nothing."
"For the favor of killing my father?" she asked, unable to keep the edge
from her voice.
"For what I have sacrificed to you," he said without looking back. Idaan
felt her face flush, her hands ball into fists. She heard him groan from
the next room, heard his robes shushing against the stone floor. The bed
creaked.
A lifetime, married to him. There wouldn't be a moment in the years that
followed that would not be poisoned. He would never forgive her, and she
would never fail to hate him. They would go to their graves, each with
teeth sunk in the other's neck.
They were perfect for each other.
Idaan walked silently to the window, took down the blue silk and put up
the red.
THE ARMSMEN GAVE HIM ENOUGH WATER TO LIVE, THOUGH NOT SO MUCH AS to
slake his thirst. Almost enough food to live as well, though not quite.
He had no clothing but the rags he'd worn when he'd come back to Machi
and the cloak that Maati had brought. When dawn was coming near and the
previous day's heat had gone from the tower, he would be huddling in
that cloth. Through the day, sun heated the great tower, and that heat
rose. And as it rose, it grew. In his stone cage, Otah lay sweating as
if he'd been working at hard labor, his throat dry and his head pounding.
The towers of Machi, Otah had decided, were the stupidest buildings in
the world. Too cold in winter, too hot in summer, unpleasant to use,
exhausting to climb. They existed only to show that they could exist.
More and more of the time, his mind was in disarray; hunger and boredom,
the stifling heat and the growing presentiment of his own death
conspired to change the nature of time. Otah felt outside it all, apart
from the world and adrift. He had always been in this room; the memories
from before were like stories he'd heard told. He would always be in
this room unless he wriggled out the window and into the cool, open air.
Twice already he had dreamed that he'd leapt from the tower. Both times,
he woke in a panic. It was that as much as anything that kept him from
taking the one control left to him. When despair washed through him, he
remembered the dream of falling, with its shrill regret. He didn't want
to die. His ribs were showing, he was almost nauseated with thirst, his
mind would not slow down or be quiet. He was going to be put to death,
and he did not want to die.
The thought that his suffering saved Kiyan had ceased to comfort him.
Part of him was glad that he had not known how wretched his father's
treatment of him would be. He might have faltered. At least now he could
not run. He would lose-he had lost, and badly-but he could not run. Mai
sat on her chair-the tall, thin one with legs of woven cane that she'd
had in their island hut. When she spoke, it was in the soft liquid
sounds of her native language and too fast for Otah to follow. He
struggled, but when he croaked out that he couldn't understand her, his
own voice woke him until he drifted away again into nothing, troubled
only by the conviction that he could hear rats chewing through the stone.
The shriek woke him completely. He sat upright, his arms trembling. The
room was real again, unoccupied by visions. Outside the great door, he
heard someone shout, and then something heavy pounded once against the
door, shaking it visibly. Otah rose. There were voices-new ones. After
so many days, he knew the armsmen by their rhythms and the timbre of
their murmurs. The throats that made the sounds he heard now were
unfamiliar. He walked to the door and leaned against it, pressing his
ear to the hairline crack between the wood and its stone frame. One
voice rose above the others, its tone commanding. Otah made out the word
"chains."
The voices went away again for so long Otah began to suspect he'd
imagined it all. The scrape of the bar being lifted from the door
startled him. He stepped hack, fear and relief coming together in his
heart. This might be the end. He knew his brother had returned; this
could be his death come for him. But at least it was an end to his time
in this cell. He tried to hold himself with some dignity as the door
swung open. The torches were so bright that Otah could hardly see.
"Good evening, Otah-cha," a man's voice said. "I hope you're well enough
to move. I'm afraid we're in a bit of a hurry."
"Who are you?" Otah asked. His own voice sounded rough. Squinting, he
could make out perhaps ten men in black leather armor. They had blades
drawn. The armsmen lay in a pile against the far wall, stacked like
goods in a warehouse, a black pool of blood surrounding them. The smell
of them wasn't rotten, not yet, but it was disturbingcoppery and
intimate. They had only been dead for minutes. If all of them were dead.
"We're the men who've come to take you out of here," the commander said.
He was the one actually standing in the doorway. He had the long face of
a man of the winter cities, but a westlander's flowing hair. Otah moved
forward and took a pose of gratitude that seemed to amuse him.
"Can you walk?" he asked as Utah came out into the larger room. The
signs of struggle were everywhere-spilled wine, overturned chairs, blood
on the walls. The armsmen had been taken by surprise. Utah put a hand
against the wall to steady himself. The stone felt warm as flesh.
"I'll do what I have to," Otah said.
"That's admirable," the commander said, "but I'm more curious about what
you can do. I've suffered long confinement myself a time or two, and I
know what it does. We can't take the easy way down. We've got to walk.
If you can do this, that's all to the good. If you can't, we're prepared
to carry you, but I need to have you out of the city quickly."
"I don't understand. Did Maati send you?"
"There's better places to discuss this, Otah-cha. We can't go down by
the chains. Even if there weren't more armsmen waiting there, we've just
broken them. Can you walk down the tower?"
A memory of the endlessly turning stairs and the ghost of pain in his
knees and legs. Otah felt a stab of shame, but pulled himself up and
shook his head.
"I don't believe I can," he said. The commander nodded and two of his
men pulled lengths of wood from their backs and fitted them together in
a cripple's litter. There was a small seat for Otah, canted against the
slope of the stairway, and the poles were set one longer than the other
to fit the tight curve. It would have been useless in any other
situation, but for this task it was perfect. As one of the men helped
Otah take his place on it, he wondered if the device had been built for
this moment, or if things like it existed in service of these towers.
The largest of the men spat on his hands and gripped the carrying poles
that would start down the stairs and bear most of Otah's weight. One of
his fellows took the other end, and Otah lurched up.
They began their descent, Otah with his back to the center of the spiral
staircase. He watched the stone of the wall curl up from below. The men
; grunted and cursed, but they moved quickly. The man on the higher poles
stumbled once, and the one below shouted angrily back at him.
The journey seemed to last forever-stone and darkness, the smell of
sweat and lantern oil. Otah's knees bumped against the wall before him,
his head against the wall behind. When they reached the halfway point,
another huge man was waiting to take over the worst of the carrying.
Otah felt his shame return. He tried to protest, but the commander put a
strong, hard hand on his shoulder and kept him in the chair.
"You chose right the first time," the commander said.
The second half of the journey down was less terrible. Otah's mind was
beginning to clear, and a savage hope was lifting him. He was being
saved. He couldn't think who or why, but he was delivered from his cell.
He thought of the armsmen new-slaughtered at the tower's height, and
recalled Kiyan's words. How do you expect to protect me and my house?
They could all be killed, his jailers and his rescuers alike. All in the
name of tradition.
He could tell when they reached the level of the street-the walls had
grown so thick there was almost no room for them to walk, but thin
windows showed glimmers of light, and drunken, disjointed music filled
the air. At the base of the stair, his carriers lowered Otah to the
ground and took his arms over their shoulders as if he were drunk or
sick. The commander squeezed to the front of the party. Despite his
frown, Otah sensed the man was enjoying himself immensely.
They moved quickly and quietly through mare-like passages and out at
last into an alley at the foot of the tower. A covered cart was waiting,
two horses whickering restlessly. The commander made a sign, and the two
bearers lifted Otah into the back of the cart. The commander and two of
the men climbed in after, and the driver started the horses. Shod hooves
rapped the stone, and the cart lurched and bumped. The commander pulled
the back cloth closed and tied it, but loose enough he could peer out
the seam. The lantern was extinguished, and the scent of its dying smoke
filled the cart for a moment and was gone.
"What's happening out there?" Otah asked.
"Nothing," the commander said. "And best we keep it that way. No talking."
In silence and darkness, they continued. Otah felt lightheaded. The cart
turned twice to the left and then again to the right. The driver was
hailed and replied, but they never stopped. A breeze fluttered the thick
cloth of the cover, and when it paused, Otah heard the sound of water;
they were on the bridge heading south. He was free. He grinned, and then
as the implications of his freedom unfolded themselves in his mind, his
relief faltered.
"Forgive me. I don't know your name. I'm sorry. I can't do this."
The commander shifted. It was nearly black in the cart, so Otah couldn't
see the man's face, but he imagined incredulity on the long features.
"I went to Machi to protect someone-a woman. If I vanish, they'll still
have reason to suspect her. My brother might kill her on the chance that
she's involved with this. I can't let that happen. I'm sorry, but we
have to turn hack."
"You love her that much?" the commander asked.
"This isn't her fault. It's mine."
"All this is your fault, eh? You have a lot to answer for." There was
amusement in the man's voice. Otah felt himself smile.
"Well, perhaps not all my fault. But I can't let her be hurt. This is
the price of it, and I'll pay it if I have to."
They were all silent for a long moment, then the commander sighed.
"You're an honorable man, Otah Machi. I want you to know I respect that.
Boys. Chain him and gag him. I don't want him calling out."
They were on him in an instant, pushing him hard onto the rough wood of
the cart. Someone's knee drove in between his shoulder blades; invisible
hands bent his arms backwards. When he opened his mouth to scream, a wad
of heavy cloth was shoved in so deeply he gagged. A leather strap
followed, keeping it in place. He didn't know when his legs were bound,
but in fewer than twenty breaths, he was immobile-his arms chained
painfully behind him at his wrists and elbows, his mouth stuffed until
it was hard to breathe. The knee moved to the small of his back, digging
into his spine with every shift of the cart. He tried once to move, and
the pressure from above increased. He tried again, and the man cursed
him and rapped his head with something hard.
"I said no talking," the commander murmured, and returned to peering out
the opening in the hack cloth. Otah shifted, snarling in impotent rage
that none of these men seemed to see or recognize. The cart moved off
through the night. He could feel it when they moved from the paving of
the main road to a dirt track; he could hear the high grass hushing
against the wheels. They were taking him nowhere, and he couldn't think why.
He guessed it was almost three hands before the first light started to
come. Dawn was still nothing more than a lighter kind of darkness, the
commander's feet-the only part of the man Otah could see without lifting
his head-were a dim form of shadow within shadow. It was something. Otah
heard the trill of a daymartin, and then a rough rattling and the sound
of water. A bridge over some small river. When the cart lurched back to
ground, the commander turned.
"Have him stop," he said, and then a moment later, "I said stop the
cart. Do it."
One of the other two-the one who wasn't kneeling on Otah- shifted and
spoke to the driver. The jouncing slowed and stopped.
"I thought I heard something out there. In the trees on the left. Baat.
Go check. If you see anything at all get back fast."
The pressure on Otah's back eased and one of the men clambered out. Otah
turned over and no one tried to stop him. There was more light now. He
could make out the grim set of the commander's features, the unease in
the one remaining armsman.
"Well, this is interesting," the commander said.
"What's out there," the other man asked, his blade drawn. The commander
looked out the slit of cloth and motioned for the armsman to pass over
his sword. He did, and the commander took it, holding it with the ease
of long familiarity.
"It may be nothing," he said. "Were you with me when I was working for
the Warden of Elleais?"
"I'd just signed on then," the armsman said.
"You've always been a good fighter, Lachmi. I want you to know I respect
that."
With the speed of a snake, the commander's wrist flickered, and the
armsman fell hack in the cart, blood flowing from his opened neck. Otah
tried to push himself away as the commander turned and drove the sword
into the armsman's chest. He dropped the blade then, letting it fall to
the cart's floor, and took a pose of regret to the dying man.
"But," the commander said, "you should never have cheated me at tiles.
That was stupid."
The commander stepped over the body and spoke to the driver. He spoke
clearly enough for Otah to hear.
"Is it done?"
The driver said something.
"Good," the commander replied, and came hack. He flipped Otah onto his
belly with casual disregard, and Otah felt his bonds begin to loosen.
"All apologies, Otah-cha," the commander said. "But there's a lesson you
can take from all this: just because someone's bought a mercenary
captain, it doesn't mean his commanders aren't still for sale. Now I
will need your robes, such as they are."
Otah pulled the leather strap from around his head and spat out the
cloth, retching as he did so. Before he could speak, the commander had
climbed out of the cart, and Otah was left to follow.
They had stopped at a clearing by a river, surrounded by white oaks. The
bridge was old wood and looked almost too decrepit to cross. Six men
with gray robes and hunting bows were walking toward them from the
trees, two of them dragging the arrow-riddled body of the armsman the
commander had sent out. Two others carried a litter with what was
clearly another dead man-thin and naked. The commander took a pose of
welcome, and the first archer returned it. Otah stumbled forward,
rubbing his wrists. The archers were all smiling, pleased with
themselves. When he came close enough, Otah saw the second corpse was on
its back, and a wide swath of intricate black ink stained its breast.
The first half of an east island marriage mark. A tattoo like his own.
"That's why we'll need your robes, Otah-cha," the commander said. "This
poor bastard will have been in the water for a while before he reaches
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