A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (37 page)

"And the sky?"

"And the sky."

"But still no girl."

Cehmai dropped onto the couch, his hands worrying each other, restless.

The andat sighed and went back to its contemplation of the ashes and

fire-black metal. Cehmai smelled smoke in the air. It was likely just

the forges, but his mind made the scent into Idaan's father and brother

burning. He stood tip again, walked to the door, turned back and sat

down again.

"You could go out and look for her," the andat said.

"And why should I find her now? The mourning week's almost done. You

think if she wanted me, there wouldn't have been word? I just ... I

don't understand it."

"She's a woman. You're a man."

"Your point being?"

The andat didn't reply. It might as well have been a statue. Cehmai

probed at the connection between them, at the part of him that was the

binding of the andat, but Stone-Made-Soft was in retreat. It had never

been so passive in all the years Cehmai had held it. The quiet was a

blessing, though he didn't understand it. He had enough to work through,

and he was glad not to have his burden made any heavier.

"I shouldn't have been angry with Nlaati-kvo," Cehmai said. "I shouldn't

have confronted him like that."

"No?"

"No. I should have gone hack to the Master of 'f'ides and told him what

Maati-kvo had said. Instead, I promised him five days, and now three of

them have passed and I can't do anything but chew at the grass.

"You can break promises," the andat said. "It's the definition, really.

A promise is something that can be broken. If it can't, it's something

else."

"You're singularly unhelpful," Cehmai said. The andat nodded as if

remembering something, and then was still again. Cehmai stood, went to

the shutters, and opened them. The trees were still lush with summer-the

green so deep and rich he could almost see the autumn starting to creep

in at the edge. In winter, he could see the towers rising up to the sky

through the bare branches. Now he only knew they were there. He turned

to look at the path that led hack to the palaces, then went to the door,

opened it, and looked down it, willing someone to be there. Willing

Idaan's dark eyes to greet his own.

"I don't know what to do about Adrah Vaunyogi. I don't know if I should

back him or not."

"For something you consider singularly unhelpful, I seem to receive more

than my share of your troubles."

"You aren't real," Cehmai said. "You're like talking to myself."

The andat seemed to weigh that for a moment, then took a pose that

conceded the point. Cehmai looked out again, then closed the door.

"I'm going to lose my mind if I stay here. I have to do something," he

said. Stone-Made-Soft didn't respond, so Cehmai tightened the straps of

his boots, stood, and pulled his robes into place. "Stay here."

"All right."

Cehmai paused at the door, one foot already outside, and turned hack.

"Does nothing bother you?" he asked the andat.

"Being," Stone-Made-Soft suggested.

The palaces were still draped with rags of mourning cloth, the dry,

steady beat of the funeral drum and the low wailing dirges still the

only music. Cehmai took poses of greeting to the utkhaiem whom he

passed. At the burning, they had all worn pale mourning cloth. Now, as

the week wore on, there were more colors in the robes-here a mix of pale

cloth and yellow or blue, there a delicate red robe with a wide sash of

mourning cloth. No one went without, but few followed the full custom.

It reminded Cehmai of a snow lily, green tinder the white and budding,

swelling, preparing to burst out into new life and growth, new conflict

and struggle. The sense of sorrow was slipping from Machi, and the sense

of opportunity was coming forth.

He found he could not say whether that reassured or disgusted him.

Perhaps both.

Idaan was, of course, not at her chambers. The servants assured him that

she had been by-she was in the city, she hadn't truly vanished. Cehmai

thanked them and continued on his way to the palace of the Vaunyogi. He

didn't allow himself to think too deeply about what he was going to do

or say. It would happen soon enough anyway.

A servant brought him to one of the inner courtyards to wait. An apple

tree stood open to the air, its fruits unpecked by birds. Still unripe.

Cehmai sat on a low stone bench and watched the branches bob as sparrows

landed and took wing. His mind was deeply unquiet. On the one hand, he

had to see Idaan, had to speak with her at least if not hold her against

him. On the other, he could not bring himself to love Adrah Vaunyogi

only because she loved him. And the secret he held twisted in his

breast. Otah Machi lived....

"Cehmai-cha."

Adrah was dressed in full mourning robes. His eyes were sunken and

bloodshot, his movements sluggish. He looked like a man haunted. Cehmai

wondered how much sleep Adrah had managed in these last days. He

wondered how many of those late hours had been spent comforting Idaan.

The image of Idaan, her body entwined with Adrah's, flashed in his mind

and was pressed away. Cehmai took a pose of grect- i ng.

"I'm pleased you've come," Adrah said. "You've considered what I said?"

"Yes, Adrah-cha. I have. But I'm concerned for Idaan-cha. I'm told she's

been by her apartments, but I haven't been able to find her. And now,

with the mourning week almost gone ..

"You've been looking for her, then?"

"I wished to offer my condolences. And then, after our conversation, I

thought it would he wise to consult her on the matter as well. If it

were not her will to go on living in the palaces after all that's

happened, I would feel uncomfortable lending my support to a cause that

would require it."

Adrah's eyes narrowed, and Cchmai felt a touch of heat in his checks. He

coughed, looked down, and then, composed once again, raised his eyes to

Adrah. He half expected to see rage there, but Adrah seemed pleased.

Perhaps he was not so obvious as he felt. Adrah sat on the bench beside

him, leaning in toward him as if they were intimate friends.

"But if you could satisfy yourself that this is what she would wish,

you're willing? You would back me for her sake?"

"It's what would be best for the city," Cehmai said, trying to make it

sound more like agreement than denial. "The sooner the question is

resolved, the better we all are. And Idaan-cha would provide a sense of

continuity, don't you think?"

"Yes," Adrah said. "I think she would."

They sat silent for a moment. The sense that Adrah knew or suspected

something crept into Cehmai's throat, drawing it tight. Ile tried to

calm himself; there was ultimately nothing Adrah could do to him. He was

the poet of Machi, and the city itself rode on his shoulders and on

Stone-Made-Soft. But Adrah was about to marry ldaan, and she loved him.

"There was quite a bit Adrah might yet do to hurt her.

"We're allies, then," Adrah said at last. "You and I. We've become allies."

"I suppose we have. Provided Idaan-cha ..

"She's here," Adrah said. "I'll take you to her. She's been here since

her brother died. We thought it would be best if she were able to grieve

in private. But if we need to break into her solitude now in order to

assure her future for the rest of her life, I don't think there's any

question what the right thing is to do."

"I don't ... I don't mean to intrude."

Adrah grinned and slapped him on the back. He rose as he spoke.

"Never concern yourself with that, Cehmai-kya. You've come to our aid on

an uncertain day. Think of us as your family now."

"That's very kind," Cehmai said, but Adrah was already striding away,

and he had to hurry to keep pace.

He had never been so far into the halls and chambers that belonged to

the Vaunyogi before. The dark stone passageways down which Cehmai was

led seemed simpler than he had expected. The halls, more sparely

furnished. Only the statuary-bronze likenesses of emperors and of the

heads of the Vaunyogi-spoke of the wealth of a high family of the

utkhaiem, and these were displayed in the halls and courtyards with such

pride that they seemed more to point out the relative spareness of their

surroundings than to distract from it. Diamonds set in brass.

Adrah spoke little, but when he did, his voice and demeanor were

pleasant enough. Cehmai felt himself watched, evaluated. There was some

reason that Adrah was showing him these signs of a struggling family-the

worn tapestry, the great ironwork candleholders filled with half a

hundred candles of tallow instead of wax, the empty incense burners, the

long stairway leading up to the higher floors that still showed the

marks where cloth runners had once softened the stone corners and no

longer did-but Cehmai couldn't quite fathom it. In another man, at

another time, it would have been a humbling thing to show a poet through

a compound like this, but Adrah seemed anything but humble. It might

have been a challenge or a play for Cehmai's sympathy. Or it might have

been a boast. My house has little, and still Idaan chose me.

They stopped at last at a wide door-dark wood inlaid with bone and black

stone. Adrah knocked, and when a servant girl opened the door a

fraction, he pressed his way in, gesturing Cehmai to follow. They were

summer quarters with wide arched windows, the shutters open to the air.

Silk banners with the yellow and gray of the Vaunyogi bellied and

fluttered in the breeze, as graceful as dancers. A desk stood at one

wall, a brick of ink and a metal pen sitting on it, ready should anyone

wish to use them. This room smelled of cedar and sandalwood. And sitting

in one of the sills, her feet out over the void, Idaan. Cehmai breathed

in deep, and let the air slide out slowly, taking with it a tension he'd

only half known he carried. She turned, looking at them over her

shoulder. Her face was unpainted, but she was just as lovely as she had

ever been. The bare, unadorned skin reminded Cehmai of the soft curve of

her mouth when she slept and the slow, languorous way she stretched when

she was on the verge of waking.

He took a pose of formal greeting. There was perhaps a moment's

surprise, and then she pulled her legs back into the room. Her

expression asked the question.

"Cehmai-kya wished to speak with you, love," Adrah said.

"I am always pleased to meet with the servant of the I)ai-kvo," Idaan

said. Her smile was formal and calm, and gave away nothing. Cehmai hoped

that he had not been wrong to come, but feared that her pleasant words

might cover anger.

"Forgive me," he said. "I hadn't meant to intrude. Only I had hoped to

find you at your own quarters, and these last few days ..."

Something in her demeanor softened slightly, as if she had heard the

deeper layer of his apology-I hurl to see yore, and there was no other

wayand accepted it. Idaan returned his formal greeting, then sauntered

to the desk and sat, her hands folded on her knees, her gaze cast down

in what would have been proper form for a girl of the utkhaiem before a

poet. From her, it was a bitter joke. Adrah coughed. Cehmai glanced at

him and realized the man thought she was being rude.

"I had hoped to offer my sympathies before this, Idaan-cha," Cehmai said.

"Your congratulations, too, I hope," Idaan said. "I am to be married

once the mourning week has passed."

Cehmai felt his heart go tighter, but only smiled and nodded.

"Congratulations as well," he said.

"Cehmai-kya and I have been talking," Adrah said. "About the city and

the succession."

Idaan seemed almost to wake at the words. Her body didn't move, but her

attention sharpened. When she spoke, her voice had lost a slowness

Cehmai had hardly known was there.

"Is that so? And what conclusions have you fine gentlemen reached?"

"Cehmai-kya agrees with me that the longer the struggle among the

utkhaiem, the worse for the city. It would be better if it were done

quickly. That's the most important thing."

"I see," Idaan said. I let gaze, dark as skies at midnight, shifted to

Cehmai. She moved to brush her hair back from her brow, though Cehmai

saw no stray lock there. "Then I suppose he would be wise to back

whichever house has the strongest claim. If he has decided to back