marry. He could have one for every day of the week."
"You could take the chair for yourself," Maati said. "You're not so old...."
"And I'm not so young as to be that stupid. Here, Vaupathai, let me lay
this out for you. I am old, gouty as often as not, and rich. I have what
I want from life, and being the Khai Maehi would mean that if I were
lucky, my grandsons would be slitting each other's throats. I don't want
that for them, and I don't want the trouble of running a city for
myself. Other men want it, and they can have it. None of them will cross
me, and I will support whoever takes the name."
"So you have no preference," Maati said.
"Now I didn't go so far as to say that, did I? Why does the Dai-kvo care
which of its becomes the Khai?"
"He doesn't. But that doesn't mean he's uninterested."
""Then let him wait two weeks, and he can have the name. It doesn't
figure. Dither he has a favorite or ... or is this about your belly
getting opened for you?" Radaani pursed his lips, his eyes darting back
and forth over Maati's face. "I'he upstart's dead, so it isn't that. You
think someone was working with Otah Machi? That one of the houses was
backing him?"
"I didn't go so far as to say that, did I? And even if they were, it's
no concern of the Dai-kvo's," Maati said.
""lrue, but no one tried to fish-gut the Dai-kvo. Could it be, Maaticha,
that you're here on your own interest?"
"You give me too much credit," Maati said. "I'm only a simple man trying
to make sense of complex times."
"Yes, aren't we all," Radaani said with an expression of distaste.
Mlaati kept the rest of the interview to empty niceties and social
forms, and left with the distinct feeling that he'd given out more
information than he'd gathered. Chewing absently at his inner lip, he
turned west, away from the palaces and out into the streets of the city.
The pale mourning cloth was coming down already, and the festival colors
were going back up for the marriage of Adrah Vaunyogi and Idaan Machi.
Maati watched as a young boy, skin brown as a nut, sat atop a lantern
pole with pale mourning rags in one hand and a garland of flowers in the
other. Maati wondered if a city had ever gone from celebration to sorrow
and back again so quickly.
Tomorrow ended the mourning week, marked the wedding of the dead Khai's
last daughter, and began the open struggle to find the city's new
master. The quiet struggle had, of course, been going on for the week.
Adaut Kamau had denied any interest in the Khai's chair, but had spent
enough time intimating that support from the Dai-kvo might sway his
opinion that Nlaati felt sure the Kamau hadn't abandoned their
ambitions. Ghiah Vaunani had been perfectly pleasant, friendly, open,
and had managed in the course of their conversation to say nothing at
all. Even now, Maati saw messengers moving through the streets and
alleyways. The grand conversation of power might put on the clothes of
sorrow, but the chatter only changed form.
Maati walked more often these days. The wound in his belly was still
pink, but the twinges of pain were few and widely spaced. While he
walked the streets, his robes marked him as a man of importance, and not
someone to interrupt. Ile was less likely to be disturbed here than in
the library or his own rooms. And moving seemed to help him think.
He had to speak to l)aaya Vaunyogi, the soon-to-be father of Idaan
Machi. He'd been putting off that moment, dreading the awkwardness of
condolence and congratulations mixed. Ile wasn't sure whether to be
long-faced and formal or jolly and pleasant, and he felt a deep
certainty that whatever he chose would be the wrong thing. But it had to
be done, and it wasn't the worst of the errands he'd set himself for the
day.
There wasn't a soft quarter set aside for the comfort houses in Machi as
there had been in Saraykeht. Here the whores and gambling, druglaced
wine and private rooms were distributed throughout the city. Maati was
sorry for that. For all its subterranean entertainments, the soft
quarter of Saraykeht had been safe-protected by an armed watch paid by
all the houses. Ile'd never heard of another place like it. In most
cities of the Khaiem, a particular house might guard the street outside
its own door, but little more than that. In low towns, it was often wise
to travel in groups or with a guard after dark.
Maati paused at a watcrseller's cart and paid a length of copper for a
cup of cool water with a hint of peach to it. As he drank, he looked up
at the sun. He'd spent almost a full hand's time reminiscing about
Saraykeht and avoiding any real consideration of the Vaunyogi. He should
have been thinking his way through the puzzles of who had killed the
Khai and his son, who had spirited Otah-kvo away, and then falsified his
death, and why.
The sad truth was, he didn't know and wasn't sure that anything he'd
done since he'd cone had brought him much closer. He understood more of
the court politics, he knew the names of the great houses and trivia
about them: Kaman was supported by the breeders who raised mine dogs and
the copper workers, the Vaunani by the goldsmiths, tanners and
leatherworkers, Vaunvogi had business tics to Eddensea, Galt and the
Westlands and little money to show for it when compared to the Radaani.
But none of that brought him close to understanding the simple facts as
he knew them. Someone had killed these men and meant the world to put
the blame on Otah-kvo. And Otah-kvo had not done the thing.
Still, there had to be someone backing Otah-kvo. Someone who had freed
him and staged his false death. He ran through his conversation with
Radaani again, seeing if perhaps the man's lack of ambition masked
support for Otah-kvo, but there was nothing.
He gave back the waterseller's cup and let his steps wander through the
streets, his hands tucked inside his sleeves, until his hip and knee
started to complain. The sun was shifting down toward the western
mountains. Winter days here would be brief and hitter, the swift winter
sun ducking behind stone before it even reached the horizon. It hardly
seemed fair.
By the time he regained the palaces, the prospect of walking all the way
to the Vaunyogi failed to appeal. They would be busy with preparations
for the wedding anyway. There was no point intruding now. Better to
speak to Daaya Vaunyogi afterwards, when things had calmed. Though, of
course, by then the utkhaiem would be in council, and the gods only knew
whether he'd be able to get through then, or if he'd be in time.
He might only find who'd done the thing by seeing who became the next Khai.
There was still the one other thing to do. He wasn't sure how he would
accomplish it either, but it had to be tried. And at least the poet's
house was nearer than the Vaunyogi. He angled down the path through the
oaks, the gravel of the pathway scraping under his weight. The mourning
cloth had already been taken from the tree branches and the lamp posts
and be
nches, but no bright banners or flowers had taken their places.
When he stepped out from the trees, he saw Stone-Made-Soft sitting on
the steps before the open doorway, its wide face considering him with a
calm half-smile. Maati had the impression that had he been a sparrow or
an assassin with a flaming sword, the andat's reaction would have been
the same. He saw the large form lean back, turning to face into the
house, and heard the deep, rough voice if not the words them selves.
Cehmai was at the door in an instant, his eyes wide and bright, and then
bleak with disappointment before becoming merely polite.
With an almost physical sensation, it fit together-Cehmai's rage at
holding back news of Otah's survival, the lack of wedding decoration,
and the disappointment that Maati was only himself and not some other,
more desired guest. The poor bastard was in love with Idaan Machi.
Well, that was one secret discovered. It wasn't much, but the gods all
knew he'd take anything these days. He took a pose of greeting and
Cehmai returned it.
"I was wondering if you had a moment," Maati said.
"Of course, Maati-kvo. Come in."
The house was in a neat sort of disarray. Tables hadn't been overturned
or scrolls set in the brazier, but things were out of place, and the air
seemed close and stifling. Memories rose in his mind. He recalled the
moments in his own life when a woman had left him. The scent was very
much the same. He suppressed the impulse to put his hand on the boy's
shoulder and say something comforting. Better to pretend he hadn't
guessed. At least he could spare Cehmai that indignity. He lowered
himself into a chair, groaning with relief as the weight left his legs
and feet.
"I've gotten old. When I was your age I could walk all day and never
feel it."
"Perhaps if you made it more a habit," Cehmai said. "I have some tea.
It's a little tepid now, but if you'd like ..
Maati raised a hand, refusing politely. Cehmai, seeming to notice the
state of the house now there were someone else's eyes on it, opened the
shutters wide before he came to sit at Nlaati's side.
"I've come to ask for more time," Maati said. "I can make excuses first
if you like, or tell you that as your elder and an envoy of the Daikvo
it's something you owe me. Any of that theater you'd like. But it comes
to this: I don't know yet what's happening, and it's important to me
that if something does go wrong for Otah-kvo it not have been my doing."
Cehmai seemed to weigh this.
"Baarath tells me you had a message from the Dai-kvo," Cehmai said.
"Yes. After he heard I'd turned Otah-kvo over to his father, he called
me back."
"And you're disobeying that call."
"I'm exercising my own judgment."
"Will the Dai-kvo make that distinction?"
"I don't know," Maati said. "If he agrees with me, I suppose he'll agree
with me. If not, then not. I can only guess what he would have said if
he'd known everything I know, and move from there."
"And you think he'd want Otah's secret kept?"
Maati laughed and rubbed his hands together. His legs were twitching
pleasantly, relaxing from their work. He stretched and his shoulder cracked.
"Probably not," he said. "He'd more likely say that it isn't our place
to take an active role in the succession. That he'd sent me here with
that story about rooting through the library so that it wouldn't be
clear to everyone over three summers old what I was really here for. He
might also mention that the questions I've been asking have been bad
enough without lying to the utkhaiem while I'm at it."
"You haven't lied," Cchmai said, and then a moment later. "Well,
actually, I suppose you have. You aren't really doing what you believe
the Dai-kvo would want."
"No."
"And you want my complicity?"
"Yes. Or, that is, I have to ask it of you. And I have to persuade you
if I can, though in truth I'd he as happy if you could talk me out of it."
"I don't understand. Why are you doing this? And don't only say that you
want to sleep well after you've seen another twenty summers. You've done
more than anyone could have asked of you. What is it about Otah Machi
that's driving you to this?"
Oh, Maati thought, you shouldn't have asked that question, my boy.
Because that one I know how to answer, and it'll sting you as much as me.
He steepled his fingers and spoke.
"He and I loved the same woman once, when we were younger men. If I do
him harm or let him come to harm that I could have avoided, I couldn't
look at her again and say it wasn't my anger that drove me. My anger at
her love for him. I haven't seen her in years, but I will someday. And
when I do, I need it to be with a clear conscience. The Dai-kvo may not
need it. The poets may not. But despite our reputations, we're men under
these robes, and as a man ... As a man to a man, it's something I would
ask of you. Another week. Just until we can see who's likely to be the
new Khai."
There was a shifting sound behind him. The andat had come in silently at
some point and was standing at the doorway with the same simple, placid
smile. Cehmai leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair three
times in fast succession, as if he were washing himself without water.
"Another week," Cehmai said. "I'll keep quiet another week."
Maati blinked. He had expected at least an appeal to the danger he was
putting Idaan in by keeping silent. Some form of at /east let me warn
her... Maati frowned, and then understood.
He'd already done it. Cehmai had already told Idaan Machi that Otah was
alive. Annoyance and anger flared brief as a firefly, and then faded,
replaced by something deeper and more humane. Amusement, pleasure, and
even a kind of pride in the young poet. We arc men beneath these robes,
he thought, and we do what we must.
SINJA SPUN, TIIE THICK WOODEN CUDGEL HISSING TIIROUGII THE AIR. OTAH
stepped inside the blow, striking at the man's wrist. He missed, his own
rough wooden stick hitting Sinja's with a clack and a shock that ran up
his arm. Sinja snarled, pushed him back, and then ruefully considered
his weapon.
"That was decent," Sinla said. "Amateur, granted, but not hopeless."
Otah set his stick down, then sat-head between his knees-as he fought to
get his breath back. His ribs felt as though he'd rolled down a rocky
hill, and his fingers were half numb from the shocks they'd absorbed.
And he felt good-exhausted, bruised, dirty, and profoundly hack in
control of his own body again, free in the open air. His eyes stung with
sweat, his spit tasted of blood, and when he looked up at Sinja, they
were both grinning. Otah held out his hand and Sinja hefted him to his feet.
"Again?" Sinja said.
"I wouldn't ... want to ... take advantage ... when you're ... so tired."
Sinja's face folded into a caricature of helplessness as he took a pose
of gratitude. They turned back toward the farmhouse. "l'he high summer
afternoon was thick with gnats and the scent of pine r
esin. The thick
gray walls of the farmhouse, the wide low trees around it, looked like a
painting of modest tranquility. Nothing about it suggested court
intrigue or violence or death. That, Otah supposed, was why Amur had
chosen it.
They had gone out after a late breakfast. Otah had felt well enough, he
thought, to spar a bit. And there was the chance that this would all
come to blades before it was over, whether he chose it or not. He'd
never been trained as a fighter, and Sinja was happy to offer a day's
instruction. There was an easy camaraderie that Otah had enjoyed on the
way out. The work itself reminded him that Sinja had slaughtered his
last comrades, and the walk back was somehow much longer than the one
out had been.
"A little practice, and you'd be a decent soldier," Sinja said as they
walked. "You're too cautious. You'll lose a good strike in order to
protect yourself, and that's a vice. You'll need to be careful of it."
"I'm actually hoping for a life that doesn't require much blade work of me."
"I wasn't only talking about fighting."
When they reached the farmhouse, the stables had four unfamiliar horses
in them, hot from the road. An armsman of House Siyanti-one Otah
recognized, but whose name he'd never learned-was caring for them. Sinja
traded a knowing look with the man, then strode up the stairs to the
main rooms. Otah followed, his aches half-forgotten in the mingled
curiosity and dread.
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