A Betrayal in Winter

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.

"I see. And you were the one who brought that to light?"

"That's so."

Radaani paused, his lips pursed, his fingers knotted around each other.

"Does the Dai-kvo back the upstart, then?"

"No," Maati said before Cehmai could speak. "We take no side in this. We support the council's decision, but that doesn't mean we withhold the truth from the utkhaiem."

"As Maati-kvo says," Cehmai agreed. "We are servants here."

"Servants with the world by its balls," Radaani said. "It's easy, Cehmai-cha, to support a position in a side room with no one much around to hear you. It's a harder thing to say the same words in front of the gods and the court and the world in general. If I take this to the council and you decide that perhaps it wasn't all quite what you've said it was, it will go badly for me."

"I'll tell what I know," Cehmai said. "Whoever asks."

"Well," Radaani said, then more than half to himself, "Well well well."

In the pause that followed, another roll of thunder rattled the shutters. But Porsha Radaani's smile had faded into something less amused, more serious. We have him, Maati thought. Radaani clapped his hands on his thighs and stood.

"I have some conversations I'll have to conduct, Maati-cha," he said. "You understand that I'm taking a great personal risk doing this? Me and my family both."

"And I know that Otah-kvo will appreciate that," Maati said. "In my experience, he has always been good to his friends."

"TThat's best," Radaani said. "After this, I expect he'll have about two of them. Just so long as he remembers what he owes me."

"He will. And so will the Kamau and the Vaunani. And I imagine a fair number of your rival families will be getting less favorable terms from the Galts in the future."

"Yes. That had occurred to me too."

Radaani smiled broadly and took a formal pose of leavetaking that ineluded the room and all three of them in it-the two poets, the one spirit. When he was gone, Maati went to the window again. Radaani was walking fast down the street, his servants half-skipping to keep the canopy over him. His limp was almost gone.

Maati closed the shutters.

"He's agreed?" Cehmai asked.

"As near as we can expect. He smells profit in it for himself and disappointment for his rivals. That's the best we can offer, but I think he's pleased enough to do the thing."

"That's good."

Maati sat in the chair Radaani had used, sighing. Cehmai leaned against the table, his arms folded. His mouth was thin, his eyes dark. He looked more than half ill. The andat pulled out the chair beside him and sat with a mild, companionable expression.

"What did the Dai-kvo say?" Cehmai asked. "In the letter?"

"He said I was under no circumstances to take sides in the succession. He repeated that I was to return to his village as soon as possible. He seems to think that by involving myself in all this court intrigue, I may he upsetting the utkhaiem. And then he went into a long commentary about the andat being used in political struggle as the reason that the Empire ate itself."

"He's not wrong," Cchmai said.

"Well, perhaps not. But it's late to undo it."

"You can blame me if you'd like," Cehmai said.

"I think not. I chose what I'd do, and I don't think I chose poorly. If the Dai-kvo disagrees, we can have a conversation about it."

"He'll throw you out," Cchmai said.

Maati thought for a moment of his little cell at the village, of the years spent in minor tasks at the will of the Dal-kvo and the poets se nior to himself. Liat had asked him to leave it all a hundred times, and he'd refused. The prospect of failure and disgrace faced him now, and he heard her words, saw her face, and wondered why it had all seemed so wrong when she'd said it and so clear now. Age perhaps. Experience. Some tiny sliver of wisdom that told him that in the balance between the world and a woman, either answer could be right.

"I'm sorry for all this, Cehmai. About Idaan. I know how hard this is for you."

"She picked it. No one made her plot against her family."

"But you love her."

The young poet frowned now, then shrugged.

"Less now than I did two days ago," he said. "Ask again in a month. I'm a poet, after all. There's only so much room in my life. Yes, I loved her. I'll love someone else later. Likely someone that hasn't set herself to kill off her relations."

"It's always like this," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Every one of them. The first love always comes closest. I had hopes for this one. I really did."

"You'll live with the disappointment," Cehmai said.

"Yes," the andat said amiably. "There's always another first girl."

Maati laughed once, amused though it was also unbearably sad. The andat shifted to look at him quizzically. Cehmai's hands took a pose of query. Maati tried to find words to fit his thoughts, surprised by the sense of peace that the prospect of his own failure brought him.

"You're who I was supposed to be, Cehmai-kvo, and you're much better at it. I never did very well."

IDAAN LEANED FORWARD, HER HANDS ON THE RAIL. THE GALLERY BEHIND her was full but restless, the air thick with the scent of their bodies and perfumes. People shifted in their seats and spoke in low tones, prepared for some new attack, and Idaan had noticed a great fashion for veils that covered the heads and necks of men and women alike that tucked into their robes like netting on a bed. The wasps had done their work, and even if they were gone now, the feeling of uncertainty remained. She took another deep breath and tried to play her role. She was the last blood of her murdered father. She was the bride of Adrah Vaunyogi. Looking down over the council, her part was to remind them of how Adrah's marriage connected him to the old line of the Khaiem.

And yet she felt like nothing so much as an actor, put out to sing a part on stage that she didn't have the range to voice. It had been so recently that she'd stood here, inhabiting this space, owning the air and the hall around her. Today, everything was the same-the families of the utkhaiem arrayed at their tables, the leaves-in-wind whispering from the galleries, the feeling of eyes turned toward her. But it wasn't working. The air itself seemed different, and she couldn't begin to say why.

"The attack leveled against this council must not weaken us," Daaya, her father now, half-shouted. His voice was hoarse and scratched. "We will not be bullied! We will not be turned aside! When these vandals tried to make mockery of the powers of the utkhaiem, we were preparing to consider my son, the honorable Adrah Vaunyogi, as the proper man to take the place of our lamented Khai. And to that matter we must return."

Applause filled the air, and Idaan smiled sweetly. She wondered how many of the people now present had heard her cry out Cehmai's name in her panic. Those that hadn't had no doubt heard it from other lips. She had kept clear of the poet's house since then, but there hadn't been a moment her heart hadn't longed toward it. He would understand, she told herself. He would forgive her absence once this was all finished. All would be well.

And yet, when Adrah looked up to her, when their gaze met, it was like looking at a stranger. He was beautiful: his hair fresh cut, his robes of jeweled silk. He was her husband, and she no longer knew him.

Daaya stepped down, glittering, and Adaut Kamau rose. If, as the gossipmongers had told, the wasps had been meant to keep old Kamau silent that day, this would be the moment when something more should follow. The galleries became suddenly quiet as the old man stepped to the stage. Even from across the hall, Idaan could see the red weal on his face where the sting had marked him.

"I had intended," he said, "to speak in support of Ghiah Vaunani in his urging of caution and against hasty decision. Since that time, however, my position has changed, and I would like to invite my old, dear friend Porsha Radaani to address the council."

With nothing more than that, old Kamau stepped down. Idaan leaned forward, looking for the green and gray robes of the Radaani. And there, moving between the tables, was the man striding toward the speaker's dais. Adrah and his father were bent together, speaking swiftly and softly. Idaan strained to hear something of what they said. She didn't notice how tight she was holding the rail until her fingers started to ache with it.

Radaani rose up in the speaker's pulpit, looking over the council and the galleries for the space of a half-dozen breaths. His expression was considering, like a man at a fish market judging the freshest catch. Idaan felt her belly tighten. Below her and across the hall, Radaani lifted his arms to the crowd.

"Brothers, we have come here in these solemn times to take the fate of our city into our hands," he intoned, and his voice was rich as cream. "We have suffered tragedy and in the spirit of our ancestors, we rise to overcome it. No one can doubt the nobility of our intentions. And yet the time has come to dissolve this council. There is no call to choose a new Khai Machi when a man with legitimate claim to the chair still lives."

The noise was like a storm. Voices rose and feet stamped. On the council floor, half the families were on their feet, the others sitting with stunned expressions. And yet it was as if it were happening in some other place. Idaan felt the unreality of the moment wash over her. It was a dream. A nightmare.

"I have not stood down!" Radaani shouted. "I have not finished! Yes, an heir lives! And he has the support of my family and my house! Who among you will refuse the son of the Khai Machi his place? Who will side with the traitors and killers that slaughtered his father?"

"Porsha-cha!" one of the men of the council said, loud enough to carry over the clamor. "Explain yourself or step down! You've lost your mind!"

"I'll better that! Brothers, I give my place before you to the son of the Khai and his one surviving heir!"

Had she thought the hall loud before? It was deafening. No one was left seated. Bodies pressed at her hack, jostling her against the railing as they craned and stretched for a glimpse of the man entering the chamber. He stood tall and straight, his dark robes with their high collar looking almost priestly. Otah Machi, the upstart, strode into the hall, with the grace and calm of a man who owned it and every man and woman who breathed air.

He's mad, she thought. He's gone mad to come here. They'll tear him apart with their hands. And then she saw behind him the brown robes of a poet-Maati Vaupathai, the envoy of the Dal-kvo. And behind him ...

Her mouth went dry and her body began to tremble. She shrieked, she screamed, but no one could hear her over the crowd. She couldn't even hear herself. And yet, walking at Maati's side, Cehmai looked tip. His face was grim and calm and distant. The poets strode together behind the upstart. And then the armsmen of Radaani and Vaunani, Kaman and Daikani and Saya. Hardly a tenth of the families of the utkhaicm, but still a show of power. The poets alone would have been enough.

She didn't think, couldn't recall pushing back the people around her, she only knew her own intentions when she was over the rail and falling. It wasn't so far to the ground-no more than the height of two men, and yet in the roar and chaos, the drop seemed to last forever. When she struck the floor at last, it jarred her to the hone. Her ankle bloomed with pain. She put it aside and ran as best she could through the stunned men of the utkhaiem. Men all about her, unable to act, unable to move. They were like statues, frozen by their uncertainty and confusion. She knew that she was screaming-shc could feel it in her throat, could hear it in her cars. She sounded crazed, but that was unimportant. Her attention was single, focused. The rage that possessed her, that lifted her up and sped her steps by its power alone, was only for the upstart, Otah Machi, who had taken her lover from her.

She saw Adrah and Daaya already on the floor, an armsman kneeling on each back. "There was a blade still in Adrah's hand. And then there before her like a fish rising to the surface of a pond was Otah Machi, her brother. She launched herself at him, her hands reaching for him like claws. She didn't see how the andat moved between them; perhaps it had been waiting for her. Its wide, cold body appeared, and she collided with it. Huge hands wrapped her own, and the wide, inhuman face bent close to hers.

"Stop this," it said. "It won't help."

"'t'his isn't right!" she shouted, aware now that the pandemonium had quieted, that her voice could be heard, but she could no more stop herself now than learn to fly. "He swore he'd protect me. He swore it. It's not right!"

"Nothing is," the andat agreed, as it pulled her aside, lifted her as if she was still a child, and pressed her against the wall. She felt herself sinking into it, the stone giving way to her like mud. She fought, but the wide hands were implacable. She shrieked and kicked, sure that the stone would close over her like water, and then she stopped fighting. Let it kill her, let her die.

Let it end.

The hands went away, and Idaan found herself immobile, trapped in stone that had found its solidity again. She could breathe, she could see, she could hear. She opened her mouth to scream, to call for Cehmai. To beg. Stone-Made-Soft put a single finger to her lips.

"It won't help," the andat said again, then turned and lumbered up beside the speaker's pulpit where Cehmai stood waiting for it. She didn't look at her brother as he took the pulpit, only Cehmai. He didn't look back at her. When Utah spoke, his words cut through the air, clean and strong as wine.

"I am Otah 1MIachi, sixth son of the Khai Machi. I have never renounced my claim to this place; I have never killed or plotted to kill my brothers or my father. But I know who has, and I have come here before this council to show you what has been done, and by whom, and to claim what is mine by right."

Idaan closed her eyes and wept, surprised to find her desolation complicated by relief.

"I NOTICE YOU NEVER MENTIONED THE MALTS," AM1IIT SAID.

The waiting area to which the protocol servant had led them was open and light, looking out over a garden of flowering vines. A silver howl with water cooling fresh peaches sat on a low table. Amiit leaned against the railing. He looked calm, but Otah could see the white at the corners of his mouth and the small movements of his hands; Amiit's belly was as much in knots as his own.

"There was no call," Utah said. "The families that were involved know that they were being used, and if they only suspect that I know it, that's almost as good as being sure. How long are we going to have to wait?"

"Until they've finished deciding whether to kill you as a murderer or raise you up as the Khai Maehi," Amiit said. "It shouldn't take long. You were very good out there."

"You could sound more sure of all this."

"We'll be fine," Amiit said. "We have hacking. We have the poets."

"And yet?"

Amiit forced a chuckle.

"This is why I don't play tiles. Just before the tiles man turns the last chit, I convince myself that there's something I've overlooked."

"I hope you aren't right this time."

"If I am, I won't have to worry about next. They'll kill me as dead as you.

Otah picked up a peach and hit into it. The fuzz made his lips itch, but the taste was sweet and rich and complex. He sighed and looked out. Above the garden wall rose the towers, and beyond them the blue of the sky.

"If we win, you will have to have them killed, you know," Amiit said. "Adrah and his father. Your sister, Idaan."

"Not her."

"Otah-cha, this is going to be hard enough as it stands. The utkhaiem are going to accept you because they have to. But you won't be hailed as a savior. And Kiyan-cha's a common woman from no family. She kept a wayhouse. Showing mercy to the girl who killed your father isn't going to win you anyone's support."

"I am the Khai Machi," Otah said. "I'll make my way."

"You don't understand how complex this is likely to be."

Otah shrugged.

"I trust your advice, Amiit-cha," Otah said. "You'll have to trust my judgment."

The overseer's expression soured for a moment, and then he laughed. They lapsed into silence. It was true. It was early in his career to appear weak, and the Vaunyogi had killed two of his brothers and his father, and had tried to kill Maati as well. And behind them, the Galts. And the library. There had been something in there, some book or scroll or codex worth all those lives, all that money, and the risk. By the time the sun fled behind the mountains in the west, he would know whether he'd have the power to crush their nation, reduce their houses to slag, their cities to ruins. A word to Cehmai would put it in motion. All it would require of him would be to forget that they also had children and lovers, that the people of Galt were as likely as anyone in the cities of the Khaiem to love and betray, lie and dream. And he was having pangs over executing his own father's killer. He took another bite of the peach.

"You've gone quiet," Amiit said softly.

"Thinking about how complex this is likely to be," Otah said.

He finished the last of the peach flesh and threw the stone out into the garden before he washed his hands clean in the water howl it had come from. A company of armsmen in ceremonial mail appeared at the door with a grim-faced servant in simple black robes.

"Your presence is requested in the council chamber," the servant said.

"I'll see you once it's over," Amiit said.

Otah straightened his robes, took and released a deep breath, and adopted a pose of thanks. The servant turned silently, and Otah followed with armsmen on either side of him and behind. Their pace was solemn.

The halls with their high, arched ceilings and silvered glass, adornments of gold and silver and iron, were empty except for the jingle of mail and the tread of boots. Slowly the murmur of voices and the smells of bodies and lamp oil filled the air. The black-robed servant turned a corner, and a pair of double doors swung open to the council hall. The Master of Tides stood on the speaker's pulpit.

The black lacquer chair reserved for the Khai Machi had been brought, and stood empty on a dais of its own. Otah held himself straight and tall. He strode into the chamber as if his mind were not racing, his heart not conflicted.

He walked to the base of the pulpit and looked up. The Master of "hides was a smaller man than he'd thought, but his voice was strong enough.

"Otah Machi. In recognition of your blood and claim, we of the high families of Machi have chosen to dissolve our council, and cede to you the chair that was your father's."

Otah took a pose of thanks that he realized as he took it was a thousand times too casual for the moment, dropped it, and walked up the dais. Someone in the second gallery high above him began to applaud, and within moments, the air was thick with the sound. Otah sat on the black and uncomfortable chair and looked out. There were thousands of faces, all of them fixed upon him. Old men, young men, children. The highest families of the city and the palace servants. Some were exultant, some stunned. A few, he thought, were dark with anger. He picked out Maati and Cehmai. Even the andat had joined in. The ta bles at which the Kamau and Vaunani, Radaani and Saya and Daikani all sat were surrounded by cheering men. The table of the Vaunyogi was empty.

They would never all truly believe him innocent. They would never all give him their loyalty. He looked out into their faces and he saw years of his life laid out before him, constrained by necessity and petty expedience. He guessed at the mockery he would endure behind his hack while he struggled to learn his new-acquired place. He tried to appear gracious and grave at once, certain he was failing at both.

For this, he thought, I have given up the world.

And then, at the far back of the hall, he caught sight of Kiyan. She, perhaps alone, wasn't applauding him. She only smiled as if amused and perhaps pleased. He felt himself soften. Amid all the meaningless celebration, all the empty delight, she was the single point of stillness. Kiyan was safe, and she was his, and their child would he born into safety and love.

If all the rest was the price for those few things, it was one he would pay.