A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  "Ask him when he comes. He will be the Khai Machi, and if he has done as

  you said, then there's no crime in it and no reason that he should hide it."

  "A poet was attacked-"

  "And did you die? Are you dying? No? Then don't ask sympathy from me.

  Go, Maati-cha. Take the prisoner anything you like. Take him a pony and

  let him ride it around his cell, if that pleases you. Only don't return

  to me. Any business you have with me now, you have with my son.

  The Khai took a pose of command that ended the audience, and Maati

  stood, took a pose of gratitude that he barely felt, and withdrew from

  the meeting room. He stalked along the corridors of the palace seething.

  Back in his apartments, he took stock. He had gathered together his

  bundle even before he'd gone to the audience. A good wool robe, a rough

  cloth hag filled with nut breads and dry cheeses, and a flask of fresh

  water. Everything that he thought the Khai's men would permit. He folded

  it all together and tied it with twine.

  At the base of the great tower, armsmcn stood guard at the platform-a

  metalwork that ran on tracks set into the stone of the tower, large

  enough to carry twelve men. The chains that held it seemed entirely too

  thin. Maati identified himself, thinking his poet's robe, reputation,

  and haughty demeanor might suffice to make the men do as he instructed.

  Instead, a runner was sent to the Khai's palace to confirm that Maati

  was indeed permitted to see the prisoner and to give him the little

  gifts that he carried. Once word was brought back, Maati climbed on the

  platform, and the signalman on the ground blew a call on a great

  trumpet. The chains went taut, and the platform rose. Maati held onto

  the rail, his knuckles growing whiter as the ground receded. Wind

  plucked at his sleeves as the roofs of even the greatest palaces fell

  away below him. The only things so high as he was were the towers, the

  birds, and the mountains. It was beautiful and exhilarating, and all he

  could think the whole time was what would happen if a single link in any

  of the four chains gave way. When he reached the open sky doors at the

  top, the captain of the armsmen took him solidly by his arm and helped

  him step in.

  "First time, eh?" the captain said, and his men chuckled, but not

  cruelly. It was a journey each of them risked, Maati realized, every

  day. These men were more likely to die for the vanity of Machi than he.

  He smiled and nodded, stepping away from the open space of the sky door.

  "I've come to see the prisoner," he said.

  "I know," the captain said. "The trumpet said as much, if you knew to

  listen for it. But understand, if he attacks you-if he tries to bargain

  your life for his freedom-I'll send your body down. You make your choice

  when you go in there. I can't be responsible for it."

  The captain's expression was stern. Maati saw that he thought this

  possible, the danger real. Maati took a pose of thanks, hampered

  somewhat by the bundle under his arm. The captain only nodded and led

  him to a huge wooden door. Four of his men drew their blades as he

  unbarred it and let it swing in. Maati took a deep breath and stepped

  through.

  Otah was huddled in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees. He

  looked up and then back down. Maati heard the door close behind him,

  heard the bar slide home. All those men to protect him from this

  half-dead rag.

  "I've brought food," Maati said. "I considered wine, but it seemed too

  much like a celebration."

  Otah chuckled, a thick phlegmy sound.

  "It would have gone to my head too quickly anyway," he said, his voice

  weak. "I'm too old to go drinking without a good meal first."

  Maati knelt and unfolded the robe and arranged the food he'd brought. It

  seemed too little now, but when he broke off a corner of nut bread and

  held it out, Otah nodded his gratitude and took it. Maati opened the

  flask of water, put it beside Otah's feet, and sat back.

  "What news?" Otah asked. "I don't hear much gossip up here."

  "It's all as straightforward as a maze," Maati said. "House Siyanti is

  calling in every favor it has not to be banned from the city. Your old

  overseer has been going to each guild chapter house individually.

  There's even rumor he's been negotiating with hired armsmen."

  "He must be frightened for his life," Otah said and shook his head

  wearily. "I'm sorry to have done that to him. But I suppose there's

  little enough I can do about it now. There does always seem to be a

  price people pay for knowing me."

  Maati looked at his hands. For a moment he considered holding his

  tongue. It would be worse, he thought, holding out hope if there was

  none. But it was all that he had left to offer.

  "I've sent to the Dai-kvo. I may have a way that you can survive this,"

  he said. "There's no precedent for someone refusing the offer to become

  a poet. It's possible that ..."

  Otah sipped the water and put down the flask. His brow was furrowed.

  "You've asked him to make me a poet?" Otah asked.

  "I didn't say it would work," Maati said. "Only that I'd done it."

  "Well, thank you for that much."

  Otah reached out, took another hit of bread, and leaned back. The effort

  seemed to exhaust him. Nlaati rose and paced the room. The view from the

  window was lovely and inhuman. No one had ever been meant to see so far

  at once. A thought occurred, and he looked in the corners of the room.

  "Have they ... there's no night bucket," he said.

  Otah raised one arm in a wide gesture toward the world outside.

  "I've been using the window," he said. Maati smiled, and Otah smiled

  with him. 't'hen for a moment they were laughing together.

  "Well, that must confuse people in the streets," Maati said.

  "Very large pigeons," Otah said. "They blame very large pigeons."

  Maati grinned, and then felt the smile fade.

  "They're going to kill, you Otah-kvo. The Khai and Danat. 't'hey can't

  let you live. You're too well known, and they think you'll act against

  them."

  "They won't make do with blinding inc and casting me into the

  wilderness, eh?"

  "I'll make the suggestion, if you like."

  Otah's laugh was thinner now. Ile took up the cheese, digging into its

  pale flesh with his fingers. lie held a sliver out to Maati, offering to

  share it. Maati hesitated, and then accepted it. It was smooth as cream

  and salty. It would go well with the nut bread, he guessed.

  "I knew this was likely to happen when I chose to come back," Otah said.

  "I'm not pleased by it, but it will spare Kiyan, won't it? They won't

  keep pressing her?"

  "I can't see why they would," Maati said.

  "Dying isn't so had, then," Otah said. "At least it does something for her."

  "Do you mean that?"

  "I might as well, Nlaati-kya. Unless you plan to sneak me out in your

  sleeve, I think I'm going to he spared the rigors of a northern winter.

  I don't see there's anything to be done about that."

  Maati sighed and nodded. He rose and took a pose of farewell. Even just

  the little food and the
short time seemed to have made Otah stronger. He

  didn't rise, but he took a pose that answered the farewell. Maati walked

  to the door and pounded to be let out. He heard the scrape of the bar

  being raised. Otah spoke.

  "Thank you for all this. It's kind."

  "I'm not doing it for you, Otah-kvo."

  "All the same. Thank you."

  Maati didn't reply. The door opened, and he stepped out. The captain of

  the armsmen started to speak, but something in Maati's expression

  stopped him. Maati strode to the sky doors and out to the platform as if

  he were walking into a hallway and not an abyss of air. He clasped his

  hands behind him and looked out over the roofs of Machi. What had been

  vertiginous only recently failed to move him now. His mind and heart

  were too full. When he reached the ground again, he walked briskly to

  his apartments. The wound in his belly itched badly, but he kept himself

  from worrying it. He only gathered his papers, sat on a deck of oiled

  wood that looked out over gardens of summer trees and ornate flowers a

  brighter red than blood, and planned out the remainder of his day.

  There were still two armsmen from the cages with whom he hadn't spoken.

  If he knew who had killed the assassin, it would likely lead him nearer

  the truth. And the slaves and servants of the Third Palace might be

  persuaded to speak more of Danat Machi, now that he was coming back

  covered in the glory of his brother's blood. If he had used the story of

  Otah the Upstart to distract his remaining brother from his schemes ...

  A servant boy interrupted, announcing Cehmai. Maati took a pose of

  acknowledgment and had the young poet brought to him. He looked unwell,

  Maati thought. His skin was too pale, his eyes troubled. He couldn't

  think that Otah-kvo was bothering Cehmai badly, but surely something was.

  Still, the boy managed a grin and when he sat, he moved with more energy

  than Maati himself felt.

  "You sent for me, Maati-kvo?"

  "I have work," he said. "You offered to help me with this project once.

  And I could do with your aid, if you still wish to lend it."

  "You aren't stopping?"

  Maati considered. He could say again that the Dai-kvo had told him to

  discover the murderer of Biitrah Machi and whether Otah-kvo had had a

  hand in it, and that until he'd done so, he would keep to his task. It

  had been a strong enough argument for the utkhaiem, even for the Khai.

  But Cehmai had known the Dai-kvo as well as he had, and more recently.

  He would see how shallow the excuse was. In the end he only shook his head.

  "I am not stopping," he said.

  "May I ask why not?"

  "They are going to kill Otah-kvo."

  "Yes," Cehmai agreed, his voice calm and equable. Maati might as well

  have said that winter would be cold.

  "And I have a few days to find whose crimes he's carrying."

  Cehmai frowned and took a pose of query.

  "They'll kill him anyway," Cehmai said. "If he killed Biitrah, they'll

  execute him for that. If he didn't, Danat will do the thing to keep his

  claim to be the Khai. Either way he's a dead man."

  "That's likely true," Maati said. "But I've done everything else I can

  think to do, and this is still left, so I'll do this. If there is

  anything at all I can do, I have to do it."

  "In order to save your teacher," Cehmai said, as if he understood.

  "To sleep better twenty years from now," Maati said, correcting him. "If

  anyone asks, I want to he able to say that I did what could be done. And

  I want to be able to mean it. "That's more important to me than saving him."

  Cehmai seemed puzzled, but Maati found no better way to express it

  without mentioning his son's name, and that would open more than it

  would close. Instead he waited, letting the silence argue for him.

  Cehmai took a pose of acceptance at last, and then tilted his head.

  "Maati-kvo ... I'm sorry, but when was the last time you slept?"

  Maati smiled and ignored the question.

  "I'm going to meet with one of the armsmen who saw my assassin killed,"

  he said. "I was wondering if I could impose on you to find some servant

  from Danat's household with whom I might speak later this evening. I

  have a few questions about him ..

  DANAT MACIII ARRIVED LIKE. A HERO. THE STREETS WERE FILLET) WITH people

  cheering and singing. Festivals filled the squares. Young girls danced

  through the streets in lines, garlands of summer blossoms in their hair.

  And from his litter strewn with woven gold and silver, Danat Machi

  looked out like a protective father indulging a well-loved child. Idaan

  had been present when the word came that Danat Machi waited at the

  bridge for his father's permission to enter the city. She had gone down

  behind the runner to watch the doors fly open and the celebration that

  had been building spill out into the dark stone streets. They would have

  sting as loud for Kaiin, if Danat had been dead.

  While Danat's caravan slogged its way through the crowds, Idaan

  retreated to the palaces. The panoply of the utkhaiem was hardly more

  restrained than the common folk. Members of all the high families

  appeared as if by chance outside the Third Palace's great hall.

  Musicians and singers entertained with beautiful ballads of great

  warriors returning home from the field, of time and life renewed in a

  new generation. They were songs of the proper function of the world. It

  was as if no one had known Biitrah or Kaiin, as if the wheel of the

  world were not greased with her family's blood. Idaan watched with a

  calm, pleasant expression while her soul twisted with disgust.

  When Danat reached the long, broad yard and stepped down from his

  litter, a cheer went up from all those present; even from her. Danat

  raised his arms and smiled to them all, beaming like a child on Candles

  Night. His gaze found her, and he strode through the crowd to her side.

  Idaan raised her chin and took a pose of greeting. It was what she was

  expected to do. He ignored it and picked her up in a great hug, swinging

  her around as if she weighed nothing, and then placed her back on her

  own feet.

  "Sister," he said, smiling into her eyes. "I can't say how glad I am to

  see you.

  "Danat-kya," she said, and then failed.

  "How are things with our father?"

  The sorrow that was called for here was at least easier than the feigned

  delight. She saw it echoed in Danat's eyes. So close to him, she could

  see the angry red in the whites of his eyes, the pallor in his skin. He

  was wearing paint, she realized. Rouge on his cheeks and lips and some

  warm-toned powder to lend his skin the glow of health. Beneath it, he

  was sallow. She wondered if he'd grown sick, and whether there was some

  slow poison that might be blamed for his death.

  "He has been looking forward to seeing you," she said.

  "Yes. Yes, of course. And I hear that you're to become a Vaunyogi. I'm

  pleased for you. Adrah's a good man."

  "I love him," she said, surprised to find that in some dim way it was

  still truth. "But how are you, brother? Are you ... are things well with

&nbs
p; you?"

  For a moment, Danat seemed about to answer. She thought she saw

  something weaken in him, his mouth losing its smile, his eyes looking

  into a darkness like the one she carried. In the end, he shook himself

  and kissed her forehead, then turned again to the crowd and made his way

  to the Khai's palace, greeting and rejoicing with everyone who crossed

  his path. And it was only the beginning. Danat and their father would be

  closeted away for a time, then the ritual welcome from the heads of the

  families of the utkhaicm. And then festivities and celebrations, feasts

  and dances and revelry in the streets and palaces and teahouses.

  Idaan made her way to the compound of the Vaunyogi, and to Adrah and his

  father. The house servants greeted her with smiles and poses of welcome.

  The chief overseer led her to a small meeting room in the hack. If it

  seemed odd that this room-windowless and dark-was used now in the summer

  when most gatherings were in gardens or open pavilions, the overseer

  made no note of it. Nothing could have been more different from the mood

  in the city than the one here; like a winter night that had crept into

  summer.

  "Has House Vaunyogi forgotten where it put its candles?" she asked, and

  turned to the overseer. "Find a lantern or two. These fine men may be