A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (21 page)

them. He raised his head and kissed them again, gently this time. His

own mouth felt bruised from their coupling. And then his head grew too

heavy, and he let it rest again.

"They're ... like that. Binding one is like describing something

perfectly. Understanding it, and expanding it ... I'm not saying this

well. Have you ever translated a letter? Taken something in the Khaiate

tongues and tried to say the same thing in Westland or an east island

tongue?"

"No," she said. "I had to take something from the Empire and rewrite it

for a tutor once."

Cchmai closed his eyes. He could feel sleep pulling at him, but he

fought against it a hit. He wasn't ready to let the moment pass.

"That's near enough. You had to make choices when you did that. Tiff',

could mean take or it could mean give or it could mean exchangeit's

yours to choose, depending on how it's used in the original document.

And so a letter or a poem doesn't have a set translation. You could have

any number of ways that you say the same thing. Binding the andat means

describing them-what the thought of them is-so well that you can

translate it perfectly into a form that includes will and volition. Like

translating a Galtic contract so that all the nuances of the trade are

preserved perfectly."

"But there's any number of ways to do that," she said.

"There are very few ways to do it perfectly. And if a binding goes wrong

... Existing isn't normal for them. If you leave an imprecision or an

inaccuracy, they escape through it, and the poet pays a price for that.

Usually it comes as some particularly gruesome death. And knowing what

an andat is can be subtle. Stone-Made-Soft. What do you mean by stone?

Iron comes from stone, so is it stone? Sand is made of tiny stones. Is

it stone? Bones are like stone. But are they like enough to be called

the same name? All those nuances have to be balanced or the binding

fails. Happily, the Empire produced some formal grammars that were very

precise."

"And you describe this thing...."

"And then you hold that in your mind until you die. Only it's the kind

of thought that can think back, so it's wearing sometimes."

"Do you resent it?" Idaan asked, and something in her voice had changed.

Cehmai opened his eyes. Idaan was looking past him. Her expression was

unfathomable.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"You have to carry this thing all your life. Do you ever wish that you

hadn't been called to do it?"

"No," he said. "Not really. It's work, but it's work that I like. And I

get to meet the most interesting women."

Her gaze cooled, flickered over him, and then away.

"Lucky to be you," she said as she sat up. He watched her as she pulled

her robes from the puddle of cloth on the floor. Cehmai sat up. "I have

meetings in the morning. I'll need to be in my own rooms to be ready

anyway. I might as well go now."

"I might say fewer things that angered you if you talked to me," Cehmai

said, gently.

Idaan's head snapped around to him like a hunting cat's, but then her

expression softened to chagrin, and she took an apologetic pose.

"I'm overtired," she said. "'T'here are things that I'm carrying, and I

don't do it as gracefully as you. I don't mean to take them out on you."

"Why do you do this, Idaan-kya? Why do you come here? I don't think it's

that you love me."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," Cehmai said. "I don't. But if you choose to, that will be fine as

well."

"'That's flattering," she said, sarcasm thick in her voice.

"Are you doing this to be flattered?"

He was awake again now. He could see something in her expression pain,

anger, something else. She didn't answer him now, only knelt by the bed

and felt beneath it for her hoots. He put his hand on her arm and drew

her up. He could sense that she was close to speaking, that the words

were already there, just below the surface.

"I don't mind only being your bed mate," he said. "I've known from the

start that Adrah is the man you plan to be with, and that I couldn't be

that for you even if you wanted it. I assume that's part of why you've

chosen me. But I am fond of you, and I would like to be your friend."

"You'd be my friend?" she said. "That's nice to hear. You've bedded me

and now you'll condescend to be a friend?"

"I think it's more accurate to say you bedded me," Cehmai said. "And it

seems to me that people do what we've done quite often without caring

about the other person. Or even while wishing them ill. I'll grant that

we haven't followed the usual order-I understand people usually know

each other first and then fall into bed afterwards-hut in a way that

means you should take me more seriously."

She pulled hack and took a pose of query.

"You know I'm not just saying it to get your robes open," he said. "When

I say I want to be someone you can speak with, it's truth. I've nothing

to gain by it but the thing itself."

She sighed and sat on the bed. The light of the single candle painted

her in shades of orange.

"Do you love me, Cehmai-kya?" she asked.

Cehmai took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. He had reached the

gate. Her thoughts, her fears. Everything that had driven this girl into

his bed was waiting to be loosed. All he would have to do was tell one,

simple, banal lie. A lie thousands of men had told for less reason. He

was badly tempted.

"Idaan-kya," he said, "I don't know you."

To his surprise, she smiled. She pulled on her hoots, not bothering to

lace the bindings, leaned over and kissed him again. Her hand caressed

his cheeks.

"Lucky to be you," she said softly.

Neither spoke as they walked down the corridor to the main rooms. The

shutters were closed against the night, and the air felt stuffy and

thick. He walked with her to the door, then through it, and sat on the

steps, watching her vanish among the trees. The crickets still sang. The

moon still hung overhead, bathing the night in blue. He heard the high

squeak of bats as they skimmed the ponds and pools, the flutter of an

owl's wings.

"You should be sleeping," the low, gravel voice said from behind him.

"Yes, I imagine so."

"First light, there's a meeting with the stone potters."

"Yes, there is."

Stone-Made-Soft stepped forward and lowered itself to sit on the step

beside him. The familiar bulk of its body rose and fell in a sigh that

could only be a comment.

"She's up to something," Cehmai said.

"She might only find herself drawn to two different men," the andat

said. "It happens. And you're the one she couldn't build a life with.

The other boy ..."

"No," Cehmai said, speaking slowly, letting the thoughts form as he gave

them voice. "She isn't drawn to me. Not one."

"She could be flattered that you want her. I've heard that's endearing."

"She's drawn to you."

The andat shifted to look at him. Its wide mouth was smiling.

"That would be a first," it said. "I'd never thought of taking a lover.

I don't think I'd know what to do with her."

"Not like that," Cehmai said. "She wants me because of you. Because I'm

a poet. If I weren't, she wouldn't be here."

"Does that offend you?"

A gnat landed on the back of Cehmai's hand. The tiny wings tickled, but

he looked at it carefully. A small gray insect unaware of its danger.

With a puff of breath, he New it into the darkness. The andat waited

silently for an answer.

"It should," Cehmai said at last.

"Perhaps you can work on that."

"Being offended?"

"If you think you should be."

The storm in the back of him mind shifted. The constant thought that was

this thing at his side moved, kicking like a babe in the womb or a

prisoner testing the walls of its cell. Cehmai chuckled.

"You aren't trying to help," he said.

"No," the andat agreed. "Not particularly."

"Did the others understand their lovers? The poets before me?"

"How can I say? They loved women, and were loved by them. They used

women and were used by them. You may have found a way to put me on a

leash, but you're only men."

THE IRONY WAS THAT, HIS WOUND NOT FULLY HEALED, MAATI SPENT MORE time in

the library than he had when he had been playing at scholarship. Only

now, instead of spending his mornings there, he found it a calm place to

retire when the day's work had exhausted him; when the hunt had worn him

thin. It had been fifteen days now since Itani Noygu had walked away

from the palaces and vanished. Fourteen days since the assassin had put

a dagger in Maati's own guts. Thirteen days since the fire in the cages.

He knew now as much as he was likely to know of Itani Noygu, the courier

for House Siyanti, and almost nothing of Otah-kvo. Irani had worked in

the gentleman's trade for nearly eight years. He had lived in the

eastern islands; he was a charming man, decent at his craft if not

expert. He'd had lovers in "Ian-Sadar and tltani, but had broken things

off with both after he started keeping company with a wayhouse keeper in

Udun. His fellows were frankly disbelieving that this could be the rogue

Otah Machi, night-gaunt that haunted the dreams of Machi. But where he

probed and demanded, where he dug and pried, pleaded and coddled and

threatened, there was no sign of Otah-kvo. Where there should have been

secrecy, there was nothing. Where there should have been meetings with

high men in his house, or another house, or somebody, there was nothing.

There should have been conspiracy against his father, his brothers, the

city of his birth. There was nothing.

All of which went to confirm the conclusion that Maati had reached,

bleeding on the paving stones. Otah was not scheming for his father's

chair, had not killed Biitrah, had not hired the assassin to attack him.

And yet Otah was here, or had been. Maati had written to the Daikvo,

outlining what he knew and guessed and only wondered, but he had

received no word hack as yet and might not for several weeks. By which

time, he suspected, the old Khai would be dead. That thought alone tired

him, and it was the library that he turned to for distraction.

He sat back now on one of the thick chairs, slowly unfurling a scroll

with his left hand and furling it again with his right. In the space

between, ancient words stirred. The pale ink formed the letters of the

Empire, and the scroll purported to be an essay by Jaiet Khai-a man

named the Servant of Memory from the great years when the word Khai had

still meant servant. The grammar was formal and antiquated, the tongue

was nothing spoken now. It was unlikely than anyone but a poet would be

able to make sense of it.

'T'here are two types of impossibility in the andat, the man long since

dust had written. The first of these are those thoughts which cannot be

understood. Time and Mind arc examples of this type; mysteries so

profound that even the wise cannot do more than guess at their deepest

structure. These bindings may someday become possible with greater

understanding of the world and our place within it. For this reason they

are of no interest to me. The second type is made up of those thoughts

by their nature impossible to bind, and no greater knowledge shall ever

permit them. Examples of this are Imprecision and Freedom-FromBondage.

Holding Time or Mind would be like holding a mountain in your hands.

Holding Imprecision would be like holding the backs of your hands in

your palms. One of these images may inspire awe, it is true, but the

other is interesting.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Maati-cha?" the librarian asked again.

`.. Thank You, Baarath-cha, but no. I'm quite well."

The librarian took a step forward all the same. His hands seemed to

twitch towards the books and scrolls that Maati had gathered to look

over. The man's smile was fixed, his eyes glassy. In his worst moments,

Maati had considered pretending to catch one of the ancient scrolls on

fire, if only to see whether Baarath's knees would buckle.

"Because, if there was anything ..."

"Nlaati-cha?" The familiar voice of the young poet rang from the front

of the library. Maati turned to see Cehmai stride into the chamber with