they craned and stretched for a glimpse of the man entering the chamber.
He stood tall and straight, his dark robes with their high collar
looking almost priestly. Otah Machi, the upstart, strode into the hall,
with the grace and calm of a man who owned it and every man and woman
who breathed air.
He's mad, she thought. He's gone mad to come here. They'll tear him
apart with their hands. And then she saw behind him the brown robes of a
poet-Maati Vaupathai, the envoy of the Dal-kvo. And behind him ...
Her mouth went dry and her body began to tremble. She shrieked, she
screamed, but no one could hear her over the crowd. She couldn't even
hear herself. And yet, walking at Maati's side, Cehmai looked tip. His
face was grim and calm and distant. The poets strode together behind the
upstart. And then the armsmen of Radaani and Vaunani, Kaman and Daikani
and Saya. Hardly a tenth of the families of the utkhaicm, but still a
show of power. The poets alone would have been enough.
She didn't think, couldn't recall pushing back the people around her,
she only knew her own intentions when she was over the rail and falling.
It wasn't so far to the ground-no more than the height of two men, and
yet in the roar and chaos, the drop seemed to last forever. When she
struck the floor at last, it jarred her to the hone. Her ankle bloomed
with pain. She put it aside and ran as best she could through the
stunned men of the utkhaiem. Men all about her, unable to act, unable to
move. They were like statues, frozen by their uncertainty and confusion.
She knew that she was screaming-shc could feel it in her throat, could
hear it in her cars. She sounded crazed, but that was unimportant. Her
attention was single, focused. The rage that possessed her, that lifted
her up and sped her steps by its power alone, was only for the upstart,
Otah Machi, who had taken her lover from her.
She saw Adrah and Daaya already on the floor, an armsman kneeling on
each back. "There was a blade still in Adrah's hand. And then there
before her like a fish rising to the surface of a pond was Otah Machi,
her brother. She launched herself at him, her hands reaching for him
like claws. She didn't see how the andat moved between them; perhaps it
had been waiting for her. Its wide, cold body appeared, and she collided
with it. Huge hands wrapped her own, and the wide, inhuman face bent
close to hers.
"Stop this," it said. "It won't help."
"'t'his isn't right!" she shouted, aware now that the pandemonium had
quieted, that her voice could be heard, but she could no more stop
herself now than learn to fly. "He swore he'd protect me. He swore it.
It's not right!"
"Nothing is," the andat agreed, as it pulled her aside, lifted her as if
she was still a child, and pressed her against the wall. She felt
herself sinking into it, the stone giving way to her like mud. She
fought, but the wide hands were implacable. She shrieked and kicked,
sure that the stone would close over her like water, and then she
stopped fighting. Let it kill her, let her die.
Let it end.
The hands went away, and Idaan found herself immobile, trapped in stone
that had found its solidity again. She could breathe, she could see, she
could hear. She opened her mouth to scream, to call for Cehmai. To beg.
Stone-Made-Soft put a single finger to her lips.
"It won't help," the andat said again, then turned and lumbered up
beside the speaker's pulpit where Cehmai stood waiting for it. She
didn't look at her brother as he took the pulpit, only Cehmai. He didn't
look back at her. When Utah spoke, his words cut through the air, clean
and strong as wine.
"I am Otah 1MIachi, sixth son of the Khai Machi. I have never renounced
my claim to this place; I have never killed or plotted to kill my
brothers or my father. But I know who has, and I have come here before
this council to show you what has been done, and by whom, and to claim
what is mine by right."
Idaan closed her eyes and wept, surprised to find her desolation
complicated by relief.
"I NOTICE YOU NEVER MENTIONED THE MALTS," AM1IIT SAID.
The waiting area to which the protocol servant had led them was open and
light, looking out over a garden of flowering vines. A silver howl with
water cooling fresh peaches sat on a low table. Amiit leaned against the
railing. He looked calm, but Otah could see the white at the corners of
his mouth and the small movements of his hands; Amiit's belly was as
much in knots as his own.
"There was no call," Utah said. "The families that were involved know
that they were being used, and if they only suspect that I know it,
that's almost as good as being sure. How long are we going to have to wait?"
"Until they've finished deciding whether to kill you as a murderer or
raise you up as the Khai Maehi," Amiit said. "It shouldn't take long.
You were very good out there."
"You could sound more sure of all this."
"We'll be fine," Amiit said. "We have hacking. We have the poets."
"And yet?"
Amiit forced a chuckle.
"This is why I don't play tiles. Just before the tiles man turns the
last chit, I convince myself that there's something I've overlooked."
"I hope you aren't right this time."
"If I am, I won't have to worry about next. They'll kill me as dead as you.
Otah picked up a peach and hit into it. The fuzz made his lips itch, but
the taste was sweet and rich and complex. He sighed and looked out.
Above the garden wall rose the towers, and beyond them the blue of the sky.
"If we win, you will have to have them killed, you know," Amiit said.
"Adrah and his father. Your sister, Idaan."
"Not her."
"Otah-cha, this is going to be hard enough as it stands. The utkhaiem
are going to accept you because they have to. But you won't be hailed as
a savior. And Kiyan-cha's a common woman from no family. She kept a
wayhouse. Showing mercy to the girl who killed your father isn't going
to win you anyone's support."
"I am the Khai Machi," Otah said. "I'll make my way."
"You don't understand how complex this is likely to be."
Otah shrugged.
"I trust your advice, Amiit-cha," Otah said. "You'll have to trust my
judgment."
The overseer's expression soured for a moment, and then he laughed. They
lapsed into silence. It was true. It was early in his career to appear
weak, and the Vaunyogi had killed two of his brothers and his father,
and had tried to kill Maati as well. And behind them, the Galts. And the
library. There had been something in there, some book or scroll or codex
worth all those lives, all that money, and the risk. By the time the sun
fled behind the mountains in the west, he would know whether he'd have
the power to crush their nation, reduce their houses to slag, their
cities to ruins. A word to Cehmai would put it in motion. All it would
require of him would be to forget that they also had children and
lovers, that the people of Galt were as likely as anyone in the citi
es
of the Khaiem to love and betray, lie and dream. And he was having pangs
over executing his own father's killer. He took another bite of the peach.
"You've gone quiet," Amiit said softly.
"Thinking about how complex this is likely to be," Otah said.
He finished the last of the peach flesh and threw the stone out into the
garden before he washed his hands clean in the water howl it had come
from. A company of armsmen in ceremonial mail appeared at the door with
a grim-faced servant in simple black robes.
"Your presence is requested in the council chamber," the servant said.
"I'll see you once it's over," Amiit said.
Otah straightened his robes, took and released a deep breath, and
adopted a pose of thanks. The servant turned silently, and Otah followed
with armsmen on either side of him and behind. Their pace was solemn.
The halls with their high, arched ceilings and silvered glass,
adornments of gold and silver and iron, were empty except for the jingle
of mail and the tread of boots. Slowly the murmur of voices and the
smells of bodies and lamp oil filled the air. The black-robed servant
turned a corner, and a pair of double doors swung open to the council
hall. The Master of Tides stood on the speaker's pulpit.
The black lacquer chair reserved for the Khai Machi had been brought,
and stood empty on a dais of its own. Otah held himself straight and
tall. He strode into the chamber as if his mind were not racing, his
heart not conflicted.
He walked to the base of the pulpit and looked up. The Master of "hides
was a smaller man than he'd thought, but his voice was strong enough.
"Otah Machi. In recognition of your blood and claim, we of the high
families of Machi have chosen to dissolve our council, and cede to you
the chair that was your father's."
Otah took a pose of thanks that he realized as he took it was a thousand
times too casual for the moment, dropped it, and walked up the dais.
Someone in the second gallery high above him began to applaud, and
within moments, the air was thick with the sound. Otah sat on the black
and uncomfortable chair and looked out. There were thousands of faces,
all of them fixed upon him. Old men, young men, children. The highest
families of the city and the palace servants. Some were exultant, some
stunned. A few, he thought, were dark with anger. He picked out Maati
and Cehmai. Even the andat had joined in. The ta bles at which the Kamau
and Vaunani, Radaani and Saya and Daikani all sat were surrounded by
cheering men. The table of the Vaunyogi was empty.
They would never all truly believe him innocent. They would never all
give him their loyalty. He looked out into their faces and he saw years
of his life laid out before him, constrained by necessity and petty
expedience. He guessed at the mockery he would endure behind his hack
while he struggled to learn his new-acquired place. He tried to appear
gracious and grave at once, certain he was failing at both.
For this, he thought, I have given up the world.
And then, at the far back of the hall, he caught sight of Kiyan. She,
perhaps alone, wasn't applauding him. She only smiled as if amused and
perhaps pleased. He felt himself soften. Amid all the meaningless
celebration, all the empty delight, she was the single point of
stillness. Kiyan was safe, and she was his, and their child would he
born into safety and love.
If all the rest was the price for those few things, it was one he would pay.
It was winter when Maati Vaupathai returned to Mlachi. "I'he days were
brief and hitter, the sky often white with a scrim of cloud that faded
seamlessly into the horizon. Roads were forgotten; the snow covered road
and river and empty field. "I'hc sledge dogs ran on the thick glaze of
ice wherever the teamsman aimed them. Maati sat on the skidding waxed
wood, his arms pulled inside his clothes, the hood of his cloak pulled
low and tight to warm the air before he breathed it. He'd been told that
he must above all else be careful not to sweat. If his robes got wet,
they would freeze, and that would be little better than running naked
through the drifts. He had chosen not to make the experiment.
His guide seemed to stop at every wayhouse and low town. INlaati learned
that the towns had been planned by local farmers and merchants so that
no place was more than a day's fast travel from shelter, even on the
short days around Candles Night when the darkness was three times as
long as the light. When Maati walked up the shallow ramps and through
the snow doors, he appreciated their wisdom. A night in the open during
a northern winter might not kill someone who had been horn and bred
there. A northerner would know the secrets of carving snow into shelter
and warming the air without drenching himself. He, on the other hand,
would simply have died, and so he made certain that his guide and the
dogs were well housed and fed. Even so, when the time came to sleep in a
bed piled high with blankets and dogs, he often found himself as
exhausted from the cold as from a full day's work.
What in summer would have been the journey of weeks took him from just
before Candles Night almost halfway to the thaw. The days began to blend
together-blazing bright white and then warm, close darkness-until he
felt he was traveling through a dream and might wake at any moment.
When at last the dark stone towers of Machi appeared in the
distance-lines of ink on a pale parchment-it was difficult to believe.
He had lost track of the days. He felt as if he had been traveling
forever, or perhaps that he had only just begun. As they drew nearer, he
opened his hood despite the stinging air and watched the towers thicken
and take form.
He didn't know when they passed over the river. The bridge would have
been no more than a rise in the snow, indistinguishable from a random
drift. Still, they must have passed it, because they entered into the
city itself. The high snow made the houses seemed shorter. Other dog
teams yipped and called, pulled wide sledges filled with boxes or ore or
the goods of trade; even the teeth of winter would not stop Machi. Maati
even saw men with wide, leather-laced nets on their shoes and goods for
sale strapped to their backs tramping down worn paths that led from one
house to the next. He heard voices lifted in loud conversation and the
harking of dogs and the murmur of the platform chains that rose up with
the towers and shifted, scraping against the stone.
The city seemed to have nothing in common with the one he had known, and
still there was a beauty to it. It was stark and terrible, and the wide
sky forgave it nothing, but he could imagine how someone might boast
they lived here in the midst of the desolation and carved out a life
worth living. Only the verdigris domes over the forges were free from
snow, the fires never slackening enough to how before the winter.
On the way to the palace of the Khai Machi, his guide passed what had
once been the palaces of the Vaunyogi. The broken walls jutted from the
>
snow. He thought he could still make out scorch marks on the stones.
There were no bodies now. The Vaunyogi were broken, and those who were
not dead had scattered into the world where they would be wise never to
mention their true names again. The hones of their house made Maati
shiver in a way that had little to do with the biting air. Otah-kvo had
done this, or ordered it done. It had been necessary, or so Maati told
himself. He couldn't think of another path, and still the ruins
disturbed him.
He entered the offices of the Master of Tides through the snow door,
tramping up the slick painted wood of the ramp and into rooms he'd known
in summer. When he had taken off his outer cloaks and let himself be led
to the chamber where the servants of the Khai set schedules, Piyun See,
the assistant to the Master of Tides, fell at once into a pose of welcome.
"It's a pleasure to have you back," he said. "The Khai mentioned that we
should expect you. But he had thought you might be here earlier."
Though the air in the offices felt warm, the man's breath was still
visible. Maati's ideas of cold had changed during his journey.
"The way was slower than I'd hoped," Maati said.
"The most high is in meetings and cannot be disturbed, but he has left
us with instructions for your accommodation...."
Maati felt a pang of disappointment. It was naive of him to expect
Otah-kvo to be there to greet him, and yet he had to admit that he had
harbored hopes.
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