A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (42 page)

black began their chanting procession. "Their voices blended and rose

until the temple walls themselves seemed to ring with the melody. Cehmai

plucked at the cushion. He couldn't watch, and he couldn't look away.

One priest-an old man with a bare head and a thin white beard-stopped

behind Idaan in the place that her father or brother should have taken.

The high priest stood at the hack of the dais, lifted his hands slowly,

palms out to the temple, and, with an embracing gesture, seemed to

encompass them all. When he spoke, it was in the language of the Old

Empire, syllables known to no one on the cushions besides himself.

Eyan to nyot baa, don salaa khai dan rnnsalaa.

The will of the gods has always been that woman shall act as servant to man.

An old tongue for an old thought. Cehmai let the words that followed

it-the ancient ritual known more by its rhythm than its significancewash

over him. He closed his eyes and told himself he was not drowning. He

focused on his breath, smoothing its ragged edges until he regained the

appearance of calm. Ike watched the sorrow and the anger and the

jealousy writhe inside him as if they were afflicting someone else.

When he opened his eyes, the andat had shifted, its gaze on him and

expressionless. Cehmai felt the storm on the back of his mind shift, as

if taking stock of the confusion in his heart, testing him for weakness.

Cehmai waited, prepared for Stone-Made-Soft to press, for the struggle

to engulf him. He almost longed for it.

But the andat seemed to feel that anticipation, because it pulled back.

The pressure lessened, and Stone-Made-Soft smiled its idiot, empty

smile, and turned back to the ceremony. Adrah was standing now, a long

cord looped in his hand. The priest asked him the ritual questions, and

Adrah spoke the ritual answers. His face seemed drawn, his shoulders too

square, his movements too careful. Celunai thought he seemed exhausted.

The priest who stood behind ldaan spoke for her family in their absence,

and the end of the cord, cut and knotted, passed from Adrah to the

priest and then to Idaan's hand. The rituals would continue for some

time, Cehmai knew, but as soon as the cord was accepted, the binding was

done. Idaan Machi had entered the house of the Vaunyogi and only Adrah's

death would cast her back into the ghost arms of her dead family. Those

two were wed, and he had no right to the pain the thought caused him. He

had no right to it.

He rose and walked silently to the wide stone archway and out of the

temple. If Idaan looked up at his departure, he didn't notice.

The sun wasn't halfway through its arc, and a fresh wind from the north

was blowing the forge smoke away. I ligh, thin clouds scudded past,

giving the illusion that the great stone towers were slowly, endlessly

toppling. Cehmai walked the temple grounds, Stone-Made-Soft a pace

behind him. "There were few others there-a woman in rich robes sitting

alone by a fountain, her face a mask of grief; a round-faced man with

rings glittering on his fingers reading a scroll; an apprentice priest

raking the gravel paths smooth with a long metal rake. And at the edge

of the grounds, where temple became palace, a familiar shape in brown

poet's robes. Cchmai hesitated, then slowly walked to him, the andat

close by and trailing him like a shadow.

"I hadn't expected to see you here, Maati-kvo."

"No, but I expected you," the older poet said. "I've been at the council

all morning. I needed some time away. May I walk with you?"

"If you like. I don't know that I'm going anywhere in particular."

"Not marching with the wedding party? I thought it was traditional for

the celebrants to make an appearance in the city with the new couple.

Let the city look over the pair and see who's allied themselves with the

families. I assume that's what all the flowers and decorations out there

are for."

"There will he enough without me."

Cehmai turned north, the wind blowing gently into his face, drawing his

robes out behind him as if he were walking through water. A slave girl

was standing beside the path singing an old love song, her high, sweet

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

a moment before coming out with four lengths of silver that she left on

the table. Seeing Maati's surprise, she smiled.

"We didn't ask for the food and wine," she said. "It's rude to underpay."

"The grapes were sour," Maati said.

Kiyan considered this for a moment and scooped one silver length hack

into her sleeve. They didn't leave through the front door or out to the

alley, but descended a narrow stairway into the tunnels beneath the

city. Someone-the keep or one of Kiyan's conspirators-had left a lit

lantern for them. Kiyan took it in hand and strode into the black

tunnels as assured as a woman who had walked this maze her whole life.

Maati kept close to her, dread pricking at him for the first time.

The descent seemed as deep as the mines in the plain. The stairs were

worn smooth by generations of footsteps, the path they traveled

inhabited by the memory of men and women long dead. At length the stairs

gave way to a wide, tiled hallway shrouded in darkness. Kiyan's small

lantern lit only part way up the deep blue and worked gold of the walls,

the darkness above them more profound than a moonless sky.

The mouths of galleries and halls seemed to gape and close as they

passed. Nlaati could see the scorch marks rising up the walls where

torches had been set during some past winter, the smoke staining the

tiles. A breath seemed to move through the dim air, like the earth exhaling.

The tunnels seemed empty except for them. No glimmer of light came from

the doors and passages they passed, no voices however distant competed

with the rustle of their robes. At a branching of the great hallway,

Kiyan hesitated, then bore left. A pair of great brass gates opened onto

a space like a garden, the plants all designed from silk, the birds

perched on the branches dead and dust-covered.

"Unreal, isn't it?" Kiyan said as she picked her way across the sterile

terrain. "I think they must go a little mad in the winters down here.

All those months without seeing the sunlight."

"I suppose," Maati said.

After the garden, they went down a series of corridors so narrow that

Maati could place his palms on both walls without stretching. She came

to a high wooden doorway with brass fittings that was barred from

within. Kiyan passed the lantern to Maati and knocked a complex pattern.

A scraping sound spoke of the bar being lifted, and then the door swung

in. Three men with blades in their hands stood. The center one smiled,

stepped back and silently gestured them through.

Lanterns filled the stone-walled passage with warm, buttery light and

the scent of burnt oil. There was no door at the end, only an archway

that opened out into a wide, tall space that smelled of sweat and damp

wool and torch smoke. A storehouse, then, with the door frames stuffed

with rope to keep out even a glimmer of light.

Half a dozen men stopped their conversations as Kiyan led him across the

empty space to the overseer's office-a shack within the structure that

glowed from within.

Kiyan opened the office door and stood aside, smiling encouragement to

Maati as he stepped past her and into the small room. A desk. Four

chairs. A stand for scrolls. A map of the winter cities nailed to the

wall. Three lanterns. And Otah-kvo rising now from his seat.

He was still thin, but there was an energy about him-in the way he held

his shoulders and his hands. In the way he moved.

"You're looking well for a dead man," Maati said.

"Feeling better than expected, too," Otah said, and a smile spread

across his long, northern face. "Thank you for coming."

"How could I not?" Maati drew one of the chairs close to him and sat,

his fingers laced around one knee. "So you've chosen to take the city

after all?"

Otah hesitated a moment, then sat. He rubbed the desktop with his open

palm-a dry sound-and his brow furrowed.

"I don't see my option," he said at last. "That sounds convenient, I

know. But ... You said before that you'd realized I had nothing to do

with Biitrah's death and your assault. I didn't have a part in Danat's

murder either. Or my father's. Or even my own rescue from the tower,

come to that. It's all simply happened up to now. And I didn't know

whether you still believed me innocent."

Maati smiled ruefully. There was something in Otah's voice that sounded

like hope. Maati didn't know his own heart-the resentment, the anger,

the love of Otah-kvo and of Liat and the child she'd borne. He couldn't

say even what they all had to do with this man sitting across his

appropriated desk.

"I do," Maati said at last. "I've been looking into the matter, but I

suppose you know that if you've had me watched."

"Yes. That's one reason I wanted to speak to you."

"There are others?"

"I have a confession to make. I'd likely be wiser to keep quiet until

this whole round is finished, but ... I've lied to you, Maati. I told

you that I'd been with a woman in the east islands and failed to father