A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  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
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  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.