A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  Amiit Foss and Kiyan were sitting at the main table with two other men.

  One-an older man with heavy, beetled brows and a hooked nose-wore robes

  embroidered with the sun and stars of House Siyanti. The other, a young

  man with round cheeks and a generous belly, wore a simple blue robe of

  inexpensive cloth, but enough rings on his fingers to pay for a small

  house. Their conversation stopped as Otah and Sinja entered the room.

  Amiit smiled and gestured toward the benches.

  "Well timed," Amiit said. "We've just been discussing the next step in

  our little dance."

  "What's the issue?" Sinja asked.

  "The mourning's ending. Tomorrow, the heads of all the houses of the

  utkhaiem meet. I expect it will take them a few days before the

  assassinations start, but within the month it'll be decided who the new

  Khai is to be."

  "We'll have to act before that," Otah said.

  "True enough, but that doesn't mean we'd be wise to act now," Amiit

  said. "We know, or guess well enough, what power is behind all thisthe

  Galts. But we don't know the mechanism. Who are they backing? Why? I

  don't like the idea of moving forward without that in hand. And yet,

  time's short."

  Amiit held out his open hands, and Otah understood this choice was being

  laid at his door. It was his life most at risk, and Amiit wasn't going

  to demand anything of Otah that he wasn't prepared to do. Otah sat,

  laced his fingers together, and frowned. It was Kiyan's voice that

  interrupted his uncertainty.

  "Either we stay here or we go to Machi. If we stay here, we're unlikely

  to be discovered, but it takes half a day for us to get news, and half a

  day at least to respond to it. Amiit-cha thinks the safety might be

  worth it, but Lamara-cha," she gestured to the hook-nosed man, "has been

  arguing that we'll want the speed we can only have by being present.

  He's arranged a place for us to stay-in the tunnels below the palaces."

  "I have an armsman of the Saya family in my employ," the hooknosed

  Lamara said. His voice was a rough whisper, and Otah noticed for the

  first time a long, deep, old scar across the man's throat. "The Saya are

  a minor family, but they will be at the council. We can keep clear on

  what's said and by whom."

  "And if you're discovered, we'll all be killed," Sinja said. "As far as

  the world's concerned, you've murdered a Khai. It's not a precedent

  anyone wants set. Especially not the other Khaiem. Bad enough they have

  to watch their brothers. If it's their sons, too...."

  "I understand that," Otah said. Then, to Amiit, "Are we any closer to

  knowing who the Galts are backing?"

  "We don't know for certain that they're backing anyone," Amiit said.

  "That's an assumption we've made. We can make some educated guesses, but

  that's all. It may be that their schemes are about the poets, the way

  you suggested, and not the succession at all."

  "But you don't believe that," Otah said.

  "And the poets don't either," the round-checked man said. "At least not

  the new one."

  "Shojen-cha is the man we set to follow Maati Vaupathai," Amiit said.

  "He's been digging at all the major houses of the utkhaiem," Shojen

  said, leaning forward, his rings glittering in the light. "In the last

  week, he's had audiences with all the highest families and half the low

  ones. And he's been asking questions about court politics and money and

  power. He hasn't been looking to the Galts in particular, but it's clear

  enough he thinks some family or families of the utkhaiem are involved in

  the killings."

  "What's he found out?" Otah asked,

  "We don't know. I can't say what he's looking for or what he's found,

  but there's no question he's conducting an investigation."

  "He's the one who gave you over to the Khai in the first place, isn't

  he, Otah-cha?" Lamara said in his ruined voice.

  "He's also the one who took a knife in the gut," Sinja said.

  "Can we say why he's looking?" Otah asked. "What would he do if he

  discovered the truth? Report it to the utkhaiem? Or only the Daikvo?"

  "I can't say," Shojen said. "I know what he's doing, not what he's

  thinking."

  "We can say this," Amiit said, his expression dour and serious. "As it

  stands, there's no one in the city who'll think you innocent, Otah-cha.

  If you're found in Machi, you'll be killed. And whoever sticks the first

  knife in will use it as grounds that he should he Khai. The only

  protection you'll have is obscurity."

  "No armsmen?" Otah asked.

  "Not enough," Amiit said. "First, they'd only draw attention to you, and

  second, there aren't enough guards in the city to protect you if the

  utkhaiem get your scent in their noses."

  "But that's true wherever he is," Lamara said. "If they find out he's

  alive on a desolate rock in the middle of the sea, they'll send men to

  kill him. He's murdered the Khai!"

  "Then best to keep him where he won't be found," Amiit said. There was

  an impatience in his tone that told Otah this debate had been going on

  long before he'd come in the room. Tempers were fraying, and even Amiit

  Foss's deep patience was wearing thin. He felt Kiyan's eyes on him, and

  looked up to meet her gaze. Her half-smile carried more meaning than

  half a hand's debate. They will never agree and you may as we//practice

  giving orders now-if itgoes well, you'll be doing it for the rest of

  your life and I'm sorry, love.

  Otah felt a warmth in his chest, felt the panic and distress relax like

  a stiff muscle rubbed in hot oils. Lamara and Amiit were talking over

  each other, each making points and suggestions it was clear they'd made

  before. Otah coughed, but they paid him no attention. He looked from

  one, flushed, grim face to the other, sighed, and slapped his palm on

  the table hard enough to make the wine bowls rattle. The room went

  silent, surprised eyes turning to him.

  "I believe, gentlemen, that I understand the issues at hand," Utah said.

  "I appreciate Amiit-cha's concern for my safety, but the time for

  caution has passed."

  "It's a vice," Sinja agreed, grinning.

  "Next time, you can give me your advice without cracking my ribs," Utah

  said. "Lamara-cha, I thank you for the offer of the tunnels to work

  from, and I accept it. We'll leave tonight."

  "Otah-cha, I don't think you've...," Amiit began, his hands held out in

  an appeal, but Otah only shook his head. Amiit frowned deeply, and then,

  to Otah's surprise, smiled and took a pose of acceptance.

  "Shojen-cha," Utah said. "I need to know what Maati is thinking. What

  he's found, what he intends, whether he's hoping to save me or destroy

  me. Both arc possible, and everything we do will he different depending

  on his stance."

  "I appreciate that," Shojen said, "but I don't know how I'd discover it.

  It isn't as though he confides in me. Or in anyone else that I can tell."

  Utah rubbed his fingertips across the rough wood of the table,

  considering that. He felt their eyes on him, pressing him for a

  decision. This one, at least, was simple enough.
He knew what had to be

  done.

  "Bring him to me," he said. "Once we've set ourselves up and we're sure

  of the place, bring him there. I'll speak with him."

  "That's a mistake," Sinja said.

  "Then it's the mistake I'm making," Otah said. "How long before we can

  be ready to leave?"

  "We can have all the things we need on a cart by sundown," Amiit said.

  "That would put us in Machi just after the half-candle. We could be in

  the tunnels and tucked as safely away as we're likely to manage by dawn.

  But there are going to be some people in the streets, even then."

  "Get flowers. Decorate the cart as if we're preparing for the wedding,"

  Otah said. "Then even if they think it odd to see us, they'll have a

  story to tell themselves."

  "I'll collect the poet whenever you like," Shojen said, his confident

  voice undermined by the nervous way he fingered his rings.

  "Also tomorrow. And Lamara-cha, I'll want reports from your man at the

  council as soon as there's word to be had."

  "As you say," Lamara said.

  Otah moved his hands into a pose of thanks, then stood.

  "Unless there's more to be said, I'm going to sleep now. I'm not sure

  when I'll have the chance again. Any of you who aren't involved in

  preparations for the move might consider doing the same."

  They murmured their agreement, and the meeting ended, but when later

  Otah lay in the cot, one arm thrown over his eyes to blot out the light,

  he was certain he could no more sleep than fly. He was wrong. Sleep came

  easily, and he didn't hear the old leather hinges creak when Kiyan

  entered the room. It was her voice that pulled him into awareness.

  "It's a mistake I'm making?'That's quite the way to lead men."

  He stretched. His ribs still hurt, and worse, they'd stiffened.

  "Was it too harsh, do you think?"

  Kiyan pushed the netting aside and sat next to him, her hand seeking his.

  "If Sinja-eha's that delicate, he's in the wrong line of work," she

  said. "He may think you're wrong, but if you'd turned back because he

  told you to, you'd have lost part of his respect. You did fine, love.

  Better than fine. I think you've made Amiit a very happy man."

  "How so?"

  "You've become the Khai Machi. Oh, I know, it's not done yet, but out

  there just then? You weren't speaking like a junior courier or an east

  islands fisherman."

  Otah sighed. Her face was calm and smooth. He brought her hand to his

  lips and kissed her wrist.

  "I suppose not," he said. "I didn't want this, you know. The wayhouse

  would have been enough."

  "I'm sure the gods will take that into consideration," she said.

  "They're usually so good about giving us the lives we expect."

  Otah chuckled. Kiyan let herself be pulled down slowly, until she lay

  beside him, her body against his own. Otah's hand strayed to her belly,

  caressing the tiny life growing inside her. Kiyan raised her eyebrows

  and tilted her head.

  "You look sad," she said. "Are you sad, "Tani?"

  "No, love," Otah said. "Not sad. Only frightened."

  "About going back to the city?"

  "About being discovered," he said. And a moment later, "About what I'm

  going to have to say to Maati."

  Cehmai sat hack on a cushion, his hack aching and his mind askew.

  Stone-Made-Soft sat beside him, its stillness unbroken even by breath.

  At the front of the temple, on a dais where the witnesses could see her,

  sat Idaan. Her eyes were cast down, her robe the vibrant rose and blue

  of a new bride. The distance between them seemed longer than the space

  within the walls, as if a year's journey had been fit into the empty air.

  The crowd was not as great as the occasion deserved: women and the

  second sons of the utkhaiem. Elsewhere, the council was meeting, and

  those who had a place in it were there. Given the choice of spectacle,

  many others would choose the men, their speeches and arguments, the

  debates and politics and subtle drama, to the simple marrying off of an

  orphan girl of the best lineage and the least influence to the son of a

  good, solid family.

  Cehmai stared at her, willing the kohl-dark eyes to look up, the painted

  lips to smile at him. Cymbals chimed, and the priests dressed in gold

  and silver robes with the symbols of order and chaos embroidered in

  black began their chanting procession. "Their voices blended and rose

  until the temple walls themselves seemed to ring with the melody. Cehmai

  plucked at the cushion. He couldn't watch, and he couldn't look away.

  One priest-an old man with a bare head and a thin white beard-stopped

  behind Idaan in the place that her father or brother should have taken.

  The high priest stood at the hack of the dais, lifted his hands slowly,

  palms out to the temple, and, with an embracing gesture, seemed to

  encompass them all. When he spoke, it was in the language of the Old

  Empire, syllables known to no one on the cushions besides himself.

  Eyan to nyot baa, don salaa khai dan rnnsalaa.

  The will of the gods has always been that woman shall act as servant to man.

  An old tongue for an old thought. Cehmai let the words that followed

  it-the ancient ritual known more by its rhythm than its significancewash

  over him. He closed his eyes and told himself he was not drowning. He

  focused on his breath, smoothing its ragged edges until he regained the

  appearance of calm. Ike watched the sorrow and the anger and the

  jealousy writhe inside him as if they were afflicting someone else.

  When he opened his eyes, the andat had shifted, its gaze on him and

  expressionless. Cehmai felt the storm on the back of his mind shift, as

  if taking stock of the confusion in his heart, testing him for weakness.

  Cehmai waited, prepared for Stone-Made-Soft to press, for the struggle

  to engulf him. He almost longed for it.

  But the andat seemed to feel that anticipation, because it pulled back.

  The pressure lessened, and Stone-Made-Soft smiled its idiot, empty

  smile, and turned back to the ceremony. Adrah was standing now, a long

  cord looped in his hand. The priest asked him the ritual questions, and

  Adrah spoke the ritual answers. His face seemed drawn, his shoulders too

  square, his movements too careful. Celunai thought he seemed exhausted.

  The priest who stood behind ldaan spoke for her family in their absence,

  and the end of the cord, cut and knotted, passed from Adrah to the

  priest and then to Idaan's hand. The rituals would continue for some

  time, Cehmai knew, but as soon as the cord was accepted, the binding was

  done. Idaan Machi had entered the house of the Vaunyogi and only Adrah's

  death would cast her back into the ghost arms of her dead family. Those

  two were wed, and he had no right to the pain the thought caused him. He

  had no right to it.

  He rose and walked silently to the wide stone archway and out of the

  temple. If Idaan looked up at his departure, he didn't notice.

  The sun wasn't halfway through its arc, and a fresh wind from the north

  was blowing the forge smoke away. I ligh, thin clouds scudded past,

  giving the illusion that the great stone
towers were slowly, endlessly

  toppling. Cehmai walked the temple grounds, Stone-Made-Soft a pace

  behind him. "There were few others there-a woman in rich robes sitting

  alone by a fountain, her face a mask of grief; a round-faced man with

  rings glittering on his fingers reading a scroll; an apprentice priest

  raking the gravel paths smooth with a long metal rake. And at the edge

  of the grounds, where temple became palace, a familiar shape in brown

  poet's robes. Cchmai hesitated, then slowly walked to him, the andat

  close by and trailing him like a shadow.

  "I hadn't expected to see you here, Maati-kvo."

  "No, but I expected you," the older poet said. "I've been at the council

  all morning. I needed some time away. May I walk with you?"

  "If you like. I don't know that I'm going anywhere in particular."

  "Not marching with the wedding party? I thought it was traditional for

  the celebrants to make an appearance in the city with the new couple.

  Let the city look over the pair and see who's allied themselves with the

  families. I assume that's what all the flowers and decorations out there

  are for."

  "There will he enough without me."

  Cehmai turned north, the wind blowing gently into his face, drawing his

  robes out behind him as if he were walking through water. A slave girl

  was standing beside the path singing an old love song, her high, sweet