A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (36 page)

"I have come on behalf of the Dai-kvo," Maati said. "I wished to confirm

the reports that Otah Machi is dead."

"Well, he isn't going dancing," the physician said, pointing to the

thinner corpse with his chin.

"We're pleased by the Dai-kvo's interest," the Master of Tides said,

ignoring the comment. "Cehmai-cha suggested that you might be able to

confirm for us that this is indeed the upstart."

Maati took a pose of compliance and stepped forward. The reek was

terrible-rotting flesh and something deeper, more disturbing. Cehmai

hung back as Maati circled the table.

Maati gestured at the body, his hand moving in a circle to suggest

turning it over that he might better see the dead man's face. The

physician sighed, came to Maati's side, and took a long iron hook. He

slid the hook under the body's shoulder and heaved. There was a wet

sound as it lifted and fell. The physician put away the hook and

arranged the limbs as Maati considered the bare flesh before him.

Clearly the body had spent its journey face down. The features were

bloated and fisheaten-it might have been Otah-kvo. It might have been

anyone.

On the pale, water-swollen flesh of the corpse's breast, the dark ink

was still visible. The tattoo. Maati had his hand halfway out to touch

it before he realized what he was doing and pulled his fingers back. The

ink was so dark, though, the line where the tattoo began and ended so

sharp. A stirring of the air brought the scent fully to his nose, and

Maati gagged, but didn't look away.

"Will this satisfy the Dai-kvo?" the Master of Tides asked.

Maati nodded and took a pose of thanks, then turned and gestured to

Cehmai that he should follow. The younger poet was stone-faced. Maati

wondered if he had seen many dead men before, much less smelled them.

Out in the fresh air again, they navigated the crowd, ignoring the

questions asked them. Cehmai was silent until they were well away from

any curious ear.

"I'm sorry, Maati-kvo. I know you and he were-"

"It's not him," Maati said.

Cehmai paused, his hands moved up into a pose that spoke of his

confusion. Maati stopped, looking around.

"It isn't him," Maati said. "It's close enough to be mistaken, but it

isn't him. Someone wants us to think him dead-someone willing to go to

elaborate lengths. But that's no more Otah Machi than I am."

"I don't understand," Cehmai said.

"Neither do I. But I can say this, someone wants the rumor of his death

but not the actual thing. They're buying time. Possibly time they can

use to find who's really done these things, then-"

"We have to go back! You have to tell the Master of Tides!"

Maati blinked. Cehmai's face had gone red and he was pointing back

toward the physician's apartments. The boy was outraged.

"If we do that," Maati said, "we spoil all the advantage. It can't get

out that-"

"Are you blind? Gods! It is him. All the time it's been him. This as

much as proves it! Otah Machi came here to slaughter his family. To

slaughter you. He has hackers who could free him from the tower, and he

has done everything that he's been accused of. Buying time? He's buying

safety! Once everyone thinks him dead, they'll stop looking. He'll be

free. You have to tell them the truth!"

"Otah didn't kill his father. Or his brothers. It's someone else."

Cehmai was breathing hard and fast as a runner at the race's end, but

his voice was lower now, more controlled.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"I know Otah-kvo. I know what he would do, and-"

"Is he innocent because he's innocent, or because you love him?" Cehmai

demanded.

"This isn't the place to-"

""Tell me! Say you have proof and not just that you wish the sky was red

instead of blue, because otherwise you're blinded and you're letting him

escape because of it. There were times I more than half believed you,

Maati-kvo. But when I look at this I see nothing to suggest any

conspiracy but his."

Maati rubbed the point between his eyes with his thumb, pressing hard to

keep his annoyance at bay. He shouldn't have spoken to the boy, but now

that he had, there was nothing for it.

"Your anger-" he began, but Cehmai cut him off.

"You're risking people's lives, Maati-kvo. You're hanging them on the

thought that you can't be wrong about the upstart."

"Whose lives?"

"The lives of people he would kill."

"'There is no risk from Otah-kvo. You don't understand."

"'T'hen teach me." It was as much an insult as a challenge. Maati felt

the blood rising to his cheeks even as his mind dissected Cehmai's

reaction. There was something to it, some reason for the violence and

frustration of it, that didn't make sense. The boy was reacting to

something more than Nlaati knew. Maati swallowed his rage.

"I'll ask five days. Trust me for five days, and I will show you proof.

Will that do?"

He saw the struggle in Cehmai's face. The impulse to refuse, to fight,

to spread the news across the city that Otah Machi lived. And then the

respect for his elders that had been ground into him from his first day

in the school and for all the years since he'd taken the brown robes

they shared. Maati waited, forcing himself to patience. And in the end,

Cehmai nodded once, turned, and stalked away.

Five days, Maati thought, shaking his head. I wonder what I thought to

manage in that time. I should have asked for ten.

THE RAINS CAME IN THE EARLY EVENING: LIGHTNING AND THE BLUE-GRAY bellies

of cloudbank. The first few drops sounded like stones, and then the

clouds broke with a sudden pounding-thousands of small drums rolling.

Otah sat in the window and looked out at the courtyard as puddles

appeared and danced white and clear. The trees twisted and shifted under

gusts of wind and the weight of water. The little storms rarely lasted

more than a hand and a half, but in that time, they seemed like

doomsday, and they reminded Otah of being young, when everything had

been full and torrential and brief. He wished now that he had the skill

to draw this brief landscape before the clouds passed and it was gone.

There was something beautiful in it, something worth preserving.

"You're looking better."

Otah shifted, glancing back into the room. Sinja was there, his long

hair slicked down by the rain, his robes sodden. Otah took a welcoming

pose as the commander strode across the room toward him, dripping as he

came.

"Brighter about the eyes, blood in your skin again. One would think

you'd been eating, perhaps even walking around a bit."

"I feel better," Otah said. "That's truth."

"I didn't doubt you would. I've seen men far worse off than you pull

through just fine. They've found your corpse, by the way. Identified it

as you, just as we'd hoped. There are already half a hundred stories

about how that came to be, and none of them near the truth. Amiit-cha is

quite pleased, I think."

"I suppose it's worth being pleased over," Otah said.

"You don't seem overjoyed."

"Someone killed my father and my brothers and placed the blame on me. It

just seems an odd time to celebrate."

Sinja didn't answer this, and for a moment, the two men sat in silence

broken only by the rain. Then Otah spoke again. "Who was he? The man

with my tattoo? Where did you find him?"

"He wasn't the sort of man the world will miss," Sinja said. "Amiit

found him in a low town, and we arranged to purchase his indenture from

the low magistrate before they hung him."

"What had he done?"

"I don't know. Killed someone. Raped a puppy. Whatever soothes your

conscience, he did that."

"You really don't care."

"No," Sinja agreed. "And perhaps that makes me a bad person, but since I

don't care about that, either ..."

He took a pose of completion, as if he had finished a demonstration.

Otah nodded, then looked away.

"Too many people die over this," Otah said. "Too many lives wasted. It's

an idiot system."

"This is nothing. You should see a real war. There is no bigger waste

than that."

"You have? Seen war, I mean?"

"Yes. I fought in the Westlands. Sometimes when the Wardens took issue

with each other. Sometimes against the nomad bands when they got big

enough to pose a real threat. And then when the Galts decide to come

take another bite out of them. There's more than enough opportunity there."

A distant Hash of lightning lit the trees, and then a breath later, a

growl of thunder. Otah reached his hand out, letting the cool drops wet

his palm.

"What's it like?" he asked.

"War? Violent. Brutish, stupid. Unnecessary, as often as not. But I like

the part where we win."

Otah chuckled.

"You seem ... don't mind my prying at you, but for a man pulled from

certain death, you don't seem to be as happy as I'd expected," Sinja

said. "Something weighing on you?"

"Have you even been to Yalakeht?"

"No, too far east for me."

"They have tall gates on the mouths of their side streets that they

close and lock every night. And there's a tower in the harbor with a

permanent fire that guides ships in the darkness. In Chaburi-Tan, the

street children play a game I've never seen anywhere else. They get just

within shouting distance, strung out all through the streets, and then

one will start singing, and the next will call the song on to the next

after him, until it loops around to the first singer with all the

mistakes and misunderstandings that make it something new. They can go

on for hours. I stayed in a low town halfway between Lachi and

Shosheyn-Tan where they served a stew of smoked sausage and pepper rice

that was the best meal I've ever had. And the eastern islands.

"I was a fisherman out there for a few years. A very bad one, but ...

but I spent my time out on the water, listening to the waves against my

little boat. I saw the way the water changed color with the day and the

weather. The salt cracked my palms, and the woman I was with made me

sleep with greased cloth on my hands. I think I'll miss that the most."

"Cracked palms?"

"The sea. I think that will be the worst of it."

Sinja shifted. The rain intensified and then slackened as suddenly as it

had come. The trees stood straighter. The pools of water danced less.

"The sea hasn't gone anywhere," Sinja said.

"No, but I have. I've gone to the mountains. And I don't expect I'll

ever leave them again. I knew it was the danger when I became a courier.

I was warned. But I hadn't understood it until now. It's the problem in

seeing too much of the world. In loving too much of it. You can only

live in one place at a time. And eventually, you pick your spot, and the

memories of all the others just become ghosts."

Sinja nodded, taking a pose that expressed his understanding. Otah

smiled, and wondered what memories the commander carried with him. From

the distance in his eyes, it couldn't all have been blood and terror.

Something of it must have been worth keeping.

"You've decided, then," Sinja said. "Amiit-cha was thinking he'd need to

speak with you about the issue soon. Things will be moving in Mach] as

soon as the mourning's done."

"I know. And yes, I've decided."

"Would you mind if I asked why you chose to stay?"

Otah turned and let himself down into the room. He took two howls from

the cabinet and poured the deep red wine into both before he answered.

Sinja took the one he was offered and drank half at a swig. Utah sat on

the table, his feet on the scat of the bench and swirled the red of the

wine against the bone white of the bowl.

"Someone killed my father and nay brothers."

"You didn't know them," Sinja said. "Don't tell me this is love."

"They killed my old family. I)o you think they'd hesitate to kill my new

one?"

"Spoken like a man," Sinja said, raising his howl in salute. "The gods

all know it won't be easy. As long as the utkhaicm think you've done

everything you're accused of, they'll kill you first and crown you

after. You'll have to find who did the thing and feed them to the

crowds, and even then half of them will think you're guilty and clever.

But if you don't do the thing ... No, I think you're right. The options

are live in fear or take the world by the balls. You can be the Khai

Nlachi, or you can be the Khai Machi's victim. I don't see a third way."

"I'll take the first. And I'll be glad about it. It's only . .

"You mourn that other life, I know. It comes with leaving your boyhood

behind."

"I wouldn't have thought I was still just a boy."

"It doesn't matter what you've done or seen. Every man's a child until

he's a father. It's the way the world's made."

Otah raised his brows and took a pose of (Iuery only slightly hampered

by the bowl of wine.

"Oh yes, several," Sinja said. "So far the mothers haven't met one

another, so that's all for the best. But your woman? Kiyan-cha?"

Otah nodded.

"I traveled with her for a time," Sinja said. "I've never met another

like her, and I've known more than my share of women. You're lucky to

have her, even if it means freezing your prick off for half the year up

here in the north."

"Are you telling me you're in love with my lover?" Otah asked, half

joking, half serious.

"I'm saying she's worth giving up the sea for," Sinja said. He finished

the last of his wine, spun the bowl on the table, and then clapped

Otah's shoulder. Otah met his gaze for a moment before Sinja turned and

strode out. Otah looked into the wine bowl again, smelled the memory of

grapes hot from the sun, and drank it down. Outside, the sun broke

through, and the green of the trees and blue of the sky where it peeked

past the gray and white and yellow clouds showed vibrant as something

newly washed.

Their quarters were down a short corridor, and then through a thin

wooden door on leather hinges halfway to wearing through. Kiyan lay on

the cot, the netting pulled around her to keep the gnats and mosquitoes

off. Otah slipped through and lay gently beside her, watching her eyes

flutter and her lips take up a smile as she recognized him.

"I heard you talking," she said, sleep slurring the words.

"Sinja-cha came up."

"What was the matter?"

"Nothing," he said, and kissed her temple. "We were only talking about

the sea."

CEHMAI CLOSED THE DOOR OF THE POET'S HOUSE AGAIN AND STARTED PACing the

length of the room. The storm in the back of his mind was hardly a match

for the one at the front. Stone-Made-Soft, sitting at the empty, cold

brazier, looked up. Its face showed a mild interest.

"Trees still there?" the andat asked.

"Yes."