"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 three 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 intoned, 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
they craned and stretched for a glimpse of the man entering the chamber.
He stood tall and straight, his dark robes with their high collar
looking almost priestly. Otah Machi, the upstart, strode into the hall,
with the grace and calm of a man who owned it and every man and woman
who breathed air.
He's mad, she thought. He's gone mad to come here. They'll tear him
apart with their hands. And then she saw behind him the brown robes of a
poet-Maati Vaupathai, the envoy of the Dal-kvo. And behind him ...
Her mouth went dry and her body began to tremble. She shrieked, she
screamed, but no one could hear her over the crowd. She couldn't even
hear herself. And yet, walking at Maati's side, Cehmai looked tip. His
face was grim and calm and distant. The poets strode together behind the
upstart. And then the armsmen of Radaani and Vaunani, Kaman and Daikani
and Saya. Hardly a tenth of the families of the utkhaicm, but still a
show of power. The poets alone would have been enough.
She didn't think, couldn't recall pushing back the people around her,
she only knew her own intentions when she was over the rail and falling.
It wasn't so far to the ground-no more than the height of two men, and
yet in the roar and chaos, the drop seemed to last forever. When she
struck the floor at last, it jarred her to the hone. Her ankle bloomed
with pain. She put it aside and ran as best she could through the
stunned men of the utkhaiem. Men all about her, unable to act, unable to
move. They were like statues, frozen by their uncertainty and confusion.
She knew that she was screaming-shc could feel it in her throat, could
hear it in her cars. She sounded crazed, but that was unimportant. Her
attention was single, focused. The rage that possessed her, that lifted
her up and sped her steps by its power alone, was only for the upstart,
Otah Machi, who had taken her lover from her.
She saw Adrah and Daaya already on the floor, an armsman kneeling on
each back. "There was a blade still in Adrah's hand. And then there
before her like a fish rising to the surface of a pond was Otah Machi,
her brother. She launched herself at him, her hands reaching for him
like claws. She didn't see how the andat moved between them; perhaps it
had been waiting for her. Its wide, cold body appeared, and she collided
with it. Huge hands wrapped her own, and the wide, inhuman face bent
close to hers.
"Stop this," it said. "It won't help."
"'t'his isn't right!" she shouted, aware now that the pandemonium had
quieted, that her voice could be heard, but she could no more stop
herself now than learn to fly. "He swore he'd protect me. He swore it.
It's not right!"
"Nothing is," the andat agreed, as it pulled her aside, lifted her as if
she was still a child, and pressed her against the wall. She felt
herself sinking into it, the stone giving way to her like mud. She
fought, but the wide hands were implacable. She shrieked and kicked,
sure that the stone would close over her like water, and then she
stopped fighting. Let it kill her, let her die.
Let it end.
The hands went away, and Idaan found herself immobile, trapped in stone
that had found its solidity again. She could breathe, she could see, she
could hear. She opened her mouth to scream, to call for Cehmai. To beg.
Stone-Made-Soft put a single finger to her lips.
"It won't help," the andat said again, then turned and lumbered up
beside the speaker's pulpit where Cehmai stood waiting for it. She
didn't look at her brother as he took the pulpit, only Cehmai. He didn't
look back at her. When Utah spoke, his words cut through the air, clean
and strong as wine.
"I am Otah 1MIachi, sixth son of the Khai Machi. I have never renounced
my claim to this place; I have never killed or plotted to kill my
brothers or my father. But I know who has, and I have come here before
this council to show you what has been done, and by whom, and to claim
what is mine by right."
Idaan closed her eyes and wept, surprised to find her desolation
complicated by relief.
"I NOTICE YOU NEVER MENTIONED THE MALTS," AM1IIT SAID.
The waiting area to which the protocol servant had led them was open and
light, looking out over a garden of flowering vines. A silver howl with
water cooling fresh peaches sat on a low table. Amiit leaned against the
railing. He looked calm, but Otah could see the white at the corners of
his mouth and the small movements of his hands; Amiit's belly was as
much in knots as his own.
"There was no call," Utah said. "The families that were involved know
that they were being used, and if they only suspect that I know it,
that's almost as good as being sure. How long are we going to have to wait?"
"Until they've finished deciding whether to kill you as a murderer or
raise you up as the Khai Maehi," Amiit said. "It shouldn't take long.
You were very good out there."
"You could sound more sure of all this."
"We'll be fine," Amiit said. "We have hacking. We have the poets."
"And yet?"
Amiit forced a chuckle.
"This is why I don't play tiles. Just before the tiles man turns the
last chit, I convince myself that there's something I've overlooked."
"I hope you aren't right this time."
"If I am, I won't have to worry about next. They'll kill me as dead as you.
Otah picked up a peach and hit into it. The fuzz made his lips itch, but
the taste was sweet and rich and complex. He sighed and looked out.
Above the garden wall rose the towers, and beyond them the blue of the sky.
"If we win, you will have to have them killed, you know," Amiit said.
"Adrah and his father. Your sister, Idaan."
"Not her."
"Otah-cha, this is going to be hard enough as it stands. The utkhaiem
are going to accept you because they have to. But you won't be hailed as
a savior. And Kiyan-cha's a common woman from no family. She kept a
wayhouse. Showing mercy to the girl who killed your father isn't going
to win you anyone's support."
"I am the Khai Machi," Otah said. "I'll make my way."
"You don't understand how complex this is likely to be."
Otah shrugged.
"I trust your advice, Amiit-cha," Otah said. "You'll have to trust my
judgment."
The overseer's expression soured for a moment, and then he laughed. They
lapsed into silence. It was true. It was early in his career to appear
weak, and the Vaunyogi had killed two of his brothers and his father,
and had tried to kill Maati as well. And behind them, the Galts. And the
library. There had been something in there, some book or scroll or codex
worth all those lives, all that money, and the risk. By the time the sun
fled behind the mountains in the west, he would know whether he'd have
the power to crush their nation, reduce their houses to slag, their
cities to ruins. A word to Cehmai would put it in motion. All it would
require of him would be to forget that they also had children and
lovers, that the people of Galt were as likely as anyone in the cities
of the Khaiem to love and betray, lie and dream. And he was having pangs
over executing his own father's killer. He took another bite of the peach.
"You've gone quiet," Amiit said softly.
"Thinking about how complex this is likely to be," Otah said.
He finished the last of the peach flesh and threw the stone out into the
garden before he washed his hands clean in the water howl it had come
from. A company of armsmen in ceremonial mail appeared at the door with
a grim-faced servant in simple black robes.
"Your presence is requested in the council chamber," the servant said.
"I'll see you once it's over," Amiit said.
Otah straightened his robes, took and released a deep breath, and
adopted a pose of thanks. The servant turned silently, and Otah followed
with armsmen on either side of him and behind. Their pace was solemn.
The halls with their high, arched ceilings and silvered glass,
adornments of gold and silver and iron, were empty except for the jingle
of mail and the tread of boots. Slowly the murmur of voices and the
smells of bodies and lamp oil filled the air. The black-robed servant
turned a corner, and a pair of double doors swung open to the council
hall. The Master of Tides stood on the speaker's pulpit.
The black lacquer chair reserved for the Khai Machi had been brought,
and stood empty on a dais of its own. Otah held himself straight and
tall. He strode into the chamber as if his mind were not racing, his
heart not conflicted.
He walked to the base of the pulpit and looked up. The Master of "hides
was a smaller man than he'd thought, but his voice was strong enough.
"Otah Machi. In recognition of your blood and claim, we of the high
families of Machi have chosen to dissolve our council, and cede to you
the chair that was your father's."
Otah took a pose of thanks that he realized as he took it was a thousand
times too casual for the moment, dropped it, and walked up the dais.
Someone in the second gallery high above him began to applaud, and
within moments, the air was thick with the sound. Otah sat on the black
and uncomfortable chair and looked out. There were thousands of faces,
all of them fixed upon him. Old men, young men, children. The highest
families of the city and the palace servants. Some were exultant, some
stunned. A few, he thought, were dark with anger. He picked out Maati
and Cehmai. Even the andat had joined in. The ta bles at which the Kamau
and Vaunani, Radaani and Saya and Daikani all sat were surrounded by
cheering men. The table of the Vaunyogi was empty.
They would never all truly believe him innocent. They would never all
give him their loyalty. He looked out into their faces and he saw years
of his life laid out before him, constrained by necessity and petty
expedience. He guessed at the mockery he would endure behind his hack
while he struggled to learn his new-acquired place. He tried to appear
gracious and grave at once, certain he was failing at both.
For this, he thought, I have given up the world.
And then, at the far back of the hall, he caught sight of Kiyan. She,
perhaps alone, wasn't applauding him. She only smiled as if amused and
perhaps pleased. He felt himself soften. Amid all the meaningless
celebration, all the empty delight, she was the single point of
stillness. Kiyan was safe, and she was his, and their child would he
born into safety and love.
If all the rest was the price for those few things, it was one he would pay.
It was winter when Maati Vaupathai returned to Mlachi. "I'he days were
brief and hitter, the sky often white with a scrim of cloud that faded
seamlessly into the horizon. Roads were forgotten; the snow covered road
and river and empty field. "I'hc sledge dogs ran on the thick glaze of
ice wherever the teamsman aimed them. Maati sat on the skidding waxed
wood, his arms pulled inside his clothes, the hood of his cloak pulled
low and tight to warm the air before he breathed it. He'd been told that
he must above all else be careful not to sweat. If his robes got wet,
they would freeze, and that would be little better than running naked
through the drifts. He had chosen not to make the experiment.
His guide seemed to stop at every wayhouse and low town. INlaati learned
that the towns had been planned by local farmers and merchants so that
no place was more than a day's fast travel from shelter, even on the
short days around Candles Night when the darkness was three times as
long as the light. When Maati walked up the shallow ramps and through
the snow doors, he appreciated their wisdom. A night in the open during
a northern winter might not kill someone who had been horn and bred
there. A northerner would know the secrets of carving snow into shelter
and warming the air without drenching himself. He, on the other hand,
would simply have died, and so he made certain that his guide and the
dogs were well housed and fed. Even so, when the time came to sleep in a
bed piled high with blankets and dogs, he often found himself as
exhausted from the cold as from a full day's work.
What in summer would have been the journey of weeks took him from just
before Candles Night almost halfway to the thaw. The days began to blend
together-blazing bright white and then warm, close darkness-until he
felt he was traveling through a dream and might wake at any moment.
When at last the dark stone towers of Machi appeared in the
distance-lines of ink on a pale parchment-it was difficult to believe.
He had lost track of the days. He felt as if he had been traveling
forever, or perhaps that he had only just begun. As they drew nearer, he
opened his hood despite the stinging air and watched the towers thicken
and take form.
He didn't know when they passed over the river. The bridge would have
been no more than a rise in the snow, indistinguishable from a random
drift. Still, they must have passed it, because they entered into the
city itself. The high snow made the houses seemed shorter. Other dog
teams yipped and called, pulled wide sledges filled with boxes or ore or
the goods of trade; even the teeth of winter would not stop Machi. Maati
even saw men with wide, leather-laced nets on their shoes and goods for
sale strapped to their backs tramping down worn paths that led from one
house to the next. He heard voices lifted in loud conversation and the
harking of dogs and the murmur of the platform chains that rose up with
the towers and shifted, scraping against the stone.
The city seemed to have nothing in common with the one he had known, and
still there was a beauty to it. It was stark and terrible, and the wide
sky forgave it nothing, but he could imagine how someone might boast
they lived here in the midst of the desolation and carved out a life
worth living. Only the verdigris domes over the forges were free from
snow, the fires never slackening enough to how before the winter.
On the way to the palace of the Khai Machi, his guide passed what had
once been the palaces of the Vaunyogi. The broken walls jutted from the
snow. He thought he could still make out scorch marks on the stones.
There were no bodies now. The Vaunyogi were broken, and those who were
not dead had scattered into the world where they would be wise never to
mention their true names again. The hones of their house made Maati
shiver in a way that had little to do with the biting air. Otah-kvo had