A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (47 page)

here. Don't move. I'll have a physician-"

"Paper. Bring me paper. And ink."

"It's your move!" the andat shouted, and Baarath seemed about to bolt.

"Hurry," Cehmai said.

It was a week, a month, a year of struggle before the paper and ink

brick appeared at his side. He could no longer tell whether the andat

was shouting to him in the real world or only within their shared mind.

The game pulled at him, sucking like a whirlpool. The stones shifted

with significance beyond their own, and confusion built on confusion in

waves so that Cehmai grasped his one thought until it was a certainty.

There was too much. There was more than he could survive. The only

choice was to simplify the panoply of conflicts warring within him;

there wasn't room for them all. He had to fix things, and if he couldn't

make them right, he could at least make them end.

He didn't let himself feel the sorrow or the horror or the guilt as he

scratched out a note-brief and clear as he could manage. The letters

were shaky, the grammar poor. Idaan and the Vaunyogi and the Galts.

Everything he knew written in short, unadorned phrases. He dropped the

pen to the floor and pressed the paper into Baarath's hand.

"Maati," Cehmai said. "'lake it to Maati. Now."

Baarath read the letter, and whatever blood had remained in his face

drained from it now.

"This ... this isn't ..."

"Run!" Cehmai screamed, and Baarath was off, faster than Cehmai could

have gone if he'd tried, Idaan's doom in his hands. Cehmai closed his

eyes. That was over, then. That was decided, and for good or ill, he was

committed. The stones now could he only stones.

He pulled himself back to the game board. Stone-Made-Soft had gone

silent again. The storm was as fierce as it had ever been, but Cehmai

found he also had some greater degree of strength against it. He forced

himself along every line he could imagine, shifting the stones in his

mind until at last he pushed one black token forward. Stone-Made-Soft

didn't pause. It shifted a white stone behind the black that had just

moved, trapping it. Cehmai took a long deep breath and shifted a black

stone on the far end of the board back one space.

The andat stretched out its wide fingers, then paused. The storm

shifted, lessened. Stone-Made-Soft smiled ruefully and pulled back its

hand. The wide brow furrowed.

"Good sacrifice," it said.

Cehmai leaned hack. His body was shuddering with exhaustion and effort

and perhaps something else more to do with l3aarath running through the

night. The andat moved a piece forward. It was the obvious move, but it

was doomed. They had to play it out, but the game was as good as

finished. Cchmai moved a black token.

"I think she does love you," the andat said. "And you did swear you'd

protect her."

"She killed two men and plotted her own father's slaughter," Cehmai said.

"You love her. I know you do."

"I know it too," Cehmai said, and then a long moment later. "It's your

move."

Rain came in from the south. By midmorning tall clouds of billowing

white and yellow and gray had filled the wide sky of the valley. When

the sun, had it been visible, would have reached the top of its arc, the

rain poured down on the city like an upended bucket. The black cobbled

streets were brooks, every slant roof a little waterfall. Maati sat in

the side room of the teahouse and watched. The water seemed lighter than

the sky or the stone-alive and hopeful. It chilled the air, making the

warmth of the earthenware bowl in his hands more present. Across the

smooth wooden table, Otah-kvo's chief armsman scratched at the angry red

weals on his wrists.

"If you keep doing that, they'll never heal," Maati said.

"Thank you, grandmother," Sinja said. "I had an arrow through my arm

once that hurt less than this."

"It's no worse than what half the people in that hall suffered," Maati said.

"It's a thousand times worse. Those stings are on them. These are on me.

I'd have thought the difference obvious."

Maati smiled. It had taken three days to get all the insects out of the

great hall, and the argument about whether to simply choose a new venue

or wait for the last nervous slave to find and crush the last dying wasp

would easily have gone on longer than the problem itself. The time had

been precious. Sinja scratched again, winced, and pressed his hands flat

against the table, as if he could pin them there and not rely on his own

will to control himself.

"I hear you've had another letter from the Dai-kvo," Sinja said.

Maati pursed his lips. The pages were in his sleeve even now. "They'd

arrived in the night by a special courier who was waiting in apartments

Maati had bullied out of the servants of the dead Khai. The message

included an order to respond at once and commit his reply to the

courier. He hadn't picked up a pen yet. He wasn't sure what he wanted to

say.

"He ordered you back?" Sinja asked.

"Among other things," Maati agreed. "Apparently he's been getting

information from someone in the city besides myself."

"The other one? The boy?"

"Cehmai you mean? No. One of the houses that the Galts bought, I'd

guess. But I don't know which. It doesn't matter. He'll know the truth

soon enough."

"If you say so."

A bolt of lightning flashed and a half breath later, thunder rolled

through the thick air. Maati raised the bowl to his lips. The tea was

smoky and sweet, and it did nothing to unknot his guts. Sinja leaned

toward the window, his eyes suddenly bright. Maati followed his gaze.

Three figures leaned into the slanting rain-one a thick man with a

slight limp, the others clearly servants holding a canopy over the first

in a vain attempt to keep their master from being soaked to the skin.

All wore cloaks with deep hoods that hid their faces.

"Is that him?" Sinja asked.

"I think so," Maati said. "Go. Get ready."

Sinja vanished and Maati refilled his bowl of tea. It was only moments

before the door to the private room opened again and Porsha Radaani came

into the room. His hair was plastered back against his skull, and his

rich, ornately embroidered robes were dark and heavy with water. Maati

rose and took a pose of welcome. Radaani ignored it, pulled out the

chair Sinja had only recently left, and sat in it with a grunt.

"I'm sorry for the foul weather," Maati said. "I'd thought you'd take

the tunnels."

Radaani made an impatient sound.

"They're half flooded. The city was designed with snow in mind, not

water. The first thaw's always like a little slice of hell in the

spring. But tell me you didn't bring me here to talk about rain,

Maati-cha. I'm a busy man. The council's just about pulled itself back

together, and I'd like to see an end to this nonsense."

"That's what I wanted to speak to you about, Porsha-cha. I'd like you to

call for the council to disband. You're well respected. If you were to

adopt the position, the lower families would take interest. And the

Vaunani and Kamau can both work with you without having to work with

each other."

"I'm a powerful enough man to do that," Radaani agreed, his tone

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.