Abraham Daniel - A Betrayal in Winter

away from his love of sloth and comfort," Amiit said with a smile. The

others greeted him and made him welcome. Otah sat by the fire and

listened. There would be nothing said here that he was not permitted to

know. Amiit's introduction had established with the subtlety of a master

Otah's rank and the level of trust to be afforded him, and no one in the

room was so thick as to misunderstand him.

The news from the north was confusing. The two surviving sons of Machi

had vanished. Neither had appeared in the other cities of the Khaiem,

going to courts and looking for support as tradition would have them do.

Nor had the streets of Machi erupted in bloodshed as their bases of

power within the city vied for advantage. The best estimates were that

the old Khai wouldn't see another winter, and even some of the houses of

the utkhaiem seemed to be preparing to offer up their sons as the new

Khai should the succession fail to deliver a single living heir.

Something very quiet was happening, and House Siyanti-like everyone else

in the world-was aching with curiosity. Otah could hear it in their

voices, could see it in the way they held their wine. Even when the

conversation shifted to the glassblowers of Cetani and the collapse of

the planned summer fair in Amnat-Tan, all minds were drawn toward Machi.

He sipped his wine.

Going north was dangerous. He knew that, and still it didn't escape him

that the Khai Machi dying by inches was his father, that these men were

the brothers he knew only as vague memories. And because of these men,

he had lost everything again. If he was going to be haunted his whole

life by the city, perhaps he should at least see it. The only thing he

risked was his life.

At length, the conversation turned to less weighty matters andwithout a

word or shift in voice or manner-the meeting was ended. Otah spoke as

much as any, laughed as much, and sang as loudly when the pipe players

joined them. But when he stretched and turned to leave, Amiit Foss was

at his side. Otah and the overseer left together, as if they had only

happened to rise at the same time, and Otah knew that no one in the

drunken, boisterous room they left had failed to notice it.

"So, it sounds as if all the interesting things in the world were

happening in Machi," Otah said as they strode back through the hallways

of the house compound. "You are still hoping to send me there?"

"I've been hoping," Amiit Foss agreed. "But I have other plans if you

have some of your own."

"I don't," Otah said, and Amiit paused. In the dim lantern light, Otah

let the old man search his face. Something passed over Amiit, the ghost

of some old sorrow, and then he took a pose of condolence.

"I thought you had come to quit the house," Amiit said.

"I'd meant to," Otah said, surprised at himself for admitting it.

Amiit gestured Otah to follow him, and together they retired to Amiit's

apartments. The rooms were large and warm, hung with tapestries and lit

by a dozen candles. Utah sat on a low seat by a table, and Amiit took a

box from his shelf. Inside were two small porcelain bowls and a white

stoppered bottle that matched them. When Amiit poured, the scent of rice

wine filled the room.

"We drink to the gods," Amiit said, raising his bowl. "May they never

drink to us."

Otah drank the wine at a gulp. It was excellent, and he felt his throat

grow warmer. He looked at the empty bowl in his fingers and nodded.

Amiit grinned.

"It was a gift from an old friend," Amiit said. "I love to drink it, but

I hate to drink alone."

"I'm pleased to be of service," Otah said as Amiit filled the bowl again.

"So things with the woman didn't work out?"

"No," Utah said.

"I'm sorry."

"It was entirely my fault."

"If it's true, you're a wise man to know it, and if not, you're a good

man for saying it. Either way."

"I think it would he ... that is, if there are any letters to be

carried, I think travel might be the best thing just now. I don't really

care to stay in Udun."

Amiit sighed and nodded.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Come to my offices in the morning. We'll arrange

something."

Afterwards, they finished the rice wine and talked of nothing

important-of old stories and old travels, the women they had known and

loved or else hated. Or both. Otah said nothing of Kiyan or the north,

and Amiit didn't press him. When Otah rose to leave, he was surprised to

find how drunk he had become. He navigated his way to his room and lay

on the couch, mustering the resolve to pull off his robes. Morning found

him still dressed. He changed robes and went down to the bathhouse,

forcing his mind back over his conversations of the night before. He was

fairly certain he had said nothing to implicate himself or make Amiit

suspect the nature of his falling out with Kiyan. He wondered what the

old man would have made of the truth, had he known it.

The packet of letters waited for him, each sewn and sealed, in a leather

bag on Amiit Foss' desk. Most were for trading houses in Machi, though

there were four that were to go to members of the utkhaiem. Otah turned

the packet in his hands. Behind him, one of the apprentices said

something softly and another giggled.

"You have time to reconsider," Amiit said. "You could go back to her on

your knees. If the letters wait another day, there's little lost. And

she might relent."

Otah tucked the letters into their pouch and slipped it into his sleeve.

"An old lover of mine once told me that everything I'd ever won, I won

by leaving," Otah said.

"The island girl?"

"Did I mention her last night?"

"At length," Amiit said, chuckling. "That particular quotation came up

twice, as I recall. There might have been a third time too. I couldn't

really say."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope I didn't tell you all my secrets," Otah

said, making a joke of his sudden unease. He didn't recall saying

anything about Maj, and it occurred to him exactly how dangerous that

night had been.

"If you had, I'd make it a point to forget them," Amiit said. "Nothing a

drunk man says on the day his woman leaves him should be held against

him. It's poor form. And this is, after all, a gentleman's trade, ne?"

Otah took a pose of agreement.

"I'll report what I find when I get back," he said, unnecessarily.

"Assuming I haven't frozen to death on the roads."

"Be careful up there, Itani. Things are uncertain when there's the scent

of a new Khai in the wind. It's interesting, and it's important, but

it's not always safe."

Otah shifted to a pose of thanks, to which his supervisor replied in

kind, his face so pleasantly unreadable that Otah genuinely didn't know

how deep the warning ran.

When Maati considered the mines-something he had rarely had occasion to

do-he had pictured great holes going deep into the earth. He had not

imagined the branchings and contortions of passages where miners

struggled to follow veins of ore, the stench of dust and damp, the yelps

and howls of the dogs that pulled the flatbottomed sledges filled with

gravel, or the darkness. He held his lantern low, as did the others

around him. 't'here was no call to raise it. Nothing more would be seen,

and the prospect of breaking it against the stone overhead was unpleasant.

""There can be places where the air goes bad, too," Cehmai said as they

turned another twisting corner. "They take birds with them because they