A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

suffering from their drink, but I've hardly begun to celebrate."

  The overseer took a pose that acknowledged the command and scampered

  off, returning immediately with his gathered light. Adrah and his father

  sat at a long stone table. Dark tapestries hung from the wall, red and

  orange and gold. When the doors were safely closed behind them, Idaan

  pulled out one of the stools and sat on it. tier gaze moved from the

  father's face to the son's. She took a pose of query.

  "You seem distressed," she said. "The whole city is loud with my

  brother's glory, and you two are skulking in here like criminals."

  "We have reason to be distressed," Daaya Vaunyogi said. She wondered

  whether Adrah would age into the same loose jowls and watery eyes. "I've

  finally reached the Galts. They've cooled. Killing Oshai's made them

  nervous, and now with Danat back ... we expected to have the fighting

  between your brothers to cover our ... our work. There's no hope of that

  now. And that poet hasn't stopped hunting around, even with the holes

  Oshai poked in him."

  ""The more reason you have to be distressed," Idaan said, "the more

  important that you should not seem it. Besides, I still have two living

  brothers."

  "Ah, and you have some way to make Danat die at Otah's hand?" the old

  man said. There was mockery in his voice, but there was also hope. And

  fear. He had seen what she had done, and perhaps now he thought her

  capable of anything. She supposed that would be something worthy of his

  hope and fear.

  "I don't have the details. But, yes. The longer we wait, the more

  suspicious it will look when Danat and the poet die."

  "You still want Maati Vaupathai dead?" Daaya asked.

  "Otah is locked away, and the poet's digging. Maati Vaupathai isn't

  satisfied to blame the upstart for everything, even if the whole city

  besides him is. There are three breathing men between Adrah and my

  father's chair. Danat, Otah, and the poet. I'll need armsmen, though, to

  do what I intend. How many could you put together? They would have to he

  men you trust."

  Daaya looked at his son, as if expecting to find some answer there, but

  Adrah neither spoke nor moved. He might very nearly not have been there

  at all. Idaan swallowed her impatience and leaned forward, her palms

  spread on the cool stone of the table. One of the candles sputtered and

  spat.

  "I know a man. A mercenary lord. He's done work for me before and kept

  quiet," Daaya said at last. He didn't seem certain.

  "We'll free the upstart and slit the poet's throat," Idaan said. "There

  won't be any question who's actually done the thing. No sane person

  would doubt that it was Otah's hand. And when Danat rides out to find

  him, our men will be ready to ride with him. That will be the dangerous

  part. You'll have to find a way to get him apart from anyone else who goes.

  "And the upstart?" Daaya asked.

  "He'll go where we tell him to go. We'll just have saved him, after all.

  't'here will be no reason to think we mean him harm. They'll all be dead

  in time for the wedding, and if we do it well, the joy that is our

  bonding will put us as the clear favorites to take the chair. That

  should be enough to push the Galts into action. Adrah will be Khai

  before the harvest."

  Idaan leaned hack, smiling in grim satisfaction. It was Adrah who broke

  the silence, his voice calm and sure and unlike him.

  "It won't work."

  Idaan began to take a pose of challenge, but she hesitated when she saw

  his eyes. Adrah had gone cold as winter. It wasn't fear that drove him,

  whatever his father's weakness. There was something else in him, and

  Idaan felt a stirring of unease.

  "I can't sec why not," Idaan said, her voice still strong and sure.

  "Killing the poet and freeing Otah would be simple enough to manage. But

  the other. No. It supposes that Danat would lead the hunt himself. He

  wouldn't. And if he doesn't, the whole thing falls apart. It won't work."

  "I say that he would," Idaan said.

  "And I say that your history planning these schemes isn't one that

  inspires confidence," Adrah said and stood. The candlelight caught his

  face at an angle, casting shadows across his eyes. Idaan rose, feeling

  the blood rushing into her face.

  "I was the one who saved us when Oshai fell," she said. "You two were

  mewling like kittens, and crying despair-"

  "That's enough," Adrah said.

  "I don't recall you being in a position to order me when to speak and

  when to he silent."

  Daaya coughed, looking from one to the other of them like a lamb caught

  between wolf and lion. The smile that touched Adrah's mouth was thin and

  unamused.

  "Idaan-kya," Adrah said, "I am to be your husband and the Khai of this

  city. Sit with that. Your plan to free Oshai failed. Do you understand

  that? It failed. It lost us the support of our hackers, it killed the

  man most effective in carrying out these unfortunate duties we've taken

  on, and it exposed me and my father to risk. You failed before, and this

  scheme you've put before us now would also fail if we did as you propose.

  Adrah began to pace slowly, one hand brushing the hanging tapestries.

  Idaan shook her head, remembering some epic she'd seen when she was

  young. A performer in the role of Black Chaos had moved as Adrah moved

  now. Idaan felt her heart grow tight.

  "It isn't that it's without merit-the shape of it generally is useful,

  but the specifics are wrong. If Danat is to grab what men he can find

  and rush out into the night, it can't be because he's off to avenge a

  poet. He would have to be possessed by some greater passion. And it

  would help if he were drunk, but I don't know that we can arrange that."

  "So if not the Maati Vaupathai ... ," she began, and her throat closed.

  Cehmai, she thought. He means to kill Cehmai and free the andat. Her

  hands balled into fists, her heart thudded as if she'd been sprinting.

  Adrah turned to face her, his arms folded, his expression calm as a

  butcher in the slaughterhouse.

  "You said there were three breaths blocking us. There's a fourth. Your

  father."

  No one spoke. When Idaan laughed, it sounded shrill and panicked in her

  own cars. She took a pose that rejected the suggestion.

  "You've gone mad, Adrah-kya. You've lost all sense. My father is dying.

  He's dying, there's no call to ..."

  "What else would enrage Danat enough to let his caution slip? The

  upstart escapes. Your father is murdered. In the confusion, we come to

  him, a hunting party in hand, ready to ride with him. We can put it out

  today that we're planning to ride out before the end of the week. Fresh

  meat for the wedding feast, we'll say."

  "It won't work," Idaan said, raising her chin.

  "And why not?" Adrah replied.

  "Because I won't let you!"

  She spun and grabbed for the door. As she hauled it open, Adrah was

  around her, his arms pressing it shut again. Daaya was there too, his

  wide hands patting at her in placating gestures that filled her with

  rage. Her mind left h
er, and she shrieked and howled and wept. She

  clawed at them both and kicked and tried to bite her way free, but

  Adrah's arms locked around her, lifted her, tightened until she lost her

  breath and the room spun and grew darker.

  She found herself sitting again without knowing when she'd been set

  down. Adrah was raising a cup to her lips. Strong, unwatered wine. She

  sipped it, then pushed it away.

  "Have you calmed yourself yet?" Adrah asked. There was warmth in his

  voice again, as if she'd been sick and was only just recovering.

  "You can't do it, Adrah-kya. He's an old man, and ..."

  Adrah let the silence stretch before he leaned toward her and wiped her

  lips with a soft cloth. She was trembling, and it annoyed her. Her body

  was supposed to be stronger than that.

  "It will cost him a few days," Adrah said. "A few weeks at most.

  Idaan-kya, his murder is the thing that will draw your brother out if

  anything will. You said it to me, love. If we falter, we fail."

  He smiled and caressed her cheek with back of his hand. Daaya was at the

  table, drinking wine of his own. Idaan looked into Adrah's dark eyes,

  and despite the smiles, despite the caresses, she saw the hardness

  there. I should have said no, she thought. When he asked if I had taken

  another lover, I shouldn't have danced around it. I should have said no.

  She nodded.

  "We can make it quick. Painless," Adrah said. "It will be a mercy,

  really. His life as it is now can hardly be worth living. Sick, weak.

  That's no way for a proud man to live."

  She nodded again. Her father. The simple pleasure in his eyes.

  "He wanted so much to see us wed," she murmured. "He wanted so much for

  me to be happy."

  Adrah took a pose that offered sympathy, but she wasn't such a fool as

  to believe it. She rose shakily to her feet. They did not stop her.

  "I should go," she said. "I'll be expected at the palaces. I expect

  there will be food and song until the sun comes up."

  Daaya looked up. His smile was sickly, but Adrah took a pose of

  reassurance and the old man looked away again.

  "I'm trusting you, Idaan-kya," Adrah said. "To let you go. It's because

  I trust you."

  "It's because you can't lock me away without attracting attention. If I

  vanish, people will wonder why, and my brother not the least. We can't

  have that, can we? Everything must seem perfectly normal."

  "It still might be wise, locking you away," Adrah said. He pretended to

  be joking, but she could see the debate going on behind his eyes. For a

  moment, her life spread out before her. The first wife of the Khai

  Machi, looking into these eyes. She had loved him once. She had to

  remember that. Idaan smiled, leaned forward, kissed his lips.

  "I'm only sad," she said. "It will pass. I'll come and meet you

  tomorrow. We can plan what needs to be done."

  Outside, the revelry had spread. Garlands arched above the streets.

  Choirs had assembled and their voices made the city chime like a struck

  bell. Joy and relief were everywhere, except in her. For most of the

  afternoon, she moved from feast to feast, celebration to

  celebration-always careful not to be touched or bumped, afraid she might

  break like a girl made from spun sugar. As the sun hovered three hands'

  widths above the mountains to the west, she found the face she had been

  longing for.

  Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were in a glade, sitting with a dozen

  children of the utkhaiem. The little boys and girls were sitting on the

  grass, grinding green into their silk robes with knees and elbows, while

  three slaves performed with puppets and dolls. The players squealed and

  whistled and sang, the puppets hopped and tumbled, beat one another, and

  fled. The children laughed. Cehmai himself was stretched out like a

  child, and two adventurous girls were sitting in Stone-MadeSoft's wide

  lap, their arms around each other. The andat seemed mildly amused.

  When Cehmai caught sight of her, he came over immediately. She smiled as

  she had been doing all day, took a greeting pose that her hands had

  shaped a hundred times since morning. He was the first one, she thought,

  to see through pose and smile both.

  "What's happened?" he asked, stepping close. His eyes were as dark as

  Adrah's, but they were soft. They were young. There wasn't any hatred

  there yet, or any pain. Or perhaps she only wished that was true. Her

  smile faltered.

  "Nothing," she said, and he took her hand. Here where they might be

  seen-where the children at least were sure to see them-he took her hand

  and she let him.

  "What's happened?" he repeated, his voice lower and closer. She shook

  her head.

  "My father is going to die," she said, her voice breaking on the words,

  her lips growing weak. "My father's going to die, and there's nothing I

  can do to help it. No way for me to stop it. And the only time crying

  makes me feel better is when I can do it with you. Isn't that strange?"

  Cchmai rode tip the wide track, switchbacking up the side of the

  mountain. The ore chute ran straight from the mine halfway up the

  mountain's face to the carter's base at its foot. When the path turned

  toward it, Cchmai considered the broad beams and pillars that held the

  chute smooth and even down the rough mountainside. When they turned

  away, he looked south to where the towers of Machi stood like reeds in

  the noonday sun. His head ached.

  "We do appreciate your coming, Cehmai-cha," the mine's engineer said

  again. "With the new Khai come home, we thought everyone would put

  business off for a few days."

  Cchmai didn't bother taking a pose accepting the thanks as he had the

  first few times. Repetition had made it clear that the gratitude was

  less than wholly sincere. He only nodded and angled his horse around the

  next bend, swinging around to a view of the ore chute.

  There were six of them; Cchmai and Stone-blade-Soft, the mine's

  engineer, the overseer with the diagrams and contracts in a leather

  satchel on his hip, and two servants to carry the water and food.

  Normally there would have been twice as many people. Cehmai wondered how

  many miners would he in the tunnels, then found he didn't particularly

  care, and returned to contemplating the ore chute and his headache.

  They had left before dawn, trekking to the Raadani mines. It had been

  arranged weeks before, and business and money carried a momentum that

  even stone didn't. A landslide might overrun a city, but it only went

  down. Something had to have tremendous power to propel something as

  tired and heavy as he felt up the mountainside. Something in the back of

  his mind twitched at the thought-attention shifting of its own accord

  like an extra limb moving without his willing it.

  "Stop," Cehmai snapped.

  The overseer and engineer hesitated for a moment before Cehmai

  understood their confusion.

  "Not you," he said and gestured to Stone-Made-Soft. "Him. He was judging

  what it would take to start a landslide."

  "Only as an exercise," the andat said, its low voice sounding both hurt


  and insincere. "I wasn't going to do it."

  The engineer looked up the slope with an expression that suggested

  Cehmai might not hear any more false thanks. Cehmai felt a spark of

  vindictive pleasure at the man's unease and saw Stone-Made-Soft's lips

  thin so slightly that no other man alive would have recognized the smile.

  Idaan had spent the first night of the festival with him, weeping and

  laughing, taking comfort and coupling until they had both fallen asleep

  in the middle of their pillow talk. The night candle had hardly burned

  down a full quarter mark when the servant had come, tapping on his door

  to wake him. He'd risen for the trek to the mines, and Idaan- alone in

  his bed-had turned, wrapping his bedclothes about her naked body, and

  watched him as if afraid he would tell her to leave. By the time he had

  found fresh robes, her eyelids had closed again and her breath was deep

  and slow. He'd paused for a moment, considering her sleeping face. With

  the paint worn off and the calm of sleep, she looked younger. Her lips,

  barely parted, looked too soft to bruise his own, and her skin glowed

  like honey in sunlight.

  But instead of slipping back into bed and sending out a servant for new

  apples, old cheese, and sugared almonds, he'd strapped on his boots and

  gone out to meet his obligations. His horse plodded along, flies buzzed

  about his face, and the path turned away from the ore chute and looked