voice carrying like a flute's. Cehmai felt Maati-kvo's attention, but
wasn't sure what to make of it. He felt as examined as the corpse on the
physician's table. At length, he spoke to break the silence.
"How is it?"
"The council? Like a very long, very awkward dinner party. I imagine it
will deteriorate. The only interesting thing is that a number of houses
are calling for Vaunyogi to take the chair."
"Interesting," Cehmai said. "I knew Adrah-cha was thinking of it, but I
wouldn't have thought his father had the money to sway many people."
"I wouldn't have either. But there are powers besides money."
The comment seemed to hang in the air.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Maati-kvo."
"Symbols have weight. The wedding coming as it does might sway the
sentimental. Or perhaps Vaunyogi has advocates we aren't aware of."
"Such as?"
Maati stopped. They had reached a wide courtyard, rich with the scent of
cropped summer grass. The andat halted as well, its broad head tilted in
an attitude of polite interest. Cehmai felt a brief flare of hatred
toward it, and saw its lips twitch slightly toward a smile.
"If you've spoken for the Vaunyogi, I need to know it," Matti said.
"We're not to take sides in these things. Not without direction from the
Dai-kvo."
"I'm aware of that, and I don't mean to accuse you or pry into what's
not mine, but on this one thing, I have to know. They did ask you to
speak for them, didn't they?"
"I suppose," Cehmai said.
"And did you speak for them?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Because Idaan Machi is your lover," Maati said, his voice soft and full
of pity.
Cehmai felt the blood come into his face, his neck. The anger at
everything that he had seen and heard pressed at him, and he let himself
borrow certainty from the rage.
"Idaan Machi is Adrah's wife. No, I did not speak for Vaunyogi. Despite
your experience, not everyone falls in love with the man who's taken his
lover."
Maati leaned back. The words had struck home, and Cehmai pressed on,
following the one attack with another.
"And, forgive me, Maati-cha, but you seem in an odd position to take me
to task for following my private affairs where they don't have a place.
You are still doing all this without the l)ai-kvo's knowledge?"
"He might have a few of my letters," Nlaati-kvo said. "If not yet, then
soon."
"But since you're a man under those robes, on you go. I am doing as the
Dai-kvo set me to do. I am carrying this great bastard around; I am
keeping myself apart from the politics of the court; I'm not willing to
stand accused of lighting candles while you're busy burning the city down!"
"Calling me a bastard seems harsh," Stone-Made-Soft said. "I haven't
told you how to behave."
"Be quiet!"
"If Vol, think it will help," the andat said, its voice amused, and
Cehmai turned the fury inward, pressing at the space where he and
Stone-blade-Soft were one thing, pushing the storm into a smaller and
smaller thing. He felt his hands in fists, felt his teeth ache with the
pressure of his clenched jaw. And the andat, shifted, bent to his
fire-bright will, knelt and cast down its gaze. He forced its hands into
a pose of apology.
"Cehmai-cha."
He turned on Maati. The wind was picking up, whipping their robes. The
fluttering of cloth sounded like a sail.
"I'm sorry," Maati-kvo said. "I truly am very sorry. I know what it must
mean to have these things questioned, but I have to know."
"Why? Why is my heart suddenly your business?"
"Let me ask this another way," Maati said. "If you aren't backing
Vaunyogi, who is?"
Cehmai blinked. His rage whirled, lost its coherence, and left him
feeling weaker and confused. On the ground beside them, StoneMade-Soft
sighed and rose to its feet. Shaking its great head, it gestured to the
green streaks on its robe.
"The launderers won't be pleased by that," it said.
"What do you mean?" Cehmai said, not to the andat, but to Maatikvo. And
yet, it was Stone-Made-Soft's deep rough voice that answered him.
"He's asking you how badly Adrah Vaunyogi wants that chair. And he's
suggesting that Idaan-cha may have just married her father's killer, all
unaware. It seems a simple enough proposition to me. They aren't going
to blame you for these stains, you know. They never do."
Maati stood silently, peering at him, waiting. Cehmai held his hands
together to stop their shaking.
"You think that?" he asked. "You think that Adrah might have arranged
the wedding because he knew what was going to happen? You think Adrich
killed them?"
"I think it worth considering," Maati said.
Cchmai looked down and pressed his lips together until they ached. If he
didn't-if he looked up, if he relaxed-he knew that he would smile. He
knew what that would say about himself and his small, petty soul, so he
swallowed and kept his head low until he could speak. Unbidden, he
imagined himself exposing Adrah's crime, rejoining Idaan with her sole
remaining family. He imagined her eyes looking into his as he told her
what Maati knew.
"Tell me how I can help," he said.
MAAI'I SAT IN THE FIRST GALLERY, LOOKING DOWN INTO THE GREAT HALL and
waiting for the council to go on. It was a rare event, all the houses of
the utkhaiem meeting without a Khai to whom they all answered, and they
seemed both uncertain what the proper rituals were and unwilling to let
the thing move quickly. It was nearly dark now, and candles were being
set out on the dozen long tables below him and the speaker's pulpit
beyond them. The small flames were reflected in the parquet floor and
the silvered glass on the walls below him. A second gallery rose above
him, where women and children of the lower families and representatives
of the trading houses could sit and observe. The architect had been
brilliant-a man standing as speaker need hardly raise his voice and the
stone walls would carry his words through the air without need of
whisperers. Even over the murmurs of the tables below and the galleries
above, the prepared, elaborate, ornate, deathly dull speeches of the
utkhaiem reached every ear. The morning session had been interesting at
least-the novelty of the situation had held his attention. But apart
from his conversation with Cehmai, Maati had filled the hours of his day
with little more than the voices of men practiced at saying little with
many words. Praise of the utkhaiem generally and of their own families
in particular, horror at the crimes and misfortunes that had brought
them here, and the best wishes of the speaker and his father or his son
or his cousin for the city as a whole, and on and on and on.
Maati had pictured the struggle for power as a thing of blood and fire,
betrayal and intrigue and danger. And, when he listened for the matter
beneath the droning words, yes, all that was there. That even this could
be made dull impressed him.
> The talk with Cehmai had gone better than he had hoped. He felt guilty
using Idaan Machi against him that way, but perhaps the boy had been
ready to be used. And there was very little time.
I--Ic was relying now on the competence of his enemies. 'There would be
only a brief window between the time when it became clear who would take
the prize and the actual naming of the Khai Machi. In that moment, Maati
would know who had engineered all this, who had used Otah-kvo as a
cover, who had attempted his own slaughter. And if he were wise and
lucky and well-positioned, he might be able to take action. Enlisting
Cchmai in his service was only a way to improve the chances of setting a
lever in the right place.
"The concern our kind brother of Saya brings up is a wise one to
consider," a sallow-faced scion of the Daikani said. "The days arc
indeed growing shorter, and the time for preparation is well upon us.
There are roofs that must be made ready to hold their burden of snow.
There arc granaries to be filled and stocks to be prepared. There are
crops to be harvested, for men and beasts both."
"I didn't know the Khai did all that," a familiar voice whispered. "He
must have been a very busy man. I don't suppose there's anyone could
take up the slack for him?"
Baarath shifted down and sat beside Maati. He smelled of wine, his
cheeks were rosy, his eyes too bright. But he had an oilcloth cone
filled with strips of fried trout that he offered to Maati, and the
distraction was almost welcome. Maati took a bit of the fish.
"What have I missed?" Baarath said,
"The Vaunyogi appear to be a surprise contender," Maati said. "They've
been mentioned by four families, and praised in particular by two
others. I think the Vaunani and Kamau are feeling upset by it, but they
seem to hate each other too much to do anything about it."
"That's truth," Baraath said. "Ijan Vaunani came to blows with old
Kamau's grandson this afternoon at a teahouse in the jeweler's quarter.
Broke his nose for him, I heard."
"Really?"
Baarath nodded. The sallow man droned on half forgotten now as Baarath
spoke close to Maati's ear.
"There are rumors of reprisal, but old Kaman's made it clear that anyone
doing anything will he sent to tar ships in the Westlands. They say he
doesn't want people thinking ill of the house, but I think it's his last
effort to keep an alliance open against Adrah Vaunyogi. It's clear
enough that someone's bought little Adrah a great deal more influence
than just sleeping with a dead man's daughter would earn."
Baarath grinned, then coughed and looked concerned.
"Don't repeat that to anyone, though," he said. "Or if you do, don't say
it was me. It's terribly rude, and I'm rather drunk. I only came up here
to sober up a bit."
"Yes, well, I came up to keep an eye on the process, and I think it's
more likely to put your head on a pillow than clear it."
Baarath chuckled.
"You're an idiot if you came here to see what's happening. It's all out
in the piss troughs where a man can actually speak. Didn't you know
that? Honestly, Maati-kya, if you went to a comfort house, you'd spend
all your time watching the girls in the front dance and wondering when
the fucking was supposed to start."
Maati's jaw went tight. When Baarath offered the fish again, Maati
refused it. The sallow man finished, and an old, thick-faced man rose,
took the pulpit, announced himself to be Cielah Pahdri, and began
listing the various achievements of his house dating back to the fall of
the Empire. Maati listened to the recitation and Baraath's overloud
chewing with equal displeasure.
He was right before, Maati told himself. Baarath was the worst kind of
ass, but he wasn't wrong.
"I assume," Maati said, "that `piss troughs' is a euphemism."
"Only half. Most of the interesting news comes to a few teahouses at the
south edge of the palaces. They're near the moneylenders, and that
always leads to lively conversations. Going to try your luck there?"
"I thought I might," Maati said as he rose.
"Look for the places with too many rich people yelling at each other.
You'll be fine," Baarath said and went back to chewing his trout.
Maati took the steps two at a time, and slipped out the rear of the
gallery into a long, dark corridor. Lanterns were lit at each end, and
Maati strode through the darkness with the slow burning runout of
annoyance that the librarian always seemed to inspire. He didn't see the
woman at the hallway's end until he had almost reached her. She was
thin, fox-faced, and dressed in a simple green robe. She smiled when she
caught his eye and took a pose of greeting.
"Maati-cha?"
Maati hesitated, then answered her greeting.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I seem to have forgotten your name."
"We haven't met. My name is Kiyan. Itani's told me all about you."
It took the space of a breath for him to truly understand what she'd
said and all it meant. The woman nodded confirmation, and Maati stepped
close to her, looking back over his shoulder and then down the corridor
behind her to be sure they were alone.
"We were going to send you an escort," the woman said, "but no one could
think of how to approach you without seeming like we were assassins. I
thought an unarmed woman coming to you alone might suffice."
"You were right," he said, and then a moment later, "That's likely na7ve
of me, isn't it?"
"A hit."
"Please. Take me to him."
Twilight had soaked the sky in indigo. In the east, stars were peeking
over the mountain tops, and the towers rose up into the air as if they
led up to the clouds themselves. Maati and the woman walked quickly; she
didn't speak, and he didn't press her to. His mind was busy enough
already. They walked side by side along darkening paths. Kiyan smiled
and nodded to those who took notice of them. Maati wondered how many
people would be reporting that he had left the council with a woman. He
looked back often for pursuers. No one seemed to be tracking them, but
even at the edge of the palaces, there were enough people to prevent him
from being sure.
They reached a teahouse, its windows blazing with light and its air rich
with the scent of lemon candles to keep off the insects. The woman
strode up the wide steps and into the warmth and light. The keep seemed
to expect her, because they were led without a word into a back room
where red wine was waiting along with a plate of rich cheese, black
bread, and the first of the summer grapes. Kiyan sat at the table and
gestured to the bench across from her. Maati sat as she plucked two of
the small bright green grapes, bit into them and made a face.
"Too early?" he asked.
"Another week and they'll be decent. Here, pass me the cheese and bread."
Kiyan chewed these and Maati poured himself a howl of wine. It was
good-rich and deep and clean. He lifted the bottle but she shook her head.
"He'll be joining us, then?"
"No. We're just waiting a moment to be sure we're not leading anyone to
him."
"Very professional," he said.
"Actually I'm new to all this. But I take advice well."
She had a good smile. Maati felt sure that this was the woman Otah had
told him about that day in the gardens when Otah had left in chains. The
woman he loved and whom he'd asked Maati to help protect. He tried to
see Liat in her-the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheek. There was
nothing. Or perhaps there was something the two women shared that was
simply beyond his ability to see.
As if feeling the weight of his attention, Kiyan took a querying pose.
Maati shook his head.
"Reflecting on ages past," he said. "That's all."
She seemed about to ask something when a soft knock came at the door and
the keep appeared, carrying a bundle of cloth. Kiyan stood, accepted the
bundle, and took a pose that expressed her gratitude only slightly
hampered by her burden. The keep left without speaking, and Kiyan pulled
the cloth apart-two thin gray hooded cloaks that would cover their robes
and hide their faces. She handed one to Maati and pulled the other on.
When they were both ready, Kiyan dug awkwardly in her doubled sleeve for
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