A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2 Read online

  She felt her sorrow settle deep, an almost physical sensation. She

  understood the tears of the young that were even now soaking her robes

  at the shoulder. She would come to understand the tears of age in time.

  They would be keeping her company. There was no need to hurry.

  At length, Idaan's sobs grew shallower and less frequent. The girl

  pulled back, smiling sheepishly and wiping her eyes with the back of her

  hand.

  "I hadn't thought it would be this had," Idaan said softly. "I knew it

  would be hard, but this is ... How did they do it?"

  "Who, dear?"

  "All of them. All through the generations. How did they bring themselves

  to kill each other?"

  "I think," Hiami said, her words seeming to come from the new sorrow

  within her and not from the self she had known, "that in order to become

  one of the Khaiem, you have to stop being able to love. So perhaps

  Biitrah's tragedy isn't the worst that could have happened."

  Idaan hadn't followed the thought. She took a pose of query.

  "Winning this game may be worse than losing it, at least for the sort of

  man he was. He loved the world too much. Seeing that love taken from him

  would have been had. Seeing him carry the deaths of his brothers with

  him ... and he wouldn't have been able to go slogging through the mines.

  He would have hated that. He would have been a very poor Khai Maehi."

  "I don't think I love the world that way," Idaan said.

  "You don't, Idaan-kya," Hiami said. "And just now I don't either. But I

  will try to. I will try to love things the way he did."

  They sat a while longer, speaking of things less treacherous. In the

  end, they parted as if it were just another absence before them, as if

  there would be another meeting on another day. A more appropriate

  farewell would have ended with them both in tears again.

  The leave-taking ceremony before the Khai was more formal, but the

  emptiness of it kept it from unbalancing her composure. He sent her back

  to her family with gifts and letters of gratitude, and assured her that

  she would always have a place in his heart so long as it beat. Only when

  he enjoined her not to think ill of her fallen husband for his weakness

  did her sorrow threaten to shift to rage, but she held it down. They

  were only words, spoken at all such events. They were no more about

  Biitrah than the protestations of loyalty she now recited were about

  this hollow-hearted man in his black lacquer seat.

  After the ceremony, she went around the palaces, conducting more

  personal farewells with the people whom she'd come to know and care for

  in Nlachi, and just as dark fell, she even slipped out into the streets

  of the city to press a few lengths of silver or small jewelry into the

  hands of a select few friends who were not of the utkhaiem. There were

  tears and insincere promises to follow her or to one day bring her hack.

  Hiam] accepted all these little sorrows with perfect grace. Little

  sorrows were, after all, only little.

  She lay sleepless that last night in the bed that had seen all her

  nights since she had first come to the north, that had borne the doubled

  weight of her and her husband, witnessed the birth of their children and

  her present mourning, and she tried to think kindly of the bed, the

  palace, the city and its people. She set her teeth against her tears and

  tried to love the world. In the morning, she would take a flatboat down

  the 'Fidat, slaves and servants to carry her things, and leave behind

  forever the bed of the Second Palace where people did everything but die

  gently and old in their sleep.

  Maati took a pose that requested clarification. In another context, it

  would have risked annoying the messenger, but this time the servant of

  the Dai-kvo seemed to be expecting a certain level of disbelief. Without

  hesitation, he repeated his words.

  "The Dai-kvo requests Maati Vaupathai come immediately to his private

  chambers."

  It was widely understood in the shining village of the Dai-kvo that

  Maati Vaupathai was, if not a failure, certainly an embarrassment. Over

  the years he had spent in the writing rooms and lecture halls, walking

  the broad, clean streets, and huddled with others around the kilns of

  the firekeepers, Maati had grown used to the fact that he would never be

  entirely accepted by those who surrounded him; it had been eight years

  since the Dai-kvo had deigned to speak to him directly. Maati closed the

  brown leather book he had been studying and slipped it into his sleeve.

  He took a pose that accepted the message and announced his readiness.

  The white-robed messenger turned smartly and led the way.

  The village that was home to the [)a]-kvo and the poets was always

  beautiful. Now in the middle spring, flowers and ivies scented the air

  and threatened to overflow the well-tended gardens and planters, but no

  stray grass rose between the paving stones. The gentle choir of wind

  chimes filled the air. The high, thin waterfall that fell beside the

  palaces shone silver, and the towers and garrets-carved from the

  mountain face itself-were unstained even by the birds that roosted in

  the eaves. Men spent lifetimes, Nlaati knew, keeping the village

  immaculate and as impressive as a Khai on his scat. The village and

  palaces seemed as grand as the great bowl of sky above them. His years

  living among the men of the village-only men, no women were

  permitted-had never entirely robbed Nlaati of his awe at the place. He

  struggled now to hold himself tall, to appear as calm and self-possessed

  as a man summoned to the Dai-kvo regularly. As he passed through the

  archways that led to the palace, he saw several messengers and more than

  a few of the brown-robed poets pause to look at him.

  He was not the only one who found his presence there strange.

  The servant led him through the private gardens to the modest apartments

  of the most powerful man in the world. Maati recalled the last time he

  had been there-the insults and recriminations, the Daikvo's scorching

  sarcasm, and his own certainty and pride crumbling around him like sugar

  castles left out in the rain. Maati shook himself. There was no reason

  for the I)ai-kvo to have called him back to repeat the indignities of

  the past.

  There are always the indignities of the future, the soft voice that had

  become Maati's muse said from a corner of his mind. Never assume you can

  survive the future because you've survived the past. Everyone thinks

  that, and they've all been wrong eventually.

  The servant stopped before the elm-and-oak-inlaid door that led, Maati

  remembered, to a meeting chamber. He scratched it twice to announce

  them, then opened the door and motioned Maati in. Maati breathed deeply

  as a man preparing to dive from a cliff into shallow water and entered.

  The Dai-kvo was sitting at his table. He had not had hair since Maati

  had met him twenty-three summers before when the Dai-kvo had only been

  Tahi-kvo, the crueler of the two teachers set to sift through the

  discarded sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem for likely candidates to send />
  on to the village. His brows had gone pure white since he'd become the

  Dai-kvo, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. His black eyes

  were just as alive.

  The other two men in the room were strangers to Maati. The thinner one

  sat at the table across from the Dai-kvo, his robes deep blue and gold,

  his hair pulled back to show graying temples and a thin whiteflecked

  heard. The thicker-with both fat and muscle, Maati thought-stood at

  window, one foot up on the thick ledge, looking into the gardens, and

  Maati could see where his clean-shaven jaw sagged at the jowl. His robes

  were the light brown color of sand, his boots hard leather and travel

  worn. He turned to look at Maati as the door closed, and there was

  something familiar about him-about both these new men-that he could not

  describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the

  school.

  "I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo."

  The Dai-kvo grunted and gestured to him for the benefit of the two

  strangers.

  "This is the one," the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him,

  graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati

  imagined what they saw him for-a man of thirty summers, his forehead

  already pushing hack his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft

  man in a poet's robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt

  himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show

  neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two

  men.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I don't believe we have met before, or if we

  have, I apologize that I don't recall it."

  "We haven't met," the thicker one said.

  "He isn't much to look at," the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the

  Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic

  poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Nlaati found

  himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.

  "Sit down, Maati-cha," the Dal-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. "Have a

  bowl of tea. There's something we have to discuss. Tell me what you've

  heard of events in the winter cities."

  Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.

  "I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most

  high. There's trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about

  the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven't

  heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer

  fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi ..."

  Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar;

  who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across

  the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks

  without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.

  "The Khai Machi is dying," the Dal-kvo said. "I Iis belly's gone rotten.

  It's a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered.

  Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?"

  "That it was poor form," Maati said. "'t'hat no one has seen the Khaiem

  resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the

  brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one ... Gods! You two

  are ..."

  "You see?" the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. "No,

  not much to look at, but a decent stew between his ears. Yes, Maati-cha.

  The man scraping my windowsill with his boots there is Danat Machi. This

  is his eldest surviving brother, Kaiin. And they have come here to speak

  with me instead of waging war against each other because neither of them

  killed their elder brother Biitrah."

  "So they ... you think it was Otah-kvo?"

  "The Dai-kvo says you know my younger brother," the thickset

  man-Danat-said, taking his own seat at the only unoccupied side of the

  table. "Tell me what you know of Otah."

  "I haven't seen him in years, Danat-cha," Maati said. "He was in

  Saraykcht when ... when the old poet there died. He was working as a

  laborer. But I haven't seen him since."

  "Do you think he was satisfied by that life?" the thin one-Kaiin- asked.

  "A laborer at the docks of Saraykeht hardly seems like the fate a son of

  the Khaiem would embrace. Especially one who refused the brand."

  Maati picked up the bowl of tea, sipping it too quickly as he tried to

  gain himself a moment to think. The tea scalded his tongue.

  "I never heard Otah speak of any ambitions for his father's chair,"

  Maati said.

  "And is there any reason to think he would have spoken of it to you?"

  Kaiin said, the faintest sneer in his voice. Maati felt the blush

  creeping into his cheeks again, but it was the Dai-kvo who answered.

  ""There is. Otah Machi and Maati here were close for a time. They fell

  out eventually over a woman, I believe. Still, I hold that if Otah had

  been bent on taking part in the struggle for Machi at that time, he

  would have taken Maati into his confidence. But that is hardly our

  concern. As Maati here points out, it was years ago. Otah may have

  become ambitious. Or resentful. There's no way for us to know that-"

  "But he refused the brand-" Danat began, and the Dai-kvo cut him off

  with a gesture.

  "There were other reasons for that," the Dai-kvo said sharply. "They

  aren't your concern."

  Danat Nlachi took a pose of apology and the Dai-kvo waved it away. Maati

  sipped his tea again. 't'his time it didn't burn. To his right, Kaiin

  Machi took a pose of query, looking directly at Maati for what seemed

  the first time.

  "Would you know him again if you saw him?"

  "Yes," Maati said. "I would."

  "You sound certain of it."

  "I am, Kaiin-cha."

  The thin man smiled. All around the table a sense of satisfaction seemed

  to come from his answer. Maati found it unnerving. The Daikvo poured

  himself more tea, the liquid clicking into his bowl like a stream over

  stones.

  "'T'here is a very good library in Machi," the Dai-kvo said. "One of the

  finest in the fourteen cities. I understand there are records there from

  the time of the Empire. One of the high lords was thinking to go there,

  perhaps, to ride out the war, and sent his hooks ahead. I'm sure there

  are treasures hidden among those shelves that would be of use in binding

  the andat."

  "Really?" Maati asked.

  "No, not really," the Dai-kvo said. "I expect it's a mess of poorly

  documented scraps overseen by a librarian who spends his copper on wine

  and whores, but I don't care. For our purposes, there are secrets hidden

  in those records important enough to send a low-ranking poet like

  yourself to sift though. I have a letter to the Khai Machi that will

  explain why you are truly there. IIc will explain your presence to the

  utkhaiem and Cehmai 'Ivan, the poet who holds Stone-Made-Soft. Let them

  think you've come on my errand. What you will be doing instead is

  discovering whether Otah killed Biitrah Machi. If so, who is hacking

  him. If not, who did, and why."

 
"Most high-" Maati began.

  "Wait for me in the gardens," the Dal-kvo said. "I have a few more

  things to discuss with the sons of Machi."

  The gardens, like the apartments, were small, well kept, beautiful, and

  simple. A fountain murmured among carefully shaped, deeply fragrant pine

  trees. Maati sat, looking out. From the side of mountain, the world

  spread out before him like a map. He waited, his head buzzing, his heart

  in turmoil. Before long he heard the steady grinding sound of footsteps

  on gravel, and he turned to see the Dai-kvo making his way down the path

  toward him. Maati stood. He had not known the Dai-kvo had started

  walking with a cane. A servant followed at a distance, carrying a chair,

  and did not approach until the Dai-kvo signaled. Once the chair was in

  place, looking out over the same span that Maati had been considering,

  the servant retreated.

  "Interesting, isn't it?" the Dai-kvo said.

  Maati, unsure whether he meant the view or the business with the sons of

  Machi, didn't reply. The Dai-kvo looked at him, something part smile,

  part something less congenial on his lips. He drew forth two

  packets-letters sealed in wax and sewn shut. Maati took them and tucked

  them in his sleeve.

  "Gods. I'm getting old. You see that tree?" the Dai-kvo asked, pointing

  at one of the shaped pines with his cane.

  "Yes, most high."

  "There's a family of robins that lives in it. They wake me up every

  morning. I always mean to have someone break the nest, but I've never

  quite given the order."