A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  the main channel of the river. But the closer he seems to you, the less

  people will bother looking at him. I'll see whether I can find something

  for you to wear after, but you might consider sponging off in the brook

  there first. No offense, but you've been a while without a bath."

  "Who is he?" Otah asked.

  The commander shrugged.

  "Nobody, now."

  He clapped Otah on the shoulder and turned back toward the cart. The

  archers were pitching the corpses of the two armsmen into the water.

  Otah saw arrows rising from the river like reeds. The driver was coming

  forward now, his thumbs stuck in his belt. He was a hairy man, his full

  heard streaked with gray. He smiled at Otah and took a pose of welcome.

  "I don't understand," Otah said. "What's happening?"

  "We don't understand either, Itani-cha. Not precisely. We're only sure

  that it's something terrible," the carter said, and Otah's mouth dropped

  open. He spoke with the voice of Amiit Foss, his overseer in House

  Siyanti. Amiit grinned beneath his heard. "And we're sure that it isn't

  happening to you."

  The first few breaths after she woke were like rising new horn. She

  didn't know who or where she was, she had no thought of the night before

  or the day ahead. There was only sensation-the warmth of the body beside

  her, the crisp softness of the bedclothes, the netting above the bed

  glowing in the captured light of dawn, the scent of black tea brought in

  by a servant with cat-quiet footsteps. She sat up, almost smiling until

  memory rushed in on her like a flood of black water. Idaan rose and

  pulled on her robes. Adrah stirred and moaned.

  "You should go," she said, lifting the black iron teapot. "You're

  expected to go on a hunt today."

  Adrah sat up, scratching his back and yawning. His hair stuck out in all

  directions. He looked older than he had the day before, or perhaps it

  was only how she felt. She poured a howl of tea for him as well.

  "Have they found him?" Adrah asked.

  "I haven't heard the screams or lamentations yet, so I'd assume not."

  She held out the porcelain bowl. It was thin enough to see through and

  hot enough to burn her fingertips, but Idaan didn't try to reduce the

  pain. When Adrah took it from her, he drank from it straight, though she

  knew it must have scalded. Perhaps what they'd done had numbed them.

  "And You, Idaan-kya?"

  "I'm going to the baths. I'll join you after."

  Adrah drank the last of the tea, grimaced as if it was distilled wine,

  and took a pose of leave-taking which Idaan returned. When he was gone,

  she took herself to the women's quarters and the baths. She hardly had

  time to wash her hair before the cry went up. The Khai Nfachi was dead.

  Killed horribly in his chambers. Idaan dried herself with a cloth and

  strode out to meet her brother. She was halfway there before she

  realized her face was bare; she hadn't put on her paints. She was

  surprised that she felt no need for them now.

  Danat was pacing the great hall. The high marble archways echoed with

  the sound of his boots. There was blood on his sleeve, and his face was

  empty. When Idaan caught sight of him, she raised her chin but took no

  formal pose. Danat stopped. The room was silent.

  "You've heard," he said. There was no question to it.

  ""Tell me anyway."

  "Otah has killed our father," Danat said.

  "'t'hen yes. I've heard."

  Danat resumed his pacing. His hands worried each other, as if he were

  trying to pluck honey off them. Idaan didn't move.

  "I don't know how he did it, sister. There must be people backing him

  within the palaces. The armsmen in the tower were slaughtered."

  "How did he find our father?" Idaan asked, uninterested in the answer.

  "He must have found a secret way into the palaces. Someone would have

  seen him."

  Danat shook his head. There was rage in him, and pain. She could see

  them, could feel them resonate in her own breast. But more than that,

  there was an almost superstitious fear in him. The upstart had slipped

  his bonds, had struck in the very heart of the city, and her brother

  feared him like Black Chaos.

  "We have to secure the city," he said. "I've called for more guards. You

  should stay here. We can't know how far he will take his vendetta."

  "You're going to let him escape?" Idaan demanded. "You aren't going to

  hunt him down?"

  "He has resources I can't guess at. Look! Look what he's done. Until I

  know what I'm walking towards, I don't dare follow."

  The plan was failing. Danat was staying safe in his walls with his

  armsmcn around him like a blanket. Idaan sighed. It was tip to her, of

  course, to save it.

  "Adrah Vaunyogi has a hunt prepared. It was to be for fresh meat for my

  wedding feast. You stay here, Danat-kya. I'll bring you Otah's head."

  She turned and walked away. She couldn't hesitate, couldn't invite him

  to follow her. He would see it in her gait if she were anything less

  than totally committed. For a moment, she even believed herself that she

  was going out to find her father's killer and bring him down-riding with

  her hunt into the low towns and the fields to track down the evil Otah

  Machi, her fallen brother. Danat's voice stopped her.

  "I forbid you, Idaan. You can't do this."

  She paused and looked back at him. He was thicker than her father had

  been. Already his jaw line ran toward jowls. She took a pose that disagreed.

  "I'm actually quite good with a bow," she said. "I'll find him. And I

  will see him dead."

  "You're my child sister," Danat said. "You can't do this."

  Something flared in her, dark and hot. She stepped back toward Danat,

  feeling the rage lift her up like a leaf in the wind.

  "Ah, and if I do this thing, you'll be shamed. Because I have breasts

  and you've a prick, I'm supposed to muzzle myself and be glad. Is that

  it? Well I won't. You hear me? I will not be controlled, I will not be

  owned, and I will not step hack from anything to protect your petty

  pride. It's gone too far for that, brother. If a woman shrinks meekly

  back into the shadows, then you he the woman. See how it feels to you!"

  By the end she was shrieking. Her fists were balled so tight they hurt.

  Danat's expression was hard as stone and as gray.

  "You shame me," he said.

  "Live with it," she said and spat.

  "Send my body servant," he said. "I'll want my own bow. And then go to

  Adrah. The hunt won't leave without me."

  She was on the edge of refusing, of telling him that this wasn't

  courage. He was only more afraid of losing the respect of the utkhaiem

  than of dying, and that made him not only a coward but a stupid one. She

  was the one with courage. She was the one who had the will to act. What

  was he after all but a mewling kitten lost in the world, while she ...

  she was Otah Machi. She was the upstart who had earned the Khai's chair.

  She had killed her father for it; it was more than Danat would have done.

  But, of course, truth would destroy everything. That was its nature. So

  she swallowed it down dee
p where it could go on destroying her and took

  an acquiescing pose. She'd won. He'd know that soon enough.

  Once Danat's body servant had been sent scampering for his bow, Idaan

  returned to her apartments, shrugged out of her robes and put on the

  wide, loose trousers and red leather shirt of a hunter. She paused by

  her table of paints, her mirror. She sat for a moment and looked at her

  bare face. Her eyes seemed small and flat without the kohl. Her lips

  seemed pale and wide as a fish's, her cheeks pallid and low. She could

  be a peasant girl, plowing fields outside some low town. Her beauty had

  been in paint. Perhaps it would be again, someday. '['his was a poor day

  for beauty.

  The huntsmen were waiting impatiently outside the palaces of the

  Vaunyogi, their mounts' hooves clattering against the dark stones of the

  courtyard. Adrah took a pose of query when he saw her clothes. ldaan

  didn't answer it, but went to one of the horsemen, ordered him down,

  took his blade and his bow and mounted in his place. Adrah cantered over

  to her side. His mount was the larger, and he looked down at her as if

  he were standing on a step.

  "My brother is coming," she said. "I'll ride with him."

  "You think that wise?" he asked coolly.

  "I have asked too much of you already, Adrah-kya."

  His expression was cold, but he didn't object further. Danat Nlachi rode

  in wearing pale robes of mourning and seated on a great hunting

  stallion, the very picture of vigor and manly prowess. Five riders were

  with him: his friends, members of the utkhaicm unfortunate enough to

  have heard of this hunt and marry themselves to the effort. "They would

  have to be dealt with. Adrah took a pose of obeisance before l)anat.

  "We've had word that a cart left by the south gate last night," Adrah

  said. "It was seen coming from an alley beside the tower."

  "Then let its follow it," l)anat said. He turned and rode. ldaan

  followed, the wind whipping her hair, the smell of the beast under her

  rich and sweet. There was no keeping up the gallop, of course. But this

  was theater-the last remaining sons of the Khai Machi, one the assassin

  and servant of chaos slipping away in darkness, one the righteous

  avenger riding forth in the name of justice. I)anat knew the part he was

  to act, and Idaan gave him credit for playing it, now that she had

  goaded him into action. Those who saw them in the streets would tell

  others, and the word would spread. It was a sight songs were made from.

  Once they had crossed the bridge over the "l'idat, they slowed, looking

  for people who had heard or seen the cart go by. Idaan knew where it had

  really gone-the ruins of an old stone wayhouse a half-hand's walk from

  the nearest low town west of the city. The morning hadn't half passed

  before the hunt had taken a wrong scent, turned north and headed into

  the foothills. The false trail took them to a crossroad-a mining track

  led cast and west, the thin road from the city winding north up the side

  of a mountain. Danat looked frustrated and tired. When Adrah spoke-his

  voice loud enough for everyone in the party to hear-Idaan's belly tightened.

  "We should fan out, Danat-cha. Eight east, eight west, eight north, and

  two to stay here. If one group finds sign of the upstart, they can send

  back a runner, and the two waiting here will retrieve the rest."

  Danat weighed the thought, then agreed. Danat claimed the north road for

  himself, and the members of the utkhaiem, smelling the chance of glory,

  divided themselves among the hands heading east and west.

  Adrah took the cast, his eyes locked on hers as he turned to go. She saw

  the meaning in his expression, daring her to do this thing. Idaan made

  no reply to him at all. She, six huntsmen of the Vaunyogi loyal to their

  house and master, and Danat rode into the mountains.

  When the sun had reached the highest point in the day's arc, they

  stopped at small lake. The huntsmen rode out in their wide-ranging

  search as they had done at every pause before this. Danat dismounted,

  stretched, and paced. His eyes were dark. Idaan waited until the others

  disappeared into the trees, unslung her bow, and went to stand near her

  brother. He looked at her, then away.

  "He didn't come this way," Danat said. "Ile's tricked us again."

  "Perhaps. But he won't survive. Even if he killed you, he could never

  become Khai Machi. The utkhaiem and the poets wouldn't support him."

  "It's hatred now," Danat said. "He's doing it from hatred."

  "Perhaps," Idaan said. Out on the lake, a bird skimmed the shining

  surface of the water, then shrieked and plunged in, rising moments later

  with a flash of living silver in its claws. A quarter moon was in the

  sky-white crescent showing through the blue. The lake smelled colder

  than it was, and the wind tugged at her hair and the reeds alike. Danat

  sighed.

  "Was it hard killing Kaiin?" Idaan asked.

  Danat looked at her, as if shocked that she had asked. She met his gaze,

  her eyes fixed on his until he turned away.

  "Yes," he said. "Yes it was. I loved him. I miss them both."

  "But you did the thing anyway."

  He nodded. Idaan stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. His

  stubble tickled her lips, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her

  hand as she walked away, trying to stop the sensation. At ten paces she

  put an arrow to her bow, drew back the string. Uanat was still looking

  out over the water. Passionlessly, she judged the wind, the distance.

  The arrow struck the back of his head with a sound like an axe splitting

  wood. Danat seemed at first not to notice, and then slowly sank to the

  ground. Blood soaked the collar of his robes, the pale cloth looking

  like cut meat by the time she walked back to him. She knelt by him, took

  his hand in her own, and looked out over the lake.

  She was singing before she knew she intended to sing. In her

  imagination, she had screamed and shrieked, her cries calling the

  hunters hack to her, but instead she sang. It was an old song, a

  lamentation she'd heard in the darkness of the tunnels and the cold of

  winter. The words were from the Empire, and she hardly knew what they

  all meant. The rising and falling melody, aching and sorrowful, seemed

  to fill her and the world.

  Two hunters approached her at last, unsure of themselves. She had not

  seen them emerge from the trees, and she didn't look at them now as she

  spoke.

  "My brother has been murdered by Otah or one of his agents," she said.

  "While we were waiting for you."

  The hunters looked at one another. For a long, sick moment, she thought

  they might not believe her. She wondered if they would be loyal enough

  to the Vaunyogi to overlook the crime. And then the elder of them spoke.

  "We will find him, Idaan-cha," the man said, his voice trembling with

  rage. "We'll send for the others and turn every stone on this mountain

  until we find him."

  "It won't bring back my father. Or Danat. There won't be anyone to stand

  at my wedding."

  She broke off, half surprised to find her sobs unfeigned. Gently,
she

  cradled the corpse of her brother to her, feeling the blood soak her robes.

  "I'll gather his horse," another of the hunters said. "We can strap him

  to it-"

  "No," Idaan said. "You can give him to me. I'll carry him home."

  "It's a long ride back to the city. Are you sure that-"

  "I'll carry him home. He'd have done the same if our places were

  reversed," she said. "It is the way of our family."

  In the end, they draped him over her mount's haunches. The scent of the

  blood made him skittish, but Idaan held control firmly, cooing in the

  animal's ears, coaxing and demanding. When she could think of nothing

  else, she sang to the beast, and the dirges possessed her. She felt no

  sorrow, no regret. She felt no triumph. It was as if she was in the

  moment of grace between the blow and the pain. In her mind were only the

  sounds of the songs and of an arrow splitting bone.

  THE FARMSTEAD WAS SET HACK A SHORT WALK FROM THE ROAD. A CREEK RAN

  beside it, feeding, no doubt, into the river that was even now carrying

  dead men down to the main channel. The walls were as thick as a man's

  outstretched arm with a set of doors on both the inside and outside

  faces. On the second story, snow doors had been opened, letting in the

  summer air. Trees stood in close, making the house seem a part of the

  landscape. The horses were kept in the stables on the ground floor,