Authors: Daniel Abraham
Seasons of War (6 page)
The news had reached Saraykeht last summer - almost a year ago now. It had hardly been more than a confluence of rumors - a Galtic ship in Nantani slipping away before its cargo had arrived, a scandal at the Dai-kvo’s village, inquiries discreetly made about a poet. And still, as her couriers arrived at the compound, Liat had felt unease growing in her. There were few enough people who knew as she did that the house she ran had been founded to keep watch on the duplicity of the Galts. Fewer still knew of the books she kept, as her mentor Amat Kyaan had before her, tracking the actions and strategies of the Galtic houses among the Khaiem, and it was a secret she meant to keep. So when tales of a missing poet began to dovetail too neatly with stories of Galtic intrigue in Nantani, there was no one whom she trusted the task to more than herself. She had been in Saraykeht for ten years. She decided to leave again the day that Nayiit’s son Tai took his first steps.
Looking back, she wondered why it had been so easy for Nayiit to come with her. He and his wife were happy, she’d thought. The baby boy was delightful, and the work of the house engaging. When he had made the offer, she had hidden her pleasure at the thought and made only slight objections. The truth was that the years they had spent on the road when Nayiit had been a child - the time between her break with Maati Vaupathai and her return to the arms of Saraykeht - held a powerful nostalgia for her. Alone in the world with only a son barely halfway to manhood, she had expected struggle and pain and the emptiness that she had always thought must accompany a woman without a man.
The truth had been a surprise. Certainly the emptiness and struggle and pain had attended their travels. She and Nayiit had spent nights huddling under waxed-cloth tarps while chill rain pattered around them. They had eaten cheap food from low-town firekeepers. She had learned again all she’d known as a girl of how to mend a robe or a boot. And she had discovered a competence she had never believed herself to possess. Before that, she had always had a lover by whom to judge herself. With a son, she found herself stronger, smarter, more complete than she had dared pretend.
The journey to Nantani had been a chance for her to relive that, one last time. Her son was a man now, with a child of his own. There wouldn’t be many more travels, just the two of them. So she had put aside any doubts, welcomed him, and set off to discover what she could about Riaan Vaudathat, son of a high family of the Nantani utkhaiem and missing poet. She had expected the work to take a season, no more. They would be back in the compound of House Kyaan in time to spend the autumn haggling over contracts and shipping prices.
And now it was spring, and she saw no prospect of sleeping in a bed she might call her own any time soon. Nayiit had not complained when it became clear that their investigation would require a journey to the village of the Dai-kvo. As a woman, Liat was not permitted beyond the low towns approaching it. She would need a man to do her business within the halls of the Dai-kvo’s palaces. They had booked passage to Yalakeht, and then upriver. They had arrived at mid-autumn and hardly finished their investigation before Candles Night. So far North, there had been no ship back to Saraykeht, and Liat had taken apartments for them in the narrow, gated streets of Yalakeht for the winter.
In the long, dark hours she had struggled with what she knew, and with the thaw and the first ships taking passages North, she had prepared to travel to Amnat-Tan, and then Cetani. And then, though the prospect made her sick with anxiety, Machi.
A shout rose on the deck above them - a score of men calling out to each other - and the ship lurched and boomed. Nayiit blinked awake, looked over at her, and smiled. He always had had a good smile.
‘Have I missed anything?’ he asked with a yawn.
‘We’ve reached the low towns outside Amnat-Tan,’ Liat said. ‘We’ll be docked soon.’
Nayiit swung his legs around, planting them on the deck to keep his hammock from rocking. He looked ruefully around the tiny cabin and sighed.
‘I’ll start packing our things, then,’ he said.
‘Pack them separate,’ she said. ‘I’ll go the rest of the way myself. I want you back in Saraykeht.’
Nayiit took a pose that refused this, and Liat felt her jaw tighten.
‘We’ve had this conversation, Mother. I’m not putting you out to walk the North Road by yourself.’
‘I’ll hire a seat on a caravan,’ she said. ‘Spring’s just opening, and there are bound to be any number of them going to Cetani and back. It’s not such a long journey, really.’
‘Good. Then it won’t take too long for us to get there.’
‘You’re going back,’ Liat said.
Nayiit sighed and gathered himself visibly.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Make your argument. Convince me.’
Liat looked at her hands. It was the same problem she’d fought all through the long winter. Each time she’d come close to speaking the truth, something had held her back. Secrets. It all came back to secrets, and if she spoke her fears to Nayiit, it would mean telling him things that only she knew, things that she had hoped might die with her.
‘Is it about my father?’ he said, and his voice was so gentle, Liat felt tears gathering in her eyes.
‘In a way,’ she said.
‘I know he’s at the court of Machi,’ Nayiit said. ‘There’s no reason for me to fear him, is there? Everything you’ve said of him—’
‘No, Maati would never hurt you. Or me. It’s just . . . it was so long ago. And I don’t know who he’s become since then.’
Nayiit leaned forward, taking her hands in his.
‘I want to meet him,’ he said. ‘Not because of who he was to you, or who he is now. I want to meet him because he’s my father. Ever since Tai came, I’ve been thinking about it. About what it would be for me to walk away from my boy and not come back. About choosing something else over my family.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Liat said. ‘Maati and I were . . .’
‘I’ve come this far,’ he said gently. ‘You can’t send me back now.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she said.
‘You can explain to me while I pack our things.’
In the end, of course, he won. She had known he would. Nayiit could be as soft and gentle and implacable as snowfall. He was his father’s son.
The calls of gulls grew louder as they neared the shore, the scent of smoke more present. The docks were narrower than the seafront of Saraykeht. A ship that put in here for the winter had to prepare itself to be icebound, immobile. Trade was with the eastern islands and Yalakeht; it was too far from the summer cities or Bakta or Galt for ships to come from those distant ports.
The streets were black cobbles, and ice still haunted the alleys where shadows held the cold. Nayiit carried their crate strapped across his back. The wide leather belt cut into his shoulders, but he didn’t complain. He rarely complained about anything, only did what he thought best with a pleasant smile and a calm explanation ready to hand.
Liat stopped at a firekeeper’s kiln to ask directions to the compound of House Radaani and was pleased to discover it was nearby. Mother and son, they walked the fog-shrouded streets until they found the wide arches that opened to the courtyard gardens of the Radaani, torches flickering and guttering in the damp air. A boy in sodden robes rushed up and lifted the crate from Nayiit’s back to his own. Liat was about to address him when another voice, a woman’s voice lovely and low as a singer’s, came from the dim.
‘Liat-cha, I must assume. I’d sent men to meet you at the docks, but I’m afraid they came too late.’
The woman who stepped out from the fog had seen no more than twenty summers. Her robes were white snowfox, eerie in the combination of pale mourning colors and the luxury of the fur. Her hair shone black with cords of silver woven in the braids. She was beautiful, and likely would be for another five summers. Liat could already see the presentiment of jowls at the borders of her jaw.
‘Ceinat Radaani,’ Liat said, taking a pose of gratitude. ‘I am pleased to meet you in person at last. This is my son, Nayiit.’
The Radaani girl adopted a welcoming pose that included them both. Nayiit returned it, and Liat couldn’t help noticing the way his eyes lingered on her and hers on him. Liat coughed, bringing their attention back to the moment. The girl took a pose of apology, and turned to lead them into the chambers and corridors of the compound.
In Saraykeht, the architecture tended to be open, encouraging the breezes to flow and cool. Northern buildings were more like great kilns, built to hold heat in their thick stone walls. The ceilings were low and fire grates burned in every room. The Radaani girl led them through a wide entrance chamber and back through a narrow corridor, speaking as she walked.
‘My father is in Council with the Khai, but sends his regards and intends to join us as soon as he can return from the city proper. He would very much regret missing the opportunity to meet with the head of our trading partner in the South.’
It was bald flattery. Radaani was among the richest houses in the winter cities, and had agreements with dozens of houses, all through the cities of the Khaiem. The whole of House Kyaan would hardly have made up one of the Radaani compounds, and there were four such compounds that Liat knew of. Liat accepted it, though, as if it were true, as if the hospitality extended to her were more than etiquette.
‘I look forward to speaking with him,’ Liat said. ‘I am most interested in hearing news of the winter cities.’
‘Oh, there’ll be quite a bit to say, I’m sure,’ the girl laughed. ‘There always is once winter’s ended. I think people save up all the gossip of the winter to haul out in spring.’
She opened a pair of wide wooden doors and led them into small, cozy apartments. A fire popped and murmured in the grate, bowls of mulled wine waited steaming on a low wooden table, and archways to either side showed rooms with real beds waiting for them. Liat’s body seemed drawn to the bed like a stone rolling downhill. She had not realized how much she loathed shipboard hammocks.
She took a pose of thanks that the girl responded to neatly as the servant boy put the crate down gently by the fire.
‘I will let you rest,’ the girl said. ‘If you have need of me, any of the servants can find me for you. And I will, of course, send word when my father returns.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Nayiit said, smiling his disarming smile. ‘Forgive me, but is there a bathhouse near? I don’t think shipboard life has left me entirely prepared for good company.’
‘Of course,’ the girl said. ‘I would be pleased to show you the way.’
I’m sure you would, Liat thought. Was I so obvious at her age?
‘Mother,’ Nayiit said, ‘would you care to . . .’
Liat waved the offer away.
‘A basin and a sponge will be enough for me. I have letters to write before dinner. Perhaps, Ceinat-cha, if you would leave word with your couriers that I will have things to send south?’
The girl took an acknowledging pose, then turned to Nayiit with a flutter of a smile and gestured for him to follow her.
‘Nayiit,’ Liat said, and her son paused in the apartment’s doorway. ‘Find out what you can about the situation in Machi. I’d like to know what we’re walking into.’
Nayiit smiled, nodded, and vanished. The servant boy also left, promising the basin and sponge shortly. Liat sighed and sat down, stretching her feet out toward the burning logs. The wine tasted good, though slightly overspiced to her taste.
Machi. She was going to Machi. She let her mind turn the fact over again, as if it were a puzzle she had nearly solved. She was going to present her discoveries and her fears to the man she’d once called a lover, back when he’d been a seafront laborer and called himself Itani. Now he was the Khai Machi. And Maati, with whom she had betrayed him. The idea tightened her throat every time she thought of it.
Maati. Nayiit was going to see Maati, perhaps to confront him, perhaps to seek the sort of advice that a son can ask only of a father. Something, perhaps, that touched on the finer points of going to foreign bathhouses with young women in snowfox robes. Liat sighed.
Nayiit had been thinking about what it would be to walk away from his wife, the son he’d brought to the world. He’d said as much, and more than once. She had thought it was a question based in anger - an accusation against Maati. It only now occurred to her that perhaps there was also longing in it, and she thought to wonder how complex her quiet, pleasant son’s heart might be.
Balasar leaned over the balcony and looked down at the courtyard below. A crowd had gathered, talking animatedly with the brown-skinned, almond-eyed curiosity he had spirited from across the sea. They peppered him with questions - why was he called a poet when he didn’t write poems, what did he think of Acton, how had he learned to speak Galtic so well. Their eyes were bright and the conversation as lively as water dropped on a hot skillet. For his part, Riaan Vaudathat drank it all in, answering everything in the slushy singsong accent of the Khaiem. When the people laughed, he joined in as if they were not laughing at him. Perhaps he truly didn’t know they were.
Riaan glanced up and saw him, raising his hands in a pose that Balasar recognized as a form of greeting, though he couldn’t have said which of the half-thousand possible nuances it held. He only waved in return and stepped away from the edge of the balcony.
Other books
Rey de las ratas by James Clavell
A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) by Paul Doherty
Been in the Storm So Long by Leon F. Litwack
Undying Hunger by Jessica Lee
End Day by James Axler
Water Song by Suzanne Weyn
Kind of Cruel by Sophie Hannah
Liverpool Angels by Lyn Andrews
Dead in the Water by Robin Stevenson
One Night in Italy by Lucy Diamond
