A Betrayal in Winter

They burned the Khai Machi and his son together in the yard outside the temple. The head priest wore his hale robes, the hood pulled low over his eyes in respect, and tended the flames. Thick, black smoke rose from the pyre and vanished into the air high above the city. A~Iachi had woken from its revels to find the world worse than when they'd begun, and Cehmai saw it in every face he passed. A thousand of them at least stood in the afternoon sun. Shock and sorrow, confusion and fear.

And excitement. In a few eyes among the utkhaicm, he saw the bright eyes and sharp ears of men who smelled opportunity. Ile walked among them, Stone-Made-Soft at his side, peering through the funereal throng for the one familiar face. ldaan had to be there, but he could not find her.

The lower priests also passed through the crowds, singing dirges and beating the dry notes of drums. Slaves in ceremonially torn robes passed out tin cups of bittcrcd water. (,'China] ignored them. The burning would go on through the night until the ashes of the men and the ashes of the coal were indistinguishable. And then a week's mourning. And then these men weeping or staring, grim or secretly pleased, would meet and decide which of their number would have the honor of sitting on the dead family's chair and leading the hunt for the man who had murdered his own father. Cehmai found himself unable to care particularly who won or lost, whether the upstart was caught or escaped. Somewhere among all these mourners was the woman he'd come to love, in more pain than she had ever been in since he'd known her. And he-he who could topple towers at a whim and make mountains flow like floodwater-couldn't find her.

Instead, he found Maati in brown poet's robes standing on a raised walkway that overlooked the mourning throng. 'T'hough they were on the edge of the ceremony, Cehmai saw the pyre light reflecting in Maati's fixed eyes. Cehmai almost didn't approach him, almost didn't speak. 'T'here was a darkness wrapped around the poet. But it was possible he had been there from the ceremony's beginning. He might know where Idaan was. Cehmai took a pose of greeting which Maati did not return.

"Maati-kvo?"

Maati looked over first at Cehmai, then Stone-Made-Soft, and then back again at the fire. After a moment's pause, his face twisted in disgust.

"Not kvo. Never kvo. I haven't taught you anything, so don't address me as a teacher. I was wrong. From the beginning, I was wrong."

"Otah was very convincing," Cehmai said. "No one thought he would-"

"Not about that. He didn't do this. Baarath ... Gods, why did it have to be Baarath that saw it? Prancing, self-important, smug ..."

Maati fumbled with a sewn-leather wineskin and took a long deep, joyless drink from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, then held the skin out in offering. Cehmai declined. Maati offered it to the andat, but Stone-blade-Soft only smiled as if amused.

"I thought it was someone in the family. One of his brothers. It had to be. Who else would benefit? I was stupid."

"Forgive me, N,laati-kvo. But no one did benefit."

"One of them did," he said, gesturing out at the mourners. "One of them is going to he the new Khai. He'll tell you what to do, and you'll do it. He'll live in the high palaces, and everyone else in the city will lick his ass if he tells them to. That's what it's all about. Who has to lick whose ass. And there's blood enough to fill a river answering that." He took another long pull from the wineskin, then dropped it idly to the ground at his feet. "I hate all of them."

"So do I," Stone-Made-Soft said, his tone light and conversational.

"You're drunk, Maati-kvo."

"Not half enough. Here, look at this. You know what this is?"

Cehmai glanced at the object Maati had pulled from his sleeve.

"A book."

"This is my teacher's masterwork. Heshai-kvo, poet of Saraykeht. The Dai-kvo sent me to him when I was hardly younger than you are now. I was going to study under him, take control of Seedless. Removing-the-Part-ihat-Continues. We called him Seedless. This is Heshai-kvo's examination of everything he'd done wrong. Every improvement he could have made to his binding, if he'd had it to do over again. It's brilliant."

"But it can't work, can it?" Cehmai said. "It would he too close...."

"Of course not, it's a refinement of his work, not how to bind Seedless again. It's a record of his failure. I)o you understand what I'm saving?"

Cchmai grasped for a right answer to the question and ended with honesty.

"No," he said.

"Heshai-kvo was a drunkard. He was a failure. He was haunted his whole life by the woman he loved and the child he lost, and every measure of the hatred he had for himself was in his binding. I Ic imagined the andat as the perfect man and implicit in that was the disdain he imagined such a man would feel looking at him. But Heshai was strong enough to look his mistake in the face. He was strong enough to sit with it and catalog it and understand. And the I)ai-kvo sent me to him. Because he thought we could he the same. tic thought I would understand him well enough to stand in his place."

"Nlaati-kvo, I'm sorry. Have you seen Idaan?"

"Well," Maati said, ignoring the question as he swayed slightly and frowned at the crowd. "I can face my stupidities just as well as he did. The I)ai-kvo wants to know who killed Biitrah? I'll find out. He can tell me it's too late and he can tell me to come home, but he can't make me stop looking. Whoever gets that chair ... whoever gets it ..."

Maati frowned, confused for a moment, and a sudden racking sob shook him. He leaned forward. Cehmai moved to him, certain for a moment that Maati was about to pitch off the walkway and down to the distant ground, but instead the older poet gathered himself and took a pose of apology.

"I'm ... making an ass of myself," he said. "You were saying something."

Cehmai was torn for a moment. He could see the red that lined Maati's eyes, could smell the sick reek of distilled wine on his breath and something deeper-some drug mixed with the wine. Someone needed to see Maati back to his apartments, needed to see that he was cared for. On another night, Cehmai would have done it.

"Idaan," he said. "She must have been here. They're burning her brother and her father. She had to attend the ceremony."

"She did." Nlaati agreed. "I saw her."

"Where's she gone?"

"With her man, I think. He was there beside her," Maati said. "I don't know where they went."

"Are you going to he all right, Maati-kvo?"

Nlaati seemed to think about this, then nodded once and turned hack to watch the pyre burning. The brown leather hook had fallen to the ground by the wineskin, and the andat retrieved it and put it back in Maati's sleeve. As they walked away, Cehmai took a pose of query.

"I didn't think he'd want to lose it," the andat said.

"So that was a favor to him?" Cehmai said. Stone-Made-Soft didn't reply. They walked toward the women's quarters and Idaan's apartments. If she was not there, he would go to the Vaunyogi's palace. He would say he was there to offer condolences to Idaan-cha. That it was his duty as poet and representative of the Dai-kvo to offer condolences to Idaan Machi on this most sorrowful of days. It was his duty. Gods. And the Vaunyogi would be chewing their own livers out. They'd contracted to marry their son to the Khai 1MIachi's sister. Now she was no one's family.

"Maybe they'll cancel the arrangement," Stone-Made-Soft said. "It isn't as if anyone would blame them. She could come live with us."

"You can be quiet now," Cehmai said.

At Idaan's quarters, the servant boy reported that Idaan-cha had been there, but had gone. Yes, Adrah-cha had been there as well, but he had also gone. The unease in the boy's manner made Cehmai wonder. Part of him hoped that they had been fighting, those two. It was despicable, but it was there: the desire that he and not Adrah Vaunyogi be the one to comfort her.

He stopped next at the palace of the Vaunyogi. A servant led him to a waiting chamber that had been dressed in pale mourning cloth fragrant from the cedar chests in which it had been stored. The chairs and statuary, windows and floors were all swathed in white rags that candlelight made gold. The andat stood at the window, peering out at the courtyard while Cehmai sat on the front handspan of a seat. Every breath he took here made him wonder if coming had been a mistake.

The door to the main hall swung open. Adrah Vaunyogi stepped in. His shoulders rode high and tight, his lips thin as a line drawn on paper. Cehmai stood and took a pose of greeting which Adrah mirrored before he closed the door.

"I'm surprised to sec you, Cchmai-cha," Adrah said, walking forward slowly, as if unsure what precisely he was approaching. Cehmai smiled to keep his unease from showing. "My father is occupied. But perhaps I might be able to help you?"

"You're most kind. I came to offer my sympathies to ldaan-cha. I had heard she was with you, and so ..."

"No. She was, but she's left. Perhaps she went back to the ceremony." Adrah's voice was distant, as if only half his attention was on the conversation. His eyes, however, were fixed on Cehmai like a snake on a mouse, only Cehmai wasn't sure which of them would be the mouse, which the serpent.

"I will look there," Cehmai said. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"We are always pleased by an audience with the poet of Machi. Wait. Don't ... don't go. Sit with me a moment."

Stone-Made-Soft didn't shift, but Cehmai could feel its interest and amusement in the back of his mind. Cehmai sat in it rag-covered chair. Adrah pulled a stool near to him, nearer than custom required. It was as if Adrah wanted to make him feel they were in a smaller room together. Cehmai kept his face as placid as the andat's.

"The city is in terrible trouble, Cehmai-cha. You know how had these things can get. When it's only the three sons of the Khai, it's bad enough. But with all the utkhaicm scheming and fighting and betraying one another, the damage to the city ...

"I'd thought about that," Cehmai said, though in truth he cared more about Idaan than the political struggles that the coming weeks would bring. "And there's still the problem of Otah. He has a claim ..."

"He's murdered his own father."

"Have we proven that?"

"You doubt that he did the thing?"

"No," Cehmai said after a moment's pause. "No, I don't." Rrit,lfaati- kt o still does.

"It would be best to end this quickly. To name the new Khai before things can get out of control. You are a man of tremendous power. I know the Dai-kvo takes no sides in matters of succession. But if you were to let it be known that you favored some particular house, without taking any formal position, it would make things easier."

"Only if I backed a house that was prepared to win," Cehmai said. "If I chose poorly, I'd throw some poor unprepared family in with the pit hounds."

"My family is ready. We are well respected, we have partners in all the great trading houses, and the silversmiths and ironworkers are closer to us than to any other family. Idaan is the only blood of the old Khai remaining in the city. Her brothers will never be Khai Machi, but someday, her son might."

Cehmai considered. Here was a man asking his help, asking for political backing, unaware that Cehmai knew the shape and taste of his lover's body as well as he did. It likely was in his power to elevate Adrah Vaunyogi to the ranks of the Khaiem. He wondered if it was what Idaan would want.

"That may be wise," Cehmai said. "I would need to think about it, of course, before I could act."

Adrah put his hand on Cehmai's knee, familiar as if they were brothers. The andat moved first, ambling toward the door, and then Cehmai stood and adopted a pose appropriate to parting. The amusement coming from Stone-Made-Soft was like constant laughter that only Cehmai could hear.

When they had made their farewells, Cehmai started cast again, toward the burning bodies and the priests. His mind was a jumbleconcern for Idaan, frustration at not finding her, unease with Adrah's proposal, and at the hack, stirring like something half asleep, a dread that seemed wrapped tip with Maati Vaupathai staring drunk into the fire.

One of them, Maati had said, meaning the high families of the utkhaiem. One of them would benefit. Unless Cehmai took a hand and put his own lover's husband in the chair. That wasn't the sort of thing that could have been planned for. No scheme for power could include the supposition that Cehmai would fall in love with Idaan, or that her husband would ask his aid, or that his guilt and affection would drive him to give it. It was the kind of thing that could come from nowhere and upset the perfect plan.

If it wasn't Otah Machi who had engineered all this bloodletting, then some other viper was in the city, and the prospect of Adrah Vaun yogi taking the prize away by marrying Idaan and wooing the poets would drive the killer mad. And even if it was Otah Machi, he might still hope to take his father's place. Adrah's rise would threaten that claim as well.

"You're thinking too hard," the andat said.

"Thinking never hurt anyone."

"So you've all said," the andat sighed.

She wasn't at the ceremony. She wasn't at her quarters. Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft walked together through the gardens and pavilions, the courtyards and halls and passages. Mourning didn't fill the streets and towers the way celebration had. The dry music of the funeral drums wasn't taken up in the teahouses or gardens. Only the pillar of smoke blotting out the stars stood testament to the ceremony. 'twice, Cehmai took them past his own quarters, hoping that Idaan might be there waiting for him, but without effect. She had vanished from the city like a bird flying up into darkness.

His OLD NOTES WERE GONE, I?F'I' IN A PACKET IN HIS ROOMS. KAIIN AND Danat were forgotten, and instead, Maati had fresh papers spread over the library table. Lists of the houses of the utkhaicm that might possible succeed in a bid to become the next Khai. Beside them, a fresh ink brick, a pen with a new bronze nib, and a pot of tea that smelled rich, fresh cut, and green. Summer tea in the winter cities. Maati poured himself a bowl, then blew across the pale surface, his eyes going over the names again.

According to Baarath, who had accepted his second apology with a grace that had surprised him, the most likely was Kamau-a family that traced its bloodline back to the Second Empire. They had the wealth and the prestige. And, most important, an unmarried son in his twenties who was well-respected and active in the court. "Then the Vaunani, less wealthy, less prestigious, but more ruthless. Or possibly the Radaani, who had spent generations putting their hands into the import and export trade until almost every transaction in the city fed their coffers. They were the richest of the utkhaiem, but apparently unable to father males. There were seventeen daughters, and the only candidates for the Khai's chair were the head of the house, his son presently overseeing a trading venture in Yalakeht, and a six-year-old grandson.

And then there were the Vaunyogi. Adrah Vaunyogi was a decent candidate, largely because he was young and virile, and about to be married to Idaan Machi. But the rumors held that the family was underfunded and not as well connected in court. Maati sipped his tea and considered whether to leave them on his list. One of these housesmost likely one of these, though there were certainly other possibilities-had engineered the murder of the Khai Machi. They had placed the blame on Otah. They had spirited him away, and once the mourning was finished with ...

Once the mourning was finished, the city would attend the wedding of Adrah Vaunyogi to Idaan. No, no, lie would keep the Vaunyogi on his list. It was such a convenient match, and the timing so apt.

Others, of course, put the crimes down to Otah-kvo. A dozen hunting packs had gone out in the four days since the bloody morning that killed the Khai and Danat both. The utkhaiem were searching the low towns for Otah and those who had aided his escape, but so far no one had succeeded. It was Maati's task now to solve the puzzle before they found him. He wondered how many of them had guessed that he alone in the city was working to destroy all their chances. If someone else had done these things ... if he could show it ... Otah would still be able to take his father's place. He would become Khai Machi.

And what, Maati wondered, would Liat think of that, once she heard of it? He imagined her cursing her ill judgment in losing the ruler of a city and gaining half a poet who hadn't proved worth keeping.

"Maati," Baarath said.

Maati jumped, startled, and spilled a few drops of tea over his papers. Ink swirled into the pale green as he blotted them with a cloth. Baarath clicked his teeth and hurried over to help.

"My fault," the librarian said. "I thought you had noticed me. You were scowling, after all."

Maati didn't know whether to laugh at that, so he only took a pose of gratitude as Baarath blew across the still damp pages. The damage was minor. Even where the ink had smudged, he knew what he had meant. Baarath fumbled in his sleeve and drew out a letter, its edges sewn in green silk.

"It's just come for you," he said. "The I)ai-kvo, I think?"

Maati took it. The last he had reported, Otah had been found and turned over to the Khai Machi. It was a faster response than he had ex peered. He turned the letter over, looking at the familiar handwriting that formed his name. Baarath sat across the table from him, smiling as if he were, of course, welcome, and waiting to see what the message said. It was one of the little rudenesses to which the librarian seemed to feel himself entitled since Nlaati's apology. Maati had the uncomfortable feeling Baarath thought they were becoming friends.

He tore the paper at the sewn scams, pulled the thread free, and unfolded it. The chop was clearly the Dai-kvo's own. It began with the traditional forms and etiquette. Only at the end of the first page did the matter become specific to the situation at hand.

ihith Otah discovered and given over to the Khai, your work in Machi is completed. Your suggestion that he be accepted again as a poet is, of course, impossible but the sentiment is commendable. I am quite pleased with you, and trust that this will mark a change in your work. %here are many tasks that a man in your position might take on to the benefit of all-we shall discuss these opportunities upon your return.

The critical issue now is that you withdraw, from Mllachi. Me have performed our service to the Khai, and your continued presence would only serve to draw attention to the fact that he and whichever of his sons eventually takes his place were unable to discover the plot without aid. It is dangerous for the poets to involve themselves with the politics of the courts.

For this reason, I now recall you to my side. You are to announce that you have found the citations in the library that I had desired, and must now return them to me. I will expect you within five weeks....

It continued, though Maati did not. Baarath smiled and leaned forward in obvious interest as Nlaati tucked the letter into his own sleeve. After a moment's silence, Baarath frowned.

"Fine," he said. "If it's the sort of thing you have to keep to yourself, I can certainly respect that."

"I knew you could, Baarath-cha. You're a man of great discretion."

"You needn't flatter me. I know my proper place. I only thought you might want someone to speak with. In case there were questions that someone with my knowledge of the court could answer for you."

"No," Maati said, taking a pose that offered thanks. "It's on another matter entirely."

Maati sat with a pleasant, empty expression until Baarath huffed, stood, took a pose of leave-taking, and walked deeper into the galleries of the library. Maati turned hack to his notes, but his mind would not stay focused on them. After half a hand of frustration and distress, he packed them quietly into his sleeve and took himself away.

The sun shone bright and clear, but to the west, huge clouds rose white and proud into the highest reaches of the sky. There would be storms later-if not today, in the summer weeks to come. Maati imagined he could smell the rain in the air. He walked toward his rooms, and then past them and into a walled garden. The cherry trees had lost their flowers, the fruits forming and swelling toward ripeness. Netting covered the wide branches like a bed, keeping the birds from stealing the harvest. Maati walked in the dappled shade. The pangs from his belly were fewer now and farther between. The wounds were nearly healed.

It would be easiest, of course, to do as he was told. The Dai-kvo had taken him back into his good graces, and the fact that things had gone awry since his last report could in no way be considered his responsibility. He had discovered Otah, and if it was through no skill of his own, that didn't change the result. He had given Otah over to the Khai. Everything past that was court politics; even the murder of the Khai was nothing the [)ai-kvo would want to become involved with.

Maati could leave now with honor and let the utkhaiem follow his investigations or ignore them. The worst that would happen was that Otah would be found and slaughtered for something he had not done and an evil man would become the Khai Machi. It wouldn't be the first time in the world that an innocent had suffered or that murder had been rewarded. The sun would still rise, winter would still become spring. And Maati would be restored to something like his right place among the poets. He might even be set over the school, set to teach boys like himself the lessons that he and Otah-kvo and Heshai-kvo and Cehmai had all learned. It would be something worth taking pride in.

So why was it, he wondered, that he would not do as he was told? Why was the prospect of leaving and accepting the rewards he had dreamed of less appealing than staying, risking the Dai-kvo's displeasure, and discovering what had truly happened to the Khai Machi? It wasn't love of justice. It was more personal than that.

Maati paused, closed his eyes, and considered the roiling anger in his breast. It was a familiar feeling, like an old companion or an illness so protracted it has become indistinguishable from health. He couldn't say who he was angry with or why the banked rage demanded that he follow his own judgment over anyone else's. He couldn't even say what he hoped he would find.

He plucked the Dai-kvo's letter from his sleeve, read it again slowly from start to finish, and began to mentally compose his reply.

Most high Dai-kvo, I hope you will forgive me, but the situation in Machi is such that ...

Most high Dai-kvo, I am sure that, had you known the turns of event since my last report ...

Most high, I must respectfully ...

Most high Dai-kvo, what have you ever done for me that I should do anything you say? Why do I agree to be your creature when that agreement has only ever caused inc pain and loss, and you still instruct me to turn my hack on the people I care for most?

Most high Dai-kvo, I have fed your last letter to pigs....

"Maati-kvo!"

Maati opened his eyes and turned. Cehmai, who had been running toward him, stopped short. Maati thought he saw fear in the boy's expression and wondered for a moment what Cehmai had seen in his face to inspire it. Maati took a pose that invited him to speak.

"Otah," Cehmai said. "'They've found him."

Too late, then, Maati thought. I've been too slow and come too late.

"Where?" he asked.

"In the river. There's a bend down near one of the low towns. They found his body, and a man in leather armor. One of the men who helped him escape, or that's what they've guessed. The Master of Tides is having them brought to the Khai's physicians. I told him that you had seen Otah most recently. You would be able to confirm it's really him."

Maati sighed and watched a sparrow try to land on the branch of a cherry tree. The netting confused it, and the bird pecked at the lines that barred it from the fruit just growing sweet. Nlaati smiled in sympathy.

"Let's go, then," he said.

There was a crowd in the courtyard outside the physician's apartments. Armsmen wearing mourning robes barred most of the onlookers but parted when Maati and Cehmai arrived. The physician's workroom was wide as a kitchen, huge slate tables in the center of the room and thick incense billowing from a copper brazier. The bodies were laid out naked on their bellies-one thick and well-muscled with a heaped pile of black leather on the table beside it, the other thinner with what might have been the robes of a prisoner or cleaning rags clinging to its back. The Master of Tides-a thin man named Saani Vaanga-and the Khai's chief physician were talking passionately, but stopped when they saw the poets.

The Master of Tides took a pose that offered service.

"I have come on behalf of the Dai-kvo," Maati said. "I wished to confirm the reports that Otah Machi is dead."

"Well, he isn't going dancing," the physician said, pointing to the thinner corpse with his chin.

"We're pleased by the Dai-kvo's interest," the Master of Tides said, ignoring the comment. "Cehmai-cha suggested that you might be able to confirm for us that this is indeed the upstart."

Maati took a pose of compliance and stepped forward. The reek was terrible-rotting flesh and something deeper, more disturbing. Cehmai hung back as Maati circled the table.

Maati gestured at the body, his hand moving in a circle to suggest turning it over that he might better see the dead man's face. The physician sighed, came to Maati's side, and took a long iron hook. He slid the hook under the body's shoulder and heaved. There was a wet sound as it lifted and fell. The physician put away the hook and arranged the limbs as Maati considered the bare flesh before him. Clearly the body had spent its journey face down. The features were bloated and fisheaten-it might have been Otah-kvo. It might have been anyone.

On the pale, water-swollen flesh of the corpse's breast, the dark ink was still visible. The tattoo. Maati had his hand halfway out to touch it before he realized what he was doing and pulled his fingers back. The ink was so dark, though, the line where the tattoo began and ended so sharp. A stirring of the air brought the scent fully to his nose, and Maati gagged, but didn't look away.

"Will this satisfy the Dai-kvo?" the Master of Tides asked.

Maati nodded and took a pose of thanks, then turned and gestured to Cehmai that he should follow. The younger poet was stone-faced. Maati wondered if he had seen many dead men before, much less smelled them. Out in the fresh air again, they navigated the crowd, ignoring the questions asked them. Cehmai was silent until they were well away from any curious ear.

"I'm sorry, Maati-kvo. I know you and he were-"

"It's not him," Maati said.

Cehmai paused, his hands moved up into a pose that spoke of his confusion. Maati stopped, looking around.

"It isn't him," Maati said. "It's close enough to be mistaken, but it isn't him. Someone wants us to think him dead-someone willing to go to elaborate lengths. But that's no more Otah Machi than I am."

"I don't understand," Cehmai said.

"Neither do I. But I can say this, someone wants the rumor of his death but not the actual thing. They're buying time. Possibly time they can use to find who's really done these things, then-"

"We have to go back! You have to tell the Master of Tides!"

Maati blinked. Cehmai's face had gone red and he was pointing back toward the physician's apartments. The boy was outraged.

"If we do that," Maati said, "we spoil all the advantage. It can't get out that-"

"Are you blind? Gods! It is him. All the time it's been him. This as much as proves it! Otah Machi came here to slaughter his family. To slaughter you. He has hackers who could free him from the tower, and he has done everything that he's been accused of. Buying time? He's buying safety! Once everyone thinks him dead, they'll stop looking. He'll be free. You have to tell them the truth!"

"Otah didn't kill his father. Or his brothers. It's someone else."

Cehmai was breathing hard and fast as a runner at the race's end, but his voice was lower now, more controlled.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"I know Otah-kvo. I know what he would do, and-"

"Is he innocent because he's innocent, or because you love him?" Cehmai demanded.

"This isn't the place to-"

""Tell me! Say you have proof and not just that you wish the sky was red instead of blue, because otherwise you're blinded and you're letting him escape because of it. There were times I more than half believed you, Maati-kvo. But when I look at this I see nothing to suggest any conspiracy but his."

Maati rubbed the point between his eyes with his thumb, pressing hard to keep his annoyance at bay. He shouldn't have spoken to the boy, but now that he had, there was nothing for it.

"Your anger-" he began, but Cehmai cut him off.

"You're risking people's lives, Maati-kvo. You're hanging them on the thought that you can't be wrong about the upstart."

"Whose lives?"

"The lives of people he would kill."

"'There is no risk from Otah-kvo. You don't understand."

"'T'hen teach me." It was as much an insult as a challenge. Maati felt the blood rising to his cheeks even as his mind dissected Cehmai's reaction. There was something to it, some reason for the violence and frustration of it, that didn't make sense. The boy was reacting to something more than Nlaati knew. Maati swallowed his rage.

"I'll ask five days. Trust me for five days, and I will show you proof. Will that do?"

He saw the struggle in Cehmai's face. The impulse to refuse, to fight, to spread the news across the city that Otah Machi lived. And then the respect for his elders that had been ground into him from his first day in the school and for all the years since he'd taken the brown robes they shared. Maati waited, forcing himself to patience. And in the end, Cehmai nodded once, turned, and stalked away.

Five days, Maati thought, shaking his head. I wonder what I thought to manage in that time. I should have asked for ten.

THE RAINS CAME IN THE EARLY EVENING: LIGHTNING AND THE BLUE-GRAY bellies of cloudbank. The first few drops sounded like stones, and then the clouds broke with a sudden pounding-thousands of small drums rolling. Otah sat in the window and looked out at the courtyard as puddles appeared and danced white and clear. The trees twisted and shifted under gusts of wind and the weight of water. The little storms rarely lasted more than a hand and a half, but in that time, they seemed like doomsday, and they reminded Otah of being young, when everything had been full and torrential and brief. He wished now that he had the skill to draw this brief landscape before the clouds passed and it was gone. There was something beautiful in it, something worth preserving.

"You're looking better."

Otah shifted, glancing back into the room. Sinja was there, his long hair slicked down by the rain, his robes sodden. Otah took a welcoming pose as the commander strode across the room toward him, dripping as he came.

"Brighter about the eyes, blood in your skin again. One would think you'd been eating, perhaps even walking around a bit."

"I feel better," Otah said. "That's truth."

"I didn't doubt you would. I've seen men far worse off than you pull through just fine. They've found your corpse, by the way. Identified it as you, just as we'd hoped. There are already half a hundred stories about how that came to be, and none of them near the truth. Amiit-cha is quite pleased, I think."

"I suppose it's worth being pleased over," Otah said.

"You don't seem overjoyed."

"Someone killed my father and my brothers and placed the blame on me. It just seems an odd time to celebrate."

Sinja didn't answer this, and for a moment, the two men sat in silence broken only by the rain. Then Otah spoke again. "Who was he? The man with my tattoo? Where did you find him?"

"He wasn't the sort of man the world will miss," Sinja said. "Amiit found him in a low town, and we arranged to purchase his indenture from the low magistrate before they hung him."

"What had he done?"

"I don't know. Killed someone. Raped a puppy. Whatever soothes your conscience, he did that."

"You really don't care."

"No," Sinja agreed. "And perhaps that makes me a bad person, but since I don't care about that, either ..."

He took a pose of completion, as if he had finished a demonstration. Otah nodded, then looked away.

"Too many people die over this," Otah said. "Too many lives wasted. It's an idiot system."

"This is nothing. You should see a real war. There is no bigger waste than that."

"You have? Seen war, I mean?"

"Yes. I fought in the Westlands. Sometimes when the Wardens took issue with each other. Sometimes against the nomad bands when they got big enough to pose a real threat. And then when the Galts decide to come take another bite out of them. There's more than enough opportunity there."

A distant Hash of lightning lit the trees, and then a breath later, a growl of thunder. Otah reached his hand out, letting the cool drops wet his palm.

"What's it like?" he asked.

"War? Violent. Brutish, stupid. Unnecessary, as often as not. But I like the part where we win."

Otah chuckled.

"You seem ... don't mind my prying at you, but for a man pulled from certain death, you don't seem to be as happy as I'd expected," Sinja said. "Something weighing on you?"

"Have you even been to Yalakeht?"

"No, too far east for me."

"They have tall gates on the mouths of their side streets that they close and lock every night. And there's a tower in the harbor with a permanent fire that guides ships in the darkness. In Chaburi-Tan, the street children play a game I've never seen anywhere else. They get just within shouting distance, strung out all through the streets, and then one will start singing, and the next will call the song on to the next after him, until it loops around to the first singer with all the mistakes and misunderstandings that make it something new. They can go on for hours. I stayed in a low town halfway between Lachi and Shosheyn-Tan where they served a stew of smoked sausage and pepper rice that was the best meal I've ever had. And the eastern islands.

"I was a fisherman out there for a few years. A very bad one, but ... but I spent my time out on the water, listening to the waves against my little boat. I saw the way the water changed color with the day and the weather. The salt cracked my palms, and the woman I was with made me sleep with greased cloth on my hands. I think I'll miss that the most."

"Cracked palms?"

"The sea. I think that will be the worst of it."

Sinja shifted. The rain intensified and then slackened as suddenly as it had come. The trees stood straighter. The pools of water danced less.

"The sea hasn't gone anywhere," Sinja said.

"No, but I have. I've gone to the mountains. And I don't expect I'll ever leave them again. I knew it was the danger when I became a courier. I was warned. But I hadn't understood it until now. It's the problem in seeing too much of the world. In loving too much of it. You can only live in one place at a time. And eventually, you pick your spot, and the memories of all the others just become ghosts."

Sinja nodded, taking a pose that expressed his understanding. Otah smiled, and wondered what memories the commander carried with him. From the distance in his eyes, it couldn't all have been blood and terror. Something of it must have been worth keeping.

"You've decided, then," Sinja said. "Amiit-cha was thinking he'd need to speak with you about the issue soon. Things will be moving in Mach] as soon as the mourning's done."

"I know. And yes, I've decided."

"Would you mind if I asked why you chose to stay?"

Otah turned and let himself down into the room. He took two howls from the cabinet and poured the deep red wine into both before he answered. Sinja took the one he was offered and drank half at a swig. Utah sat on the table, his feet on the scat of the bench and swirled the red of the wine against the bone white of the bowl.

"Someone killed my father and nay brothers."

"You didn't know them," Sinja said. "Don't tell me this is love."

"They killed my old family. I)o you think they'd hesitate to kill my new one?"

"Spoken like a man," Sinja said, raising his howl in salute. "The gods all know it won't be easy. As long as the utkhaicm think you've done everything you're accused of, they'll kill you first and crown you after. You'll have to find who did the thing and feed them to the crowds, and even then half of them will think you're guilty and clever. But if you don't do the thing ... No, I think you're right. The options are live in fear or take the world by the balls. You can be the Khai Nlachi, or you can be the Khai Machi's victim. I don't see a third way."

"I'll take the first. And I'll be glad about it. It's only . .

"You mourn that other life, I know. It comes with leaving your boyhood behind."

"I wouldn't have thought I was still just a boy."

"It doesn't matter what you've done or seen. Every man's a child until he's a father. It's the way the world's made."

Otah raised his brows and took a pose of (Iuery only slightly hampered by the bowl of wine.

"Oh yes, several," Sinja said. "So far the mothers haven't met one another, so that's all for the best. But your woman? Kiyan-cha?"

Otah nodded.

"I traveled with her for a time," Sinja said. "I've never met another like her, and I've known more than my share of women. You're lucky to have her, even if it means freezing your prick off for half the year up here in the north."

"Are you telling me you're in love with my lover?" Otah asked, half joking, half serious.

"I'm saying she's worth giving up the sea for," Sinja said. He finished the last of his wine, spun the bowl on the table, and then clapped Otah's shoulder. Otah met his gaze for a moment before Sinja turned and strode out. Otah looked into the wine bowl again, smelled the memory of grapes hot from the sun, and drank it down. Outside, the sun broke through, and the green of the trees and blue of the sky where it peeked past the gray and white and yellow clouds showed vibrant as something newly washed.

Their quarters were down a short corridor, and then through a thin wooden door on leather hinges halfway to wearing through. Kiyan lay on the cot, the netting pulled around her to keep the gnats and mosquitoes off. Otah slipped through and lay gently beside her, watching her eyes flutter and her lips take up a smile as she recognized him.

"I heard you talking," she said, sleep slurring the words.

"Sinja-cha came up."

"What was the matter?"

"Nothing," he said, and kissed her temple. "We were only talking about the sea."

CEHMAI CLOSED THE DOOR OF THE POET'S HOUSE AGAIN AND STARTED PACing the length of the room. The storm in the back of his mind was hardly a match for the one at the front. Stone-Made-Soft, sitting at the empty, cold brazier, looked up. Its face showed a mild interest.

"Trees still there?" the andat asked.

"Yes."

"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 anyone. The I)ai-kvo has been scrupulous about removing himself from these things."

"A man may voice an opinion," Adrah said, an edge in his voice, "without shouting on street corners."

"And what opinion would you voice, Cehmai-cha?"

Cehmai stood silent, his breath deep and fast. With every impotent thread of his will, he wished Adrah away. His hands were drawn toward Idaan, and he felt himself lean toward her like a reed in the wind. And yet her lover's eyes were on him, holding him back as effectively as chains.

"Whatever opinion you should choose," he said.

Idaan smiled, but there was more in her face than pleasure. Her jaw shifted forward, her eyes brightened. There was rage beneath her calm, and Cehmai felt it in his belly like an illness. The silence stretched out for three long breaths, four, five....

"Love," Adrah said in a voice without affection. "I know our good fortune at this unexpected ally is overwhelming, but-"

"I didn't want to take any action until I spoke to you," Cehmai said. "That's why I had Adrah-cha bring me here. I hope I haven't given offense."

"Of course not, Cehmai-cha," she said. "But if you can't take my husband's word for my mind, whose could you trust? Who could know me better than he?"

"I would still prefer to discuss it with you," Cehmai said, packing as much meaning into the words as he could without sounding forced. "It will have some influence over the shape your life takes, and I wouldn't wish to guess wrong."

A spark of amusement flashed in her eyes, and she took a pose of gratitude before turning to Adrah.

"Leave us, then."

"Leave you ..."

"Certainly he can't expect a woman to speak her mind openly with her husband floating above her like a hunting hawk. If Cehmai-cha is to trust what I say, he must see that I'm free to do my own will, ne?"

"It might be best," Cchmai agreed, trying to make his voice conciliatory. "If it wouldn't disturb you, Adrah-kya?"

Adrah smiled without even the echo of pleasure.

"Of course," he said. "I've arrangements to see to. The wedding is almost upon us, you know. There's so much to do, and with the mourning week ... I do regret that the Khai did not live long enough to see this day come."

Adrah shook his head, then took a pose of farewell and retreated, closing the door behind him. When they were alone, Idaan's face shifted, naked venom in her stare.

"I'm sorry," Cehmai began, but Idaan cut him off.

"Not here. Gods only know how many servants he's set to listening. Come with me."

Idaan took him by the arm and led him through the door Adrah had used, then down a long corridor, and up a flight of winding stairs. Cehmai felt the warmth of her hand on his arm, and it felt like relief. She was here, she was well, she was with him. The world could be falling to pieces, and her presence would make it bearable.

She led him through a high hall and out to an open garden that looked down over the city. There were six or seven floors between them and the streets below. Idaan Leaned against the rail and looked down, then back at him.

"So he's gotten to you, has he?" she asked, her voice gray as ashes.

"No one's gotten to me. If Adrah had wanted me to bray like a mule and paint my face like a whore's before he'd take me to you, I'd have been a stranger sight than this."

And, almost as if it was against her will, Idaan laughed. Not long, and not deep, hardly more than a faint smile and a fast exhalation, but it was there. Cehmai stepped in and pulled her body to his. He felt her start to push him back, hesitate, and then her cheek was pressed to his, her hair filling his breath with its scent. He couldn't say if the tears between them were hers or his or both.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why did you go? Why didn't you come to me?"

"I couldn't," she said. "There was ... there's too much."

"I love you, Idaan. I didn't say it before because it wasn't true, but it is now. I love you. Please let me help."

Now she did push him away, holding one arm out before her to keep him at a distance and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the other.

"Don't," she said. "Don't say that. You ... you don't love me, Cehmai. You don't love me, and I do not love you."

"Then why are we weeping?" he asked, not moving to dry his own cheek.

"Because we're young and stupid," she said, her voice catching. "Because we think we can forget what happens to things that I care for."

"And what's that?"

"I kill them," she said, her voice soft and choking. "I cut them or I poison them or I turn them into something wrong. I won't do that to you. You can't be part of this, because I won't do that to you."

Cehmai didn't step toward her. Instead, he pulled back, walked to the edge of the garden and looked out over the city. The scent of flowers and forge-smoke mixed. "You're right, Idaan-kya. You won't do that. Not to me. You couldn't if you tried."

"Please," she said, and her voice was near him. She had followed. "You have to forget me. Forget what happened. It was ..."

"Wrong?"

For a breath, he waited.

"No," she said. "Not wrong. But it was dangerous. I'm being married in a few days time. Because I choose to be. And it won't be you on the other end of the cord."

"Do you want me to support Adrah for the Khai's chair?"

"No. I want you to have nothing to do with any of this. Go home. Find someone else. Find someone better."

"I can love you from whatever distance you wish-"

"Oh shut up," Idaan snapped. "Just stop. Stop being the noble little boy who's going to suffer in silence. Stop pretending that your love of me started in anything more gallant than opening my robes. I don't need you. And if I want you ... well, there are a hundred other things I want and I can't have them either. So just go."

He turned, surprised, but her face was stony, the tears and tenderness gone as if they'd never been.

"What are you trying to protect me from?" he asked.

"The answer to that question, among other things," she said. "I want you away from me, Cehmai. I want you elsewhere. If you love me as much as you claim, you'll respect that."

"But-"

"You'll respect it."

Cehmai had to think, had to pick the words as if they were stuck in mud. The confusion and distress rang in his mind, but he could see what any protests would bring. He had walked away from her, and she had followed. Perhaps she would again. That was the only comfort here.

"I'll leave you," he said. "If it's what you want."

"It is. And remember this: Adrah Vaunyogi isn't your friend. Whatever he says, whatever he does, you watch him. He will destroy you if he can."

"He can't," Cehmai said. "I'm the poet of Machi. The worst he can do to me is take you, and that's already done."

That seemed to stop her. She softened again, but didn't move to him, or away.

"Just be careful, Cehmai-kya. And go."

Cehmai's leaden hands took a pose of acceptance, but he did not move. Idaan crossed her arms.

"You also have to be careful. Especially if Adrah wants to become Khai Machi," Cehmai said. "It's the other thing I came for. The body they found was false. Your brother Otah is alive."

He might have told her that the plague had come. Her face went pale and empty. It was a moment before she seemed able to draw a breath.

"What ... ?" she said, then coughed and began again. "How do you know that?"

"If I tell you, will you still send inc away?"

Something washed through Idaan's expression-disappointment or depair or sorrow. She took a pose that accepted a contract.

"Tell me everything," Idaan said.

Cehmai did.