have to protect your friends from themselves. You know?"
Maati took a pose that was an agreement and looked into the flames.
Sometimes men could be their own worst enemies. That was truth. He
remembered the last time he had seen Otah-kvo. It had been the night
Maati had admitted what Liat had become to him and what he himself was
to her. His old friend's eyes had gone hard as glass. Heshai-kvo, the
poet of Saraykeht, had died just after that, and Maati and Liat had left
the city together without seeing Otah-kvo again.
The betrayal in those dark eyes haunted him. He wondered how much the
anger had festered in his old teacher over the years. It might have
grown to hatred by now, and Maati had come to hunt him down. The fire
danced over the coal, flames turning the black to gray, the stone to
powder. He realized that the boy poet had been speaking, and that the
words had escaped him entirely. Maati took a pose of apology.
"My mind wandered. You were saying?"
"I offered to come by at first light," Cehmai said. "I can show you
where the good teahouses are, and there's a streetcart that sells the
best hot eggs and rice in the city. Then, perhaps, we can brave the
library?"
"That sounds fine. Thank you. But now I think I'd best unpack my things
and get some rest. You'll excuse me."
Cehmai bounced up in a pose of apology, realizing for the first time
that his presence might not be totally welcome, and Maati waved it away.
They made the ritual farewells, and when the door closed, Maati sighed
and rose. He had few things: thick robes he had bought for the journey
north, a few hooks including the small leatherbound volume of his dead
master's that he had taken from Saraykeht, a packet of letters from
Liat, the most recent of them years old now. The accumulated memories of
a lifetime in two bags small enough to carry on his hack if needed. It
seemed thin. It seemed not enough.
He finished the tea and almond cakes, then went to the window, slid the
paper-thin stone shutter aside, and looked out into the darkness. Sunset
still breathed indigo into the western skyline. The city glittered with
torches and lanterns, and to the south the glow of the forges of the
smith's quarter looked like a brush fire. The towers rose black against
the stars, windows lit high above him where some business took place in
the dark, thin air. Maati sighed, the night cold in his face and lungs.
All these unknown streets, these towers, and the lacework of tunnels
that ran beneath the city: midwinter roads, he'd heard them called. And
somewhere in the labyrinth, his old friend and teacher lurked, planning
murder.
Maati let his imagination play a scene: Otah-kvo appearing before him in
the darkness, blade in hand. In Maati's imagination, his eyes were hard,
his voice hoarse with anger. And there he faltered. He might call for
help and see Otah captured. He might fight him and end the thing in
blood. He might accept the knife as his due. For a dream with so vivid a
beginning, Maati could not envision the end.
He closed the shutter and went to throw another black stone onto the
fire. His indulgence had turned the room chilly, and he sat on the
cushion near the fire as the air warmed again. His legs didn't fold as
easily as Cehmai's had, but if he shifted now and again, his feet didn't
go numb. He found himself thinking fondly of Cehmai-the boy was easy to
befriend. Otah-kvo had been like that, too.
Maati stretched and wondered again whether, if all this had been a song,
he would have sung the hero's part or the villain's.
No ONE HAD EVER SEEN IDAAN'S REBELLIONS AS HUNGER. THA'1' HAD BEEN their
fault. If her friends or her brothers transgressed against the etiquette
of the court, consequences came upon them, shame or censure. But Idaan
was the favored daughter. She might steal a rival girl's gown or arrive
late to the temple and interrupt the priest. She could evade her
chaperones or steal wine from the kitchens or dance with inappropriate
men. She was Idaan Machi, and she could do as she saw fit, because she
didn't matter. She was a woman. And if she'd never screamed at her
father in the middle of his court that she was as much his child as
Biitrah or Danat or Kaiin, it was because she feared in her bones that
he would only agree, make some airy comment to dismiss the matter, and
leave her more desperate than before.
Perhaps if once someone had taken her to task, had treated her as if her
actions had the same weight as other people's, things would have ended
differently.
Or perhaps folly is folly because you can't see where it moves from
ambition into evil. Arguments that seem solid and powerful prove hollow
once it's too late to turn back. Arguments like Why should it be right
for them but wrong for me?
She haunted the Second Palace now, breathing in the emptiness that her
eldest brother had left. The vaulted arches of stone and wood echoed her
soft footsteps, and the sunlight that filtered though the stone shutters
thickened the air to a golden twilight. Here was the bedchamber, bare
even of the mattress he and his wife had slept upon. There, the workshop
where he had labored on his enthusiasms, keeping engineers by his side
sometimes late into the night or on into morning. The tables were empty
now. Dust lay thick on them, ignored even by the servants until the time
came for some new child of the Khaiem to take residence ... to live in
this opulence and keep his ear pricked for the sound of his brother's
hunting dogs.
She heard Adrah coming long before he stepped into the room. She
recognized his gait by the sound of it, and didn't call. He was clever,
she thought bitterly; if he wanted to find her, he could puzzle it out.
Adrah Vaunyogi, bright-eyed and broad-shouldered, father of her children
if all went well. Whatever well meant anymore.
"There you are," Adrah said. She could see his anger in the way he held
his body.
"What have I done this time?" she demanded, her tone carrying a sarcasm
that dismissed his concerns even before he spoke them. "Did your patrons
want me to wear red on a day I chose yellow?"
The mention of his hackers, even as obliquely as that, made him stiffen
and peer around, looking for slaves or servants who might overhear.
Idaan laughed-a cruel, short sound.
"You look like a kitten with a bell on its tail," she said. "There's no
one here but us. You needn't worry that someone will roll the rock off
our little conspiracy. We're as safe here as anywhere."
Adrah strode over and crouched beside her all the same. He smelled of
crushed violets and sage, and it struck Idaan that it had not been so
long ago that the scent would have warmed her heart and brought a flush
to her cheeks. His face was long and pretty-almost too pretty to be a
man's. She had kissed those lips a thousand times, but now it seemed
like the act of another woman-some entirely different Idaan Machi whose
body and memory she had inherited when the first girl died. She smiled
and raised her hands in a pose of formal query.
"Arc you mad?" Adrah demanded. "Don't speak about them. Not ever. If
we're found out ..."
"Yes. You're right. I'm sorry," Idaan said. "I wasn't thinking."
""There are rumors you spent a day with Cchmai and the andat. You were
seen.
"The rumors are true, and I meant to be seen. I can't see how my having
a close relationship to the poet would hurt the cause, and in fact I
think it will help, don't you? When the time comes that half the houses
of the utkhaiem arc vying for my father's chair, an upstart house like
yours would do well to boast a friendship with Cehmai."
"I think being married to a daughter of the Khai will be quite enough,
thank you," Adrah said, "and your brothers aren't dead yet, in case
you'd forgotten."
"No. I remember."
"I don't want you acting strangely. Things are too delicate just now for
you to start attracting attention. You are my lover, and if you are off
half the time drinking rice wine with the poet, people won't be saying
that I have strong friendship with him. They'll be saying that he's
cuckolding me, and that Vaunyogi is the wrong house to draw a new Khai
from."
"So you don't want me seeing him, or you just want more discretion when
I do?" Idaan asked.
That stopped him. His eyes, deep brown with flecks of red and green,
peered into hers. A sudden memory, powerful as illness, swept over her
of a winter night when they had met in the tunnels. He had gazed at her
then by firelight, had been no further from her than he was now. She
wondered how these could be those same eyes. Her hand rose as if by
itself and stroked his cheek. He folded his hands around hers.
"I'm sorry," she said, ashamed of the catch in her voice. "I don't want
to quarrel with you."
"What are you doing, little one?" he asked. "Don't you see how dangerous
this is that we're doing? Everything rests on it."
"I know. I remember the stories. It's strange, don't you think, that my
brothers can slaughter each other and all the people do is applaud, but
if I take a hand, it's a crime worse than anything."
"You're a woman," he said, as if that explained everything.
"And you," she said calmly, almost lovingly, "are a schemer and an agent
of the Galts. So perhaps we deserve each other."
She felt him stiffen and then force the tension away. His smile was
crooked. She felt something warm in her breast-painful and sad and warm
as the first sip of rum on a midwinter night. She wondered if it might
be hatred, and if it were, whether it was for herself or this man before
her.
"It's going to be fine," he said.
"I know," she said. "I knew it would be hard. It's the ways it's hard
that surprise me. I don't know how I should act or who I should be. I
don't know where the normal grief that anyone would feel stops or turns
into something else." She shook her head. "This seemed simpler when we
were only talking about it."
"I know, love. It will be simple again, I promise you. It's only this in
the middle that feels complicated."
"I don't know how they do it," she said. "I don't know how they kill one
another. I dream about him, you know. I dream that I am walking through
the gardens or the palaces and I see him in among a crowd of people."
Tears came to her eyes unbidden, flowing warm and thick down her cheeks,
but her voice, when she continued, was steady and calm as a woman
predicting the weather. "He's always happy in the dreams. He's always
forgiven me."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know you loved him."
Idaan nodded, but didn't speak.
"Be strong, love. It will be over soon. It will all be finished very soon.
She wiped the tears away with the hack of her hand, her knuckles
darkened where her paints were running, and pulled him close. He seemed
to hold back for a moment, then folded against her, his arms around her
trembling shoulders. He was warm and the smell of sage and violet was
mixed now with his skin-the particular musk of his body that she had
treasured once above all other scents. He murmured small comforts into
her ears and stroked her hair as she wept.
"Is it too late?" she asked. "Can we stop it, Adrah? Can we take it all
hack?"
He kissed her eyes, his lips soft as a girl's. His voice was calm and
implacable and hard as stone. When she heard it, she knew he had been
thinking himself down the same pathways and had come to the same place.
"No, love. It's too late. It was too late as soon as your brother died.
We have started, and there's no ending it now except to win through or die."
They stayed still in each others' embrace. If all went well, she would
die an old woman in this man's arms, or he would die in hers. While
their sons killed one another. And there had been a time not half a year
ago she'd thought the prize worth winning.
"I should go," she murmured. "I have to attend to my father. There's
some dignitary just come to the city that I'm to smile at."
"Have you heard of the others? Kaiin and Danat?"
"Nothing," Idaan said. "They've vanished. Gone to ground."
"And the other one? Otah?"
Idaan pulled back, straightening the sleeves of her robes as she spoke.
"Otah's a story that the utkhaiem tell to make the song more
interesting. He's likely not even alive any longer. Or if he is, he's
wise enough to have no part of this."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Of course not," she said. "But what else can I give you?"
They spoke little after that. Adrah walked with her through the gardens
of the Second Palace and then out to the street. Idaan made her way to
her rooms and sent for the slave boy who repainted her face. The sun
hadn't moved the width of two hands together before she strode again
though the high palaces, her face cool and perfect as a player's mask.
The formal poses of respect and deference greeted and steadied her. She
was Idaan Machi, daughter of the Khai and wife, though none knew it yet,
of the man who would take his place. She forced confidence into her
spine, and the men and women around her reacted as if it were real.
Which, she supposed, meant that it was. And that the sorrow and darkness
they could not see were false.
When she entered the council chambers, her father greeted her with a
silent pose of welcome. He looked ill, his skin gray and his mouth
pinched by the pain in his belly. The delicate lanterns of worked iron
and silver made the wood-sheathed walls glow, and the cushions that
lined the floor were thick and soft as pillows. The men who sat on
them-yes, men, all of them-made their obeisances to her, but her father
motioned her closer. She walked to his side and knelt.
"There is someone I wish you to meet," her father said, gesturing to an
awkward man in the brown robes of a poet. "The I)ai-kvo has sent him.
Maati Vaupathai has come to study in our library."
Fear flushed her mouth with the taste of metal, but she simpered and
took a pose of welcome as if the words had meant nothing. Her mind
raced, ticking through ways that the Dal-kvo could have discovered her,
or Adrah, or the Galts. The poet replied to her gesture with a formal
pose of gratitude, and she took the opportunity to look at him more
closely. The body was soft as a scholar's, the lines of his face round
as dough, but there was a darkness to his eyes that had nothing to do
with color or light. She felt certain he was someone worth fearing.
"The library?" she said. "That's dull. Surely there are more interesting
things in the city than room after room of old scrolls."
"Scholars have strange enthusiasms," the poet said. "But it's true, I've
never been to any of the winter cities before. I'm hoping that not all
my time will be taken in study."
'T'here had to be a reason that the Dai-kvo and the Galts wanted the
same thing. There had to be a reason that they each wanted to plumb the
depths of the library of Machi.
"And how have you found the city, Maati-cha?" she asked. "When you
haven't been studying."
"It is as beautiful as I had been told," the poet said.
"He has been here only a few days," her father said. "Had he come
earlier, I would have had your brothers here to guide him, but perhaps
you might introduce him to your friends."
"I would be honored," Idaan said, her mind considering the thou sand
ways that this might be a trap. "Perhaps tomorrow evening you would join
me for tea in the winter gardens. I have no doubt there are many people
who would be pleased to join us."
"Not too many, I hope," he said. He had an odd voice, she thought. As if
he was amused at something. As if he knew how badly he had shaken her.
Her fear shifted slightly, and she raised her chin. "I already find
myself forgetting names I should remember," the poet continued. "It's
most embarrassing."
"I will he pleased to remind you of my own, should it be required," she
said. Her father's movement was almost too slight to see, but she caught
it and cast her gaze down. Perhaps she had gone too far. But when the
poet spoke, he seemed to have taken no offense.
"I expect I will remember yours, Idaan-cha. It would be very rude not
to. I look forward to meeting your friends and seeing your city. Perhaps
even more than closeting myself in your library."