A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  towers the way celebration had. The dry music of the funeral drums

  wasn't taken up in the teahouses or gardens. Only the pillar of smoke

  blotting out the stars stood testament to the ceremony. 'twice, Cehmai

  took them past his own quarters, hoping that Idaan might be there

  waiting for him, but without effect. She had vanished from the city like

  a bird flying up into darkness.

  His OLD NOTES WERE GONE, I?F'I' IN A PACKET IN HIS ROOMS. KAIIN AND

  Danat were forgotten, and instead, Maati had fresh papers spread over

  the library table. Lists of the houses of the utkhaicm that might

  possible succeed in a bid to become the next Khai. Beside them, a fresh

  ink brick, a pen with a new bronze nib, and a pot of tea that smelled

  rich, fresh cut, and green. Summer tea in the winter cities. Maati

  poured himself a bowl, then blew across the pale surface, his eyes going

  over the names again.

  According to Baarath, who had accepted his second apology with a grace

  that had surprised him, the most likely was Kamau-a family that traced

  its bloodline back to the Second Empire. They had the wealth and the

  prestige. And, most important, an unmarried son in his twenties who was

  well-respected and active in the court. "Then the Vaunani, less wealthy,

  less prestigious, but more ruthless. Or possibly the Radaani, who had

  spent generations putting their hands into the import and export trade

  until almost every transaction in the city fed their coffers. They were

  the richest of the utkhaiem, but apparently unable to father males.

  There were seventeen daughters, and the only candidates for the Khai's

  chair were the head of the house, his son presently overseeing a trading

  venture in Yalakeht, and a six-year-old grandson.

  And then there were the Vaunyogi. Adrah Vaunyogi was a decent candidate,

  largely because he was young and virile, and about to be married to

  Idaan Machi. But the rumors held that the family was underfunded and not

  as well connected in court. Maati sipped his tea and considered whether

  to leave them on his list. One of these housesmost likely one of these,

  though there were certainly other possibilities-had engineered the

  murder of the Khai Machi. They had placed the blame on Otah. They had

  spirited him away, and once the mourning was finished with ...

  Once the mourning was finished, the city would attend the wedding of

  Adrah Vaunyogi to Idaan. No, no, lie would keep the Vaunyogi on his

  list. It was such a convenient match, and the timing so apt.

  Others, of course, put the crimes down to Otah-kvo. A dozen hunting

  packs had gone out in the four days since the bloody morning that killed

  the Khai and Danat both. The utkhaiem were searching the low towns for

  Otah and those who had aided his escape, but so far no one had

  succeeded. It was Maati's task now to solve the puzzle before they found

  him. He wondered how many of them had guessed that he alone in the city

  was working to destroy all their chances. If someone else had done these

  things ... if he could show it ... Otah would still be able to take his

  father's place. He would become Khai Machi.

  And what, Maati wondered, would Liat think of that, once she heard of

  it? He imagined her cursing her ill judgment in losing the ruler of a

  city and gaining half a poet who hadn't proved worth keeping.

  "Maati," Baarath said.

  Maati jumped, startled, and spilled a few drops of tea over his papers.

  Ink swirled into the pale green as he blotted them with a cloth. Baarath

  clicked his teeth and hurried over to help.

  "My fault," the librarian said. "I thought you had noticed me. You were

  scowling, after all."

  Maati didn't know whether to laugh at that, so he only took a pose of

  gratitude as Baarath blew across the still damp pages. The damage was

  minor. Even where the ink had smudged, he knew what he had meant.

  Baarath fumbled in his sleeve and drew out a letter, its edges sewn in

  green silk.

  "It's just come for you," he said. "The I)ai-kvo, I think?"

  Maati took it. The last he had reported, Otah had been found and turned

  over to the Khai Machi. It was a faster response than he had ex peered.

  He turned the letter over, looking at the familiar handwriting that

  formed his name. Baarath sat across the table from him, smiling as if he

  were, of course, welcome, and waiting to see what the message said. It

  was one of the little rudenesses to which the librarian seemed to feel

  himself entitled since Nlaati's apology. Maati had the uncomfortable

  feeling Baarath thought they were becoming friends.

  He tore the paper at the sewn scams, pulled the thread free, and

  unfolded it. The chop was clearly the Dai-kvo's own. It began with the

  traditional forms and etiquette. Only at the end of the first page did

  the matter become specific to the situation at hand.

  ihith Otah discovered and given over to the Khai, your work in Machi is

  completed. Your suggestion that he be accepted again as a poet is, of

  course, impossible but the sentiment is commendable. I am quite pleased

  with you, and trust that this will mark a change in your work. %here are

  many tasks that a man in your position might take on to the benefit of

  all-we shall discuss these opportunities upon your return.

  The critical issue now is that you withdraw, from Mllachi. Me have

  performed our service to the Khai, and your continued presence would

  only serve to draw attention to the fact that he and whichever of his

  sons eventually takes his place were unable to discover the plot without

  aid. It is dangerous for the poets to involve themselves with the

  politics of the courts.

  For this reason, I now recall you to my side. You are to announce that

  you have found the citations in the library that I had desired, and must

  now return them to me. I will expect you within five weeks....

  It continued, though Maati did not. Baarath smiled and leaned forward in

  obvious interest as Nlaati tucked the letter into his own sleeve. After

  a moment's silence, Baarath frowned.

  "Fine," he said. "If it's the sort of thing you have to keep to

  yourself, I can certainly respect that."

  "I knew you could, Baarath-cha. You're a man of great discretion."

  "You needn't flatter me. I know my proper place. I only thought you

  might want someone to speak with. In case there were questions that

  someone with my knowledge of the court could answer for you."

  "No," Maati said, taking a pose that offered thanks. "It's on another

  matter entirely."

  Maati sat with a pleasant, empty expression until Baarath huffed, stood,

  took a pose of leave-taking, and walked deeper into the galleries of the

  library. Maati turned hack to his notes, but his mind would not stay

  focused on them. After half a hand of frustration and distress, he

  packed them quietly into his sleeve and took himself away.

  The sun shone bright and clear, but to the west, huge clouds rose white

  and proud into the highest reaches of the sky. There would be storms

  later-if not today, in the summer weeks to come. Maati imagined he could

  smell the r
ain in the air. He walked toward his rooms, and then past

  them and into a walled garden. The cherry trees had lost their flowers,

  the fruits forming and swelling toward ripeness. Netting covered the

  wide branches like a bed, keeping the birds from stealing the harvest.

  Maati walked in the dappled shade. The pangs from his belly were fewer

  now and farther between. The wounds were nearly healed.

  It would be easiest, of course, to do as he was told. The Dai-kvo had

  taken him back into his good graces, and the fact that things had gone

  awry since his last report could in no way be considered his

  responsibility. He had discovered Otah, and if it was through no skill

  of his own, that didn't change the result. He had given Otah over to the

  Khai. Everything past that was court politics; even the murder of the

  Khai was nothing the [)ai-kvo would want to become involved with.

  Maati could leave now with honor and let the utkhaiem follow his

  investigations or ignore them. The worst that would happen was that Otah

  would be found and slaughtered for something he had not done and an evil

  man would become the Khai Machi. It wouldn't be the first time in the

  world that an innocent had suffered or that murder had been rewarded.

  The sun would still rise, winter would still become spring. And Maati

  would be restored to something like his right place among the poets. He

  might even be set over the school, set to teach boys like himself the

  lessons that he and Otah-kvo and Heshai-kvo and Cehmai had all learned.

  It would be something worth taking pride in.

  So why was it, he wondered, that he would not do as he was told? Why was

  the prospect of leaving and accepting the rewards he had dreamed of less

  appealing than staying, risking the Dai-kvo's displeasure, and

  discovering what had truly happened to the Khai Machi? It wasn't love of

  justice. It was more personal than that.

  Maati paused, closed his eyes, and considered the roiling anger in his

  breast. It was a familiar feeling, like an old companion or an illness

  so protracted it has become indistinguishable from health. He couldn't

  say who he was angry with or why the banked rage demanded that he follow

  his own judgment over anyone else's. He couldn't even say what he hoped

  he would find.

  He plucked the Dai-kvo's letter from his sleeve, read it again slowly

  from start to finish, and began to mentally compose his reply.

  Most high Dai-kvo, I hope you will forgive me, but the situation in

  Machi is such that ...

  Most high Dai-kvo, I am sure that, had you known the turns of event

  since my last report ...

  Most high, I must respectfully ...

  Most high Dai-kvo, what have you ever done for me that I should do

  anything you say? Why do I agree to be your creature when that agreement

  has only ever caused inc pain and loss, and you still instruct me to

  turn my hack on the people I care for most?

  Most high Dai-kvo, I have fed your last letter to pigs....

  "Maati-kvo!"

  Maati opened his eyes and turned. Cehmai, who had been running toward

  him, stopped short. Maati thought he saw fear in the boy's expression

  and wondered for a moment what Cehmai had seen in his face to inspire

  it. Maati took a pose that invited him to speak.

  "Otah," Cehmai said. "'They've found him."

  Too late, then, Maati thought. I've been too slow and come too late.

  "Where?" he asked.

  "In the river. There's a bend down near one of the low towns. They found

  his body, and a man in leather armor. One of the men who helped him

  escape, or that's what they've guessed. The Master of Tides is having

  them brought to the Khai's physicians. I told him that you had seen Otah

  most recently. You would be able to confirm it's really him."

  Maati sighed and watched a sparrow try to land on the branch of a cherry

  tree. The netting confused it, and the bird pecked at the lines that

  barred it from the fruit just growing sweet. Nlaati smiled in sympathy.

  "Let's go, then," he said.

  There was a crowd in the courtyard outside the physician's apartments.

  Armsmen wearing mourning robes barred most of the onlookers but parted

  when Maati and Cehmai arrived. The physician's workroom was wide as a

  kitchen, huge slate tables in the center of the room and thick incense

  billowing from a copper brazier. The bodies were laid out naked on their

  bellies-one thick and well-muscled with a heaped pile of black leather

  on the table beside it, the other thinner with what might have been the

  robes of a prisoner or cleaning rags clinging to its back. The Master of

  Tides-a thin man named Saani Vaanga-and the Khai's chief physician were

  talking passionately, but stopped when they saw the poets.

  The Master of Tides took a pose that offered service.

  "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 d
ead-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