A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  instead of blue, because otherwise you're blinded and you're letting him

  escape because of it. There were times I more than half believed you,

  Maati-kvo. But when I look at this I see nothing to suggest any

  conspiracy but his."

  Maati rubbed the point between his eyes with his thumb, pressing hard to

  keep his annoyance at bay. He shouldn't have spoken to the boy, but now

  that he had, there was nothing for it.

  "Your anger-" he began, but Cehmai cut him off.

  "You're risking people's lives, Maati-kvo. You're hanging them on the

  thought that you can't be wrong about the upstart."

  "Whose lives?"

  "The lives of people he would kill."

  "'There is no risk from Otah-kvo. You don't understand."

  "'T'hen teach me." It was as much an insult as a challenge. Maati felt

  the blood rising to his cheeks even as his mind dissected Cehmai's

  reaction. There was something to it, some reason for the violence and

  frustration of it, that didn't make sense. The boy was reacting to

  something more than Nlaati knew. Maati swallowed his rage.

  "I'll ask five days. Trust me for five days, and I will show you proof.

  Will that do?"

  He saw the struggle in Cehmai's face. The impulse to refuse, to fight,

  to spread the news across the city that Otah Machi lived. And then the

  respect for his elders that had been ground into him from his first day

  in the school and for all the years since he'd taken the brown robes

  they shared. Maati waited, forcing himself to patience. And in the end,

  Cehmai nodded once, turned, and stalked away.

  Five days, Maati thought, shaking his head. I wonder what I thought to

  manage in that time. I should have asked for ten.

  THE RAINS CAME IN THE EARLY EVENING: LIGHTNING AND THE BLUE-GRAY bellies

  of cloudbank. The first few drops sounded like stones, and then the

  clouds broke with a sudden pounding-thousands of small drums rolling.

  Otah sat in the window and looked out at the courtyard as puddles

  appeared and danced white and clear. The trees twisted and shifted under

  gusts of wind and the weight of water. The little storms rarely lasted

  more than a hand and a half, but in that time, they seemed like

  doomsday, and they reminded Otah of being young, when everything had

  been full and torrential and brief. He wished now that he had the skill

  to draw this brief landscape before the clouds passed and it was gone.

  There was something beautiful in it, something worth preserving.

  "You're looking better."

  Otah shifted, glancing back into the room. Sinja was there, his long

  hair slicked down by the rain, his robes sodden. Otah took a welcoming

  pose as the commander strode across the room toward him, dripping as he

  came.

  "Brighter about the eyes, blood in your skin again. One would think

  you'd been eating, perhaps even walking around a bit."

  "I feel better," Otah said. "That's truth."

  "I didn't doubt you would. I've seen men far worse off than you pull

  through just fine. They've found your corpse, by the way. Identified it

  as you, just as we'd hoped. There are already half a hundred stories

  about how that came to be, and none of them near the truth. Amiit-cha is

  quite pleased, I think."

  "I suppose it's worth being pleased over," Otah said.

  "You don't seem overjoyed."

  "Someone killed my father and my brothers and placed the blame on me. It

  just seems an odd time to celebrate."

  Sinja didn't answer this, and for a moment, the two men sat in silence

  broken only by the rain. Then Otah spoke again. "Who was he? The man

  with my tattoo? Where did you find him?"

  "He wasn't the sort of man the world will miss," Sinja said. "Amiit

  found him in a low town, and we arranged to purchase his indenture from

  the low magistrate before they hung him."

  "What had he done?"

  "I don't know. Killed someone. Raped a puppy. Whatever soothes your

  conscience, he did that."

  "You really don't care."

  "No," Sinja agreed. "And perhaps that makes me a bad person, but since I

  don't care about that, either ..."

  He took a pose of completion, as if he had finished a demonstration.

  Otah nodded, then looked away.

  "Too many people die over this," Otah said. "Too many lives wasted. It's

  an idiot system."

  "This is nothing. You should see a real war. There is no bigger waste

  than that."

  "You have? Seen war, I mean?"

  "Yes. I fought in the Westlands. Sometimes when the Wardens took issue

  with each other. Sometimes against the nomad bands when they got big

  enough to pose a real threat. And then when the Galts decide to come

  take another bite out of them. There's more than enough opportunity there."

  A distant Hash of lightning lit the trees, and then a breath later, a

  growl of thunder. Otah reached his hand out, letting the cool drops wet

  his palm.

  "What's it like?" he asked.

  "War? Violent. Brutish, stupid. Unnecessary, as often as not. But I like

  the part where we win."

  Otah chuckled.

  "You seem ... don't mind my prying at you, but for a man pulled from

  certain death, you don't seem to be as happy as I'd expected," Sinja

  said. "Something weighing on you?"

  "Have you even been to Yalakeht?"

  "No, too far east for me."

  "They have tall gates on the mouths of their side streets that they

  close and lock every night. And there's a tower in the harbor with a

  permanent fire that guides ships in the darkness. In Chaburi-Tan, the

  street children play a game I've never seen anywhere else. They get just

  within shouting distance, strung out all through the streets, and then

  one will start singing, and the next will call the song on to the next

  after him, until it loops around to the first singer with all the

  mistakes and misunderstandings that make it something new. They can go

  on for hours. I stayed in a low town halfway between Lachi and

  Shosheyn-Tan where they served a stew of smoked sausage and pepper rice

  that was the best meal I've ever had. And the eastern islands.

  "I was a fisherman out there for a few years. A very bad one, but ...

  but I spent my time out on the water, listening to the waves against my

  little boat. I saw the way the water changed color with the day and the

  weather. The salt cracked my palms, and the woman I was with made me

  sleep with greased cloth on my hands. I think I'll miss that the most."

  "Cracked palms?"

  "The sea. I think that will be the worst of it."

  Sinja shifted. The rain intensified and then slackened as suddenly as it

  had come. The trees stood straighter. The pools of water danced less.

  "The sea hasn't gone anywhere," Sinja said.

  "No, but I have. I've gone to the mountains. And I don't expect I'll

  ever leave them again. I knew it was the danger when I became a courier.

  I was warned. But I hadn't understood it until now. It's the problem in

  seeing too much of the world. In loving too much of it. You can only

  live in one place at a time. And eventually, you pick your spot, and the

  memor
ies of all the others just become ghosts."

  Sinja nodded, taking a pose that expressed his understanding. Otah

  smiled, and wondered what memories the commander carried with him. From

  the distance in his eyes, it couldn't all have been blood and terror.

  Something of it must have been worth keeping.

  "You've decided, then," Sinja said. "Amiit-cha was thinking he'd need to

  speak with you about the issue soon. Things will be moving in Mach] as

  soon as the mourning's done."

  "I know. And yes, I've decided."

  "Would you mind if I asked why you chose to stay?"

  Otah turned and let himself down into the room. He took two howls from

  the cabinet and poured the deep red wine into both before he answered.

  Sinja took the one he was offered and drank half at a swig. Utah sat on

  the table, his feet on the scat of the bench and swirled the red of the

  wine against the bone white of the bowl.

  "Someone killed my father and nay brothers."

  "You didn't know them," Sinja said. "Don't tell me this is love."

  "They killed my old family. I)o you think they'd hesitate to kill my new

  one?"

  "Spoken like a man," Sinja said, raising his howl in salute. "The gods

  all know it won't be easy. As long as the utkhaicm think you've done

  everything you're accused of, they'll kill you first and crown you

  after. You'll have to find who did the thing and feed them to the

  crowds, and even then half of them will think you're guilty and clever.

  But if you don't do the thing ... No, I think you're right. The options

  are live in fear or take the world by the balls. You can be the Khai

  Nlachi, or you can be the Khai Machi's victim. I don't see a third way."

  "I'll take the first. And I'll be glad about it. It's only . .

  "You mourn that other life, I know. It comes with leaving your boyhood

  behind."

  "I wouldn't have thought I was still just a boy."

  "It doesn't matter what you've done or seen. Every man's a child until

  he's a father. It's the way the world's made."

  Otah raised his brows and took a pose of (Iuery only slightly hampered

  by the bowl of wine.

  "Oh yes, several," Sinja said. "So far the mothers haven't met one

  another, so that's all for the best. But your woman? Kiyan-cha?"

  Otah nodded.

  "I traveled with her for a time," Sinja said. "I've never met another

  like her, and I've known more than my share of women. You're lucky to

  have her, even if it means freezing your prick off for half the year up

  here in the north."

  "Are you telling me you're in love with my lover?" Otah asked, half

  joking, half serious.

  "I'm saying she's worth giving up the sea for," Sinja said. He finished

  the last of his wine, spun the bowl on the table, and then clapped

  Otah's shoulder. Otah met his gaze for a moment before Sinja turned and

  strode out. Otah looked into the wine bowl again, smelled the memory of

  grapes hot from the sun, and drank it down. Outside, the sun broke

  through, and the green of the trees and blue of the sky where it peeked

  past the gray and white and yellow clouds showed vibrant as something

  newly washed.

  Their quarters were down a short corridor, and then through a thin

  wooden door on leather hinges halfway to wearing through. Kiyan lay on

  the cot, the netting pulled around her to keep the gnats and mosquitoes

  off. Otah slipped through and lay gently beside her, watching her eyes

  flutter and her lips take up a smile as she recognized him.

  "I heard you talking," she said, sleep slurring the words.

  "Sinja-cha came up."

  "What was the matter?"

  "Nothing," he said, and kissed her temple. "We were only talking about

  the sea."

  CEHMAI CLOSED THE DOOR OF THE POET'S HOUSE AGAIN AND STARTED PACing the

  length of the room. The storm in the back of his mind was hardly a match

  for the one at the front. Stone-Made-Soft, sitting at the empty, cold

  brazier, looked up. Its face showed a mild interest.

  "Trees still there?" the andat asked.

  "Yes."

  "And the sky?"

  "And the sky."

  "But still no girl."

  Cehmai dropped onto the couch, his hands worrying each other, restless.

  The andat sighed and went back to its contemplation of the ashes and

  fire-black metal. Cehmai smelled smoke in the air. It was likely just

  the forges, but his mind made the scent into Idaan's father and brother

  burning. He stood tip again, walked to the door, turned back and sat

  down again.

  "You could go out and look for her," the andat said.

  "And why should I find her now? The mourning week's almost done. You

  think if she wanted me, there wouldn't have been word? I just ... I

  don't understand it."

  "She's a woman. You're a man."

  "Your point being?"

  The andat didn't reply. It might as well have been a statue. Cehmai

  probed at the connection between them, at the part of him that was the

  binding of the andat, but Stone-Made-Soft was in retreat. It had never

  been so passive in all the years Cehmai had held it. The quiet was a

  blessing, though he didn't understand it. He had enough to work through,

  and he was glad not to have his burden made any heavier.

  "I shouldn't have been angry with Nlaati-kvo," Cehmai said. "I shouldn't

  have confronted him like that."

  "No?"

  "No. I should have gone hack to the Master of 'f'ides and told him what

  Maati-kvo had said. Instead, I promised him five days, and now three of

  them have passed and I can't do anything but chew at the grass.

  "You can break promises," the andat said. "It's the definition, really.

  A promise is something that can be broken. If it can't, it's something

  else."

  "You're singularly unhelpful," Cehmai said. The andat nodded as if

  remembering something, and then was still again. Cehmai stood, went to

  the shutters, and opened them. The trees were still lush with summer-the

  green so deep and rich he could almost see the autumn starting to creep

  in at the edge. In winter, he could see the towers rising up to the sky

  through the bare branches. Now he only knew they were there. He turned

  to look at the path that led hack to the palaces, then went to the door,

  opened it, and looked down it, willing someone to be there. Willing

  Idaan's dark eyes to greet his own.

  "I don't know what to do about Adrah Vaunyogi. I don't know if I should

  back him or not."

  "For something you consider singularly unhelpful, I seem to receive more

  than my share of your troubles."

  "You aren't real," Cehmai said. "You're like talking to myself."

  The andat seemed to weigh that for a moment, then took a pose that

  conceded the point. Cehmai looked out again, then closed the door.

  "I'm going to lose my mind if I stay here. I have to do something," he

  said. Stone-Made-Soft didn't respond, so Cehmai tightened the straps of

  his boots, stood, and pulled his robes into place. "Stay here."

  "All right."

  Cehmai paused at the door, one foot already outside, and turned hack.

  "Does nothing bother you?" he asked the andat. />
  "Being," Stone-Made-Soft suggested.

  The palaces were still draped with rags of mourning cloth, the dry,

  steady beat of the funeral drum and the low wailing dirges still the

  only music. Cehmai took poses of greeting to the utkhaiem whom he

  passed. At the burning, they had all worn pale mourning cloth. Now, as

  the week wore on, there were more colors in the robes-here a mix of pale

  cloth and yellow or blue, there a delicate red robe with a wide sash of

  mourning cloth. No one went without, but few followed the full custom.

  It reminded Cehmai of a snow lily, green tinder the white and budding,

  swelling, preparing to burst out into new life and growth, new conflict

  and struggle. The sense of sorrow was slipping from Machi, and the sense

  of opportunity was coming forth.

  He found he could not say whether that reassured or disgusted him.

  Perhaps both.

  Idaan was, of course, not at her chambers. The servants assured him that

  she had been by-she was in the city, she hadn't truly vanished. Cehmai

  thanked them and continued on his way to the palace of the Vaunyogi. He

  didn't allow himself to think too deeply about what he was going to do