A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  matter-of-fact. "But I can't think why I would."

  "There's no reason for the council to be called."

  "No reason? We're short a Khai, MIaati-cha."

  "The last one left a son to take his place," Maati said. "No one in that

  hall has a legitimate claim to the name Khai Machi."

  Radaani laced his thick fingers over his belly and narrowed his eyes. A

  smile touched his lips that might have meant anything.

  "I think you have some things to tell me," he said.

  Nlaati began not with his own investigation, but with the story as it

  had unfolded. Idaan Machi and Adrah Vaunvogi, the backing of the Gaits,

  the murder of Biitrah Machi. He told it like a tale, and found it was

  easier than he'd expected. Radaani chuckled when he reached the night of

  Otah's escape and grew somber when he drew the connection between the

  murder of Danat Machi and the hunting party that had gone with him. It

  was all true, but it was not all of the truth. In the long conversations

  that had followed Baarath's delivery of Cehmai's letter, Otah and Maati,

  Kiyan and Amiit had all agreed that the Gaits' interest in the library

  was something that could be safely neglected. It added nothing to their

  story, and knowing more than they seemed to might yet prove an

  advantage. Watching Porsha Radaani's eyes, Maati thought it had been the

  right decision.

  He outlined what he wanted of the Radaani-the timing of the proposal to

  disband, the manner in which it would he best approached, the support

  they would need on the council. Radaani listened like a cat watching a

  pigeon until the whole proposal was laid out before him. He coughed and

  loosened the belt of his robe.

  "It's a pretty story," Radaani said. "It'll play well to a crowd. But

  you'll need more than this to convince the utkhaiem that your friend's

  hem isn't red. We're all quite pleased to have a Khai who's walked

  through his brothers' blood, but fathers are a different thing."

  "I'm not the only one to tell it," Maati said. "I have one of the

  hunting party who watched I)anat die to swear there was no sign of an

  ambush. I have the commander who collected Otah from the tower to say

  what he was bought to do and by whom. I have Cehmai Tyan and

  Stone-Made-Soft. And I have them in the next room if you'd like to speak

  with them."

  "Really?" Radaani leaned forward. The chair groaned under his weight.

  "And if it's needed, I have a list of all the houses and families who've

  supported Vaunyogi. If it's a question what their relationships are with

  Galt, all we have to do is open those contracts and judge the terms.

  'T'hough there may be some of them who would rather that didn't happen.

  So perhaps it won't be necessary."

  Radaani chuckled again, a deep, wet sound. He rubbed his fingers against

  his thumbs, pinching the air.

  "You've been busy since last we spoke," he said.

  "It isn't hard finding confirmation once you know what the truth is.

  Would you like to speak to the men? You can ask them whatever you like.

  "They'll back what I've said."

  "Is he here himself?"

  "Otah thought it might be better not to attend. Until he knew whether

  you intended to help him or have him killed."

  "He's wise. Just the poet, then," Radaani said. "The others don't matter."

  Maati nodded and left the room. The teahouse proper was a wide, low room

  with fires burning low in two corners. Radaani's servants were drinking

  something that Maati doubted was only tea and talking with one of the

  couriers of House Sivanti. There would be more information from that, he

  guessed, than from the more formal meeting. At the door to the back

  room, Sinja leaned back in a chair looking bored but corn- manding a

  view of every approach.

  "Well?" Sinja asked.

  "He'd like to speak with Cehmai-cha."

  "But not the others?"

  "Apparently not."

  "He doesn't care if it's true, then. Just whether the poets are hacking

  our man," Sinja let his chair down and stood, stretching. "The forms of

  power arc fascinating stuff. Reminds me why I started fighting for a

  living."

  Maati opened the door. The back room was quieter, though the rush of

  rain was everywhere. Cehmai and the andat were sitting by the fire. The

  huntsman Sinja-cha had tracked down was at a small table, half drunk. It

  was best, perhaps, that Radaani hadn't wanted him. And three armsmcn in

  the colors of House Siyanti also lounged about. Cehmai looked up,

  meeting Maati's gaze. Maati nodded.

  Radaadni's expression when Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft entered the room

  was profoundly satisfied. It was as if the young poet's presence

  answered all the questions that were important to ask. Still, Maati

  watched Cehmai take a pose of greeting and Radaani return it.

  "You wished to speak with me," Cehmai asked. His voice was low and

  tired. Maati could see how much this moment was costing him.

  "Your fellow poet here's told me quite a tale," Radaani said. "He says

  that Otah Machi's not dead, and that Idaan Machi's the one who arranged

  her family's death."

  "That's so," Cehmai agreed.

  "I see. And you were the one who brought that to light?"

  "That's so."

  Radaani paused, his lips pursed, his fingers knotted around each other.

  "Does the Dai-kvo back the upstart, then?"

  "No," Maati said before Cehmai could speak. "We take no side in this. We

  support the council's decision, but that doesn't mean we withhold the

  truth from the utkhaiem."

  "As Maati-kvo says," Cehmai agreed. "We are servants here."

  "Servants with the world by its balls," Radaani said. "It's easy,

  Cehmai-cha, to support a position in a side room with no one much around

  to hear you. It's a harder thing to say the same words in front of the

  gods and the court and the world in general. If I take this to the

  council and you decide that perhaps it wasn't all quite what you've said

  it was, it will go badly for me."

  "I'll tell what I know," Cehmai said. "Whoever asks."

  "Well," Radaani said, then more than half to himself, "Well well well."

  In the pause that followed, another roll of thunder rattled the

  shutters. But Porsha Radaani's smile had faded into something less

  amused, more serious. We have him, Maati thought. Radaani clapped his

  hands on his thighs and stood.

  "I have some conversations I'll have to conduct, Maati-cha," he said.

  "You understand that I'm taking a great personal risk doing this? Me and

  my family both."

  "And I know that Otah-kvo will appreciate that," Maati said. "In my

  experience, he has always been good to his friends."

  "TThat's best," Radaani said. "After this, I expect he'll have about two

  of them. Just so long as he remembers what he owes me."

  "He will. And so will the Kamau and the Vaunani. And I imagine a fair

  number of your rival families will be getting less favorable terms from

  the Galts in the future."

  "Yes. That had occurred to me too."

  Radaani smiled broadly and took a formal pose of leavetaking that

  ineluded the room and all thr
ee of them in it-the two poets, the one

  spirit. When he was gone, Maati went to the window again. Radaani was

  walking fast down the street, his servants half-skipping to keep the

  canopy over him. His limp was almost gone.

  Maati closed the shutters.

  "He's agreed?" Cehmai asked.

  "As near as we can expect. He smells profit in it for himself and

  disappointment for his rivals. That's the best we can offer, but I think

  he's pleased enough to do the thing."

  "That's good."

  Maati sat in the chair Radaani had used, sighing. Cehmai leaned against

  the table, his arms folded. His mouth was thin, his eyes dark. He looked

  more than half ill. The andat pulled out the chair beside him and sat

  with a mild, companionable expression.

  "What did the Dai-kvo say?" Cehmai asked. "In the letter?"

  "He said I was under no circumstances to take sides in the succession.

  He repeated that I was to return to his village as soon as possible. He

  seems to think that by involving myself in all this court intrigue, I

  may he upsetting the utkhaiem. And then he went into a long commentary

  about the andat being used in political struggle as the reason that the

  Empire ate itself."

  "He's not wrong," Cchmai said.

  "Well, perhaps not. But it's late to undo it."

  "You can blame me if you'd like," Cehmai said.

  "I think not. I chose what I'd do, and I don't think I chose poorly. If

  the Dai-kvo disagrees, we can have a conversation about it."

  "He'll throw you out," Cchmai said.

  Maati thought for a moment of his little cell at the village, of the

  years spent in minor tasks at the will of the Dal-kvo and the poets se

  nior to himself. Liat had asked him to leave it all a hundred times, and

  he'd refused. The prospect of failure and disgrace faced him now, and he

  heard her words, saw her face, and wondered why it had all seemed so

  wrong when she'd said it and so clear now. Age perhaps. Experience. Some

  tiny sliver of wisdom that told him that in the balance between the

  world and a woman, either answer could be right.

  "I'm sorry for all this, Cehmai. About Idaan. I know how hard this is

  for you."

  "She picked it. No one made her plot against her family."

  "But you love her."

  The young poet frowned now, then shrugged.

  "Less now than I did two days ago," he said. "Ask again in a month. I'm

  a poet, after all. There's only so much room in my life. Yes, I loved

  her. I'll love someone else later. Likely someone that hasn't set

  herself to kill off her relations."

  "It's always like this," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Every one of them. The

  first love always comes closest. I had hopes for this one. I really did."

  "You'll live with the disappointment," Cehmai said.

  "Yes," the andat said amiably. "There's always another first girl."

  Maati laughed once, amused though it was also unbearably sad. The andat

  shifted to look at him quizzically. Cehmai's hands took a pose of query.

  Maati tried to find words to fit his thoughts, surprised by the sense of

  peace that the prospect of his own failure brought him.

  "You're who I was supposed to be, Cehmai-kvo, and you're much better at

  it. I never did very well."

  IDAAN LEANED FORWARD, HER HANDS ON THE RAIL. THE GALLERY BEHIND her was

  full but restless, the air thick with the scent of their bodies and

  perfumes. People shifted in their seats and spoke in low tones, prepared

  for some new attack, and Idaan had noticed a great fashion for veils

  that covered the heads and necks of men and women alike that tucked into

  their robes like netting on a bed. The wasps had done their work, and

  even if they were gone now, the feeling of uncertainty remained. She

  took another deep breath and tried to play her role. She was the last

  blood of her murdered father. She was the bride of Adrah Vaunyogi.

  Looking down over the council, her part was to remind them of how

  Adrah's marriage connected him to the old line of the Khaiem.

  And yet she felt like nothing so much as an actor, put out to sing a

  part on stage that she didn't have the range to voice. It had been so

  recently that she'd stood here, inhabiting this space, owning the air

  and the hall around her. Today, everything was the same-the families of

  the utkhaiem arrayed at their tables, the leaves-in-wind whispering from

  the galleries, the feeling of eyes turned toward her. But it wasn't

  working. The air itself seemed different, and she couldn't begin to say why.

  "The attack leveled against this council must not weaken us," Daaya, her

  father now, half-shouted. His voice was hoarse and scratched. "We will

  not be bullied! We will not be turned aside! When these vandals tried to

  make mockery of the powers of the utkhaiem, we were preparing to

  consider my son, the honorable Adrah Vaunyogi, as the proper man to take

  the place of our lamented Khai. And to that matter we must return."

  Applause filled the air, and Idaan smiled sweetly. She wondered how many

  of the people now present had heard her cry out Cehmai's name in her

  panic. Those that hadn't had no doubt heard it from other lips. She had

  kept clear of the poet's house since then, but there hadn't been a

  moment her heart hadn't longed toward it. He would understand, she told

  herself. He would forgive her absence once this was all finished. All

  would be well.

  And yet, when Adrah looked up to her, when their gaze met, it was like

  looking at a stranger. He was beautiful: his hair fresh cut, his robes

  of jeweled silk. He was her husband, and she no longer knew him.

  Daaya stepped down, glittering, and Adaut Kamau rose. If, as the

  gossipmongers had told, the wasps had been meant to keep old Kamau

  silent that day, this would be the moment when something more should

  follow. The galleries became suddenly quiet as the old man stepped to

  the stage. Even from across the hall, Idaan could see the red weal on

  his face where the sting had marked him.

  "I had intended," he said, "to speak in support of Ghiah Vaunani in his

  urging of caution and against hasty decision. Since that time, however,

  my position has changed, and I would like to invite my old, dear friend

  Porsha Radaani to address the council."

  With nothing more than that, old Kamau stepped down. Idaan leaned

  forward, looking for the green and gray robes of the Radaani. And there,

  moving between the tables, was the man striding toward the speaker's

  dais. Adrah and his father were bent together, speaking swiftly and

  softly. Idaan strained to hear something of what they said. She didn't

  notice how tight she was holding the rail until her fingers started to

  ache with it.

  Radaani rose up in the speaker's pulpit, looking over the council and

  the galleries for the space of a half-dozen breaths. His expression was

  considering, like a man at a fish market judging the freshest catch.

  Idaan felt her belly tighten. Below her and across the hall, Radaani

  lifted his arms to the crowd.

  "Brothers, we have come here in these solemn times to take the fate of

  our city into our hands," he int
oned, and his voice was rich as cream.

  "We have suffered tragedy and in the spirit of our ancestors, we rise to

  overcome it. No one can doubt the nobility of our intentions. And yet

  the time has come to dissolve this council. There is no call to choose a

  new Khai Machi when a man with legitimate claim to the chair still lives."

  The noise was like a storm. Voices rose and feet stamped. On the council

  floor, half the families were on their feet, the others sitting with

  stunned expressions. And yet it was as if it were happening in some

  other place. Idaan felt the unreality of the moment wash over her. It

  was a dream. A nightmare.

  "I have not stood down!" Radaani shouted. "I have not finished! Yes, an

  heir lives! And he has the support of my family and my house! Who among

  you will refuse the son of the Khai Machi his place? Who will side with

  the traitors and killers that slaughtered his father?"

  "Porsha-cha!" one of the men of the council said, loud enough to carry

  over the clamor. "Explain yourself or step down! You've lost your mind!"

  "I'll better that! Brothers, I give my place before you to the son of

  the Khai and his one surviving heir!"

  Had she thought the hall loud before? It was deafening. No one was left

  seated. Bodies pressed at her hack, jostling her against the railing as