Maati snorted. It was difficult being friendly with Baarath when he was
sober. Now, with him half-maudlin, half-contemptuous, and reeking of
wine, it was worse. Maati's frustration peaked, and his voice, when he
spoke, was louder and angrier than he'd intended.
"Because Otah didn t, and Kaiin didn't, and Danat didn't, and there's no
one else who's looking to sit on the chair. Is there some fifth brother
I haven't been told about?"
Baarath raised his hands in a pose of a tutor posing an instructive
question to a pupil. The effect was undercut by the slight weaving of
his hands.
"What would happen if all three brothers died?"
"Otah would be Khai."
"Four. I meant four. What if they all die? What if none of them takes
the chair?"
"']'he utkhaiem would fight over it like very polite pit dogs, and
whichever one ended with the most blood on its muzzle would be elevated
as the new Khai."
"So someone else might benefit from this yet, you see? They would have
to hide it because having slaughtered the whole family of the previous
Khai wouldn't help their family prestige, seeing as all their heads
would be hanging from poles. But it would be about your precious
succession, and there would be someone besides the three ... four
brothers with reason to do the thing."
"Except that Danat's alive and about to be named Khai Machi, it's a
pretty story."
Baarath sneered and made a grand gesture at the world in general.
"What is there but pretty stories? What is history but the accumulation
of plausible speculation and successful lies? You're a scholar,
Maati-kya, you should enjoy them more."
Baarath chuckled drunkenly, and Maati rose to his feet. Outside,
something cracked with a report like a stone slab broken or a roof tile
dropped from a great height. A moment later, laughter followed it. Maati
leaned against the table, his arms folded and each hand tucked into the
opposite sleeve. Baarath shifted, lay back on the bench, and sighed.
"You don't think it's true," Maati said. "You don't think it's one of
the high families plotting to be Khai."
"Of course not," Baarath said. "It's an idiot plan. If you were to start
something like that, you'd need to be certain you'd win it, and that
would take more money and influence than any one family could gather.
Even the Radaani don't have that much gold, and they've got more than
the Khai."
"Then you think I'm chasing mist," Maati said.
"I think the upstart is behind all of it, and that you're too much in
awe of him to see it. Everyone knows he was your teacher when you were a
boy. You still think he's twice what you are. Who knows, maybe he is."
His anger gave Maati the illusion of calm, and a steadiness to his
voice. He took a pose of correction.
"That was rude, Baarath-cha. I'd thank you not to say it again."
"Oh, don't be ashamed of it," Baarath said. "There are any number of
boys who have those sorts of little infatuations with-"
Maati's body lifted itself, sliding with an elegance and grace he didn't
know he posessed. His palm moved out by its own accord and slapped
Baarath's jaw hard enough to snap the man's head to the side. He put a
hand on Baarath's chest, pinning him firmly to the bench. Baarath yelped
in surprise and Maati saw the shock and fear in his face. Maati kept his
voice calm.
"We aren't friends. Let's not be enemies. It would distract me, and you
may have perfect faith that it would destroy you. I am here on the
Dai-kvo's work, and no matter who becomes Khai Mach], he'll have need of
the poets. Standing beside that, one too-clever librarian can't count
for much."
Outrage shone in Baarath's eyes as he pushed Maati's hand away. Maati
stepped back, allowing him to rise. The librarian pulled his disarrayed
robes back into place, his features darkening. Maati's rage began to
falter, but he kept his chin held high.
"You're a bully, Maati-cha," Baarath said, then he took a pose of
farewell and marched proudly out of the library. His library. Maati
heard the door slam closed and felt himself deflate.
It galled him, but he knew he would have to apologize later. He should
never have struck the man. If he had borne the insults and insinuations,
he could have forced contrition from Baarath, but he hadn't.
He looked at his scattered notes. Perhaps he was a bully. Perhaps there
was nothing to be found in all this. After all, Otah would die
regardless. Danat would take his father's place, and Maati would go back
to the Dai-kvo. He would even be able to claim a measure of success.
Otah was starving to death in the high air above Machi thanks to him,
after all. And what was that if not victory? One small mystery left
unsolved could hardly matter in the end.
He pulled his papers together, stacking them, folding them, tucking the
packet away into his sleeve. "There was nothing to be done here. He was
tired and frustrated, ashamed of himself and in despair. There was a
city of wine and distraction that would welcome him with open arms and
delighted smiles.
He remembered Heshai-kvo-the poet of Saraykeht, the controller of
Removing-the-Part-That-Continues who they'd called Seedless. He
remembered his teacher's pilgrimages to the soft quarter with its drugs
and gambling, its wine and whores. Heshai had felt this, or something
like it; Maati knew he had.
He pulled the brown leather-bound book from his sleeve, where it always
waited. He opened it and read Heshai's careful, beautiful handwriting.
The chronicle and examination of his errors in binding the andat. He
recalled Seedless' last words. He's forgiven you.
Maati turned back, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and dread. He put the
hook back into his sleeve and pulled out his notes. He rearranged them
on the table. He began again, and the night stretched out endlessly
before him.
THE PALACES WERE DRUNKEN AND DIZZY AND LOST IN THE RELIEF THAT comes
when a people believe that the worst is over. It was a celebration of
fratricide, but of all the dancers, the drinkers, the declaimers of
small verse, only Idaan seemed to remember that fact. She played her
part, of course. She appeared in all the circles of which she had been
part back before she'd entered this darkness. She drank wine and tea,
she accepted the congratulations of the high families on her joining
with the house of Vaunyogi. She blushed at the ribald comments made
about her and Adrah, or else replied with lewder quips.
She played the part. The only sign was that she was more elaborate when
she painted her face. Even if people noticed, what would they think but
that the colors on her eyelids and the plum-dark rouge on her lips were
a part of her celebration. Only she knew how badly she needed the mask.
The night candle was just past its middle mark when they broke away, she
and Adrah with their arms around each other as if they were lovers. No
one they saw had any question what they were planning, and no one would
object. Half of the city had paired off already and slunk away to find
an empty bed. It was the night for it. They laughed and stumbled toward
the high palaces-her father's.
Once, when they were hidden behind a high row of hedges and it wasn't a
performance for anyone, Adrah kissed her. He smelled of wine and the
warm, musky scent of a young man's skin. Idaan kissed him back, and for
that moment-that long silent, sensual moment-she meant it. "Then he
pulled away and smiled, and she hated him again.
The celebrations in the halls and galleries of the Khai's palace were
the nearest to exhaustion-everyone from the highest family of the
utkhaiem to the lowest firekeeper had dressed in their finest robes and
set out to stain them with something. The days of revelry had taken
their toll, and with the night half-passed, the wildest celebrations
were over. Music and song still played, people still danced and talked,
drew one another away into alcoves and corners. Old men talked gravely
of who would benefit from Danat's survival and promotion. But the sense
was growing that the time was drawing near when the city would catch its
breath and rest a while.
She and Adrah made their way through to the private wings of the palace,
where only servants and slaves and the wives of the Khai moved freely.
They made no secret of their presence. There was no need. Idaan led the
way up a series of wide, sweeping staircases to apartments on the south
side of the palace. A servant-an old man with gray hair, a limp, and a
rosy smile-greeted them, and Idaan instructed him that they were not to
be disturbed for any reason. The old man took a solemn expression and a
pose of acknowledgment, but there was merriment in his eyes. Idaan let
him believe what she, after all, intended him to. Adrah opened the great
wooden doors, and he also closed them behind her.
"They aren't the best rooms, are they?" Adrah said.
"They'll do," Idaan said, and went to the windows. She pulled open the
shutters. The great tower, Otah Machi's prison, stood like a dark line
inked in the air. Adrah moved to stand beside her.
"One of us should have gone with them," she said. "If the upstart's
found safely in his cell come morning . . ."
"He won't be," Adrah said. "Father's mercenaries are competent men. He
wouldn't have hired them for this if he hadn't been sure of them."
"I don't like using hired men," Idaan said. "If we can buy them, so can
anyone.
"They're armsmen, not whores," Adrah said. "They've taken a contract,
and they'll see it through. It's how they survive."
There were five lanterns, from small glass candleboxes to an oil lamp
with a wick as wide as her thumb and heavy enough to require both of
them to move it. They pulled them all as near the open window as they
could, and Adrah lit them while Idaan pulled the thin silks from under
her robes. The richest dyes in the world had given these their colorone
blue, the other red. Idaan hung the blue over the window's frame, and
then peered out, squinting into the night for the signal. And there,
perhaps half a hand from the top of the tower, shone the answering
light. Idaan turned away.
With all the light gathered at the window, the rooms were cast into
darkness. Adrah had pulled a hooded cloak over his robes. Idaan
remembered again the feeling of hanging over the void, feeling the wind
tugging at her. This wasn't so different, except that the prospect of
her own death had seemed somehow cleaner.
"He would want it," Idaan said. "If he knew that we'd planned this, he
would allow it. You know that."
"Yes, Idaan-kya. I know."
"To live so weak. It disgraces him. It makes him seem less before the
court. It's not a fit ending for a Khai."
Adrah drew a thin, blackened blade. It looked no wider than a finger,
and not much longer. Adrah sighed and squared his shoulders. Idaan felt
her stomach rise to her throat.
"I want to go with you," she said.
"We discussed this, Idaan-kya. You stay in case someone comes. You have
to convince them that I'm still in here with you."
"They won't come. They've no reason to. And he's my father."
"More reason that you should stay."
Idaan moved to him, touching his arm like a beggar asking alms. She felt
herself shaking and loathed the weakness, but she could not stop it.
Adrah's eyes were as still and empty as pebbles. She remembered Danat,
how he had looked when he arrived from the south. She had thought he was
ill, but it had been this. He had become a killer, a murderer of the
people he had once respected and loved. That he still respected and
loved. Adrah had those eyes now, the look of near-nausea. He smiled, and
she saw the determination. There were no words that would stop him now.
The stone had been dropped, and not all the wishing in the world could
call it back into her hand.
"I love you, Idaan-kya," Adrah said, his voice as cool as a gravestone.
"I have always loved you. From the first time I kissed you. Even when
you have hurt me, and you have hurt me worse than anyone alive, I have
only ever loved you."
He was lying. He was saying it as she'd said that her father would
welcome death, because he needed it to be true. And she found that she
needed that as well. She stepped back and took a pose of gratitude.
Adrah walked to the door, turned, nodded to her, and was gone. Idaan sat
in the darkness and looked at nothing, her arms wrapped around herself.
The night seemed unreal: absurd and undeniable at the same time, a
terrible dream from which she might wake to find herself whole again.
The weight of it was like a hand pressing down on her head.
There was time. She could call for armsmen. She could call for Danat.
She could go and stop the blade with her own body. She sat silent,
trying not to breathe. She remembered the ceremony of her tenth summer,
the year after her mother's death. Her father had taken her to sit at
his side during all that day's ritual. She had hated it, bored by the
petitions and formality until tears ran down her cheeks. She re membered
a meal with a representative from some Westlands warden where her father
had forced her to sit on a hard wooden chair and swallow a cold bean
soup that made her gag rather than seem ungracious to the Westlander for
his food.
She fought to remember a smile, an embrace. She wanted a moment in the
long years of her childhood to which she could point and say here is how
I know he loved me. The blue silk stirred in the breeze. The lantern
flames flickered, dimmed, and rose again. It must have happened. For him
to be so desperate for her happiness now, there must have been some
sign, some indication.
She found herself rocking rapidly back and forth. When a sound came from
the door, she jumped up, panicked, looking around for some excuse to
explain Adrah's absence. When he himself came in, she could see in his
eyes that it was over.
Adrah pulled off the cloak, letting it pool around his ankles. His
face was stone.
"You've done it," Idaan said, and two full breaths later, he nodded.
Something as much release as despair sank into her. She could feel her
body made heavy by it.
She walked to him, pulled the blade and its soft black leather sheath
from his belt, and let them drop to the floor. Adrah didn't try to stop her.
"Nothing we ever do will be so bad as this," she said. "This now is the
worst it will ever be. Everything will be better than this."
"He never woke," Adrah said. "The drugs that let him sleep ... He never
woke."
"That's good."
A slow, mad grin bloomed on his face, stretching until the blood left
his lips. There was a hardness in his eyes and a heat. It looked like
fury or possession. He took her shoulders in his hands and pulled her
near him. Their kiss was a gentle violence. For a moment, she thought he
meant to open her robes, to drag her back to the bed in a sad parody of
what they were expected to be doing. She pressed a palm to his sex and
was surprised to find that he was not aroused. Slowly, with perfect
control and a grip that bruised her, Adrah brought her away from him.
"I did this thing for you," he said. "I did this for you. Do you
understand that?"
"I do."
"Never ask me for anything again," he said and released her, turning
away. "From now until you die, you are in debt to me, and I owe you
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