for coming.”
“How could I not?” Maati drew one of the chairs close to him and sat, his fingers laced around one knee. “So you’ve chosen to take the city after all?”
Otah hesitated a moment, then sat. He rubbed the desktop with his open palm—a dry sound—and his brow furrowed.
“I don’t see any other option,” he said at last. “That sounds convenient, I know. But … you said before that you’d realized I had nothing to do with Biitrah’s death and your assault. I didn’t have a part in Danat’s murder either. Or my father’s. Or even my own rescue from the tower, come to that. It’s all simply happened up to now. And I didn’t know whether you still believed me innocent.”
Maati smiled ruefully. There was something in Otah’s voice that sounded like hope. Maati didn’t know his own heart—the resentment, the anger, the love of Otah-kvo and of Liat and the child she’d borne. He couldn’t say even what they all had to do with this man sitting across his appropriated desk.
“I do,” Maati said at last. “I’ve been looking into the matter, but I suppose you know that if you’ve had me watched.”
“There are others?”
“I have a confession to make. I’d likely be wiser to keep quiet until this whole round is finished, but … I’ve lied to you, Maati. I told you that I’d been with a woman in the east islands and failed to father a child on her. She … she wasn’t real. That never happened.”
Maati considered this, waiting for his heart to rise in anger or shrivel, but it only beat in its customary rhythm. He wondered when it had stopped mattering to him, the father of the boy he’d lost. Since the last time he had spoken with Otah in the high stone cell, certainly, but looking back, he couldn’t put a moment to it. If the boy was his get or Otah’s, neither would bring him back. Neither would undo the years gone by. And there were other things that he had that he might still lose, or else save.
“I thought I was going to die,” Otah said. “I thought it wouldn’t matter to me, and if it gave you some comfort, then …”
“Let it go,” Maati said. “If there’s anything to be said about it, we can say it later. There are other matters at hand.”
“Have you found something, then?”
“I have a family name, I think. Certainly there’s someone putting money and influence behind the Vaunyogi.”
“Likely the Galts,” Otah said. “They’ve been making contracts bad enough to look like bribes. We didn’t know what influence they were buying.”
“It could be this,” Maati said. “Do you know why they’d do it?”
“No,” Otah said. “But if you’ve proof that the Vaunyogi are behind the murderers—”
“I don’t,” Maati said. “I have a suspicion, but nothing more than that. Not yet. And if we don’t uncover them quickly, they’ll likely have Adrah named Khai Machi and have the resources of the whole city to find you and kill you for crimes that everyone outside this warehouse assumes you guilty of.”
They sat in silence for the space of three breaths.
“Well,” Otah-kvo said, “it appears we have some work to do then. But at least we’ve an idea where to look.”
A Betrayal in Winter (The Long Price Quartet Book 2) Page 30