Abraham Daniel - A Betrayal in Winter

were numb. A litter waited for them, twelve strong men prepared to carry

the three of them back to the palaces. Maati stopped for a moment to

wring the water from the hem of his robes and to appreciate having

nothing but the wide sky above him.

"Why was it the Dai-kvo sent you?" Cehmai asked as they climbed into the

wooden litter. His voice was almost innocent, but even the andat was

looking at Maati oddly.

"There are suggestions that the library may have some old references

that the Dai-kvo lacks. Things that touch on the grammars of the first

poets."

"Ah," Cehmai said. The litter lurched and rose, swaying slightly as the

servants bore them away hack to the palaces. "And nothing more than that?"

"Of course not," Maati said. "What more could there he?"

He knew that he was convincing no one. And that was likely a fine thing.

Maati had spent his first days in Machi learning the city, the courts,

the teahouses. The Khai's daughter had introduced him to the gatherings

of the younger generation of the utkhaiem as the poet Cehmai had to the

elder. Maati had spent each night walking a different quarter of the

city, wrapped in thick wool robes with close hoods against the vicious

cold of the spring air. He had learned the intrigues of the court: which

houses were vying for marriages to which cities, who was likely to be

extorting favors for whom over what sorts of indiscretion, all the petty

wars of a family of a thousand children.

He had used the opportunities to spread the name of Irani Noygu- saying

only that he was an old friend Maati had heard might be in the city,

whom he would very much like to see. There was no way to say that it was

the name Otah Machi had invented for himself in Saraykeht, and even if

there had been, Maati would likely not have done so. He had come to

realize exactly how little he knew what he ought to do.

He had been sent because he knew Otah, knew how his old friend's mind

worked, would recognize him should they meet. They were advantages,

Maati supposed, but it was hard to weigh them against his inexperience.

There was little enough to learn of making discreet inquiries when your

life was spent in the small tasks of the Dai-kvo's village. An overseer

of a trading house would have been better suited to the task. A

negotiator, or a courier. Liat would have been better, the woman he had

once loved, who had once loved him. Liat, mother of the boy Nayiit, whom

Maati had held as a babe and loved more than water or air. Liat, who had

been Otah's lover as well.

For the thousandth time, Maati put that thought aside.

When they reached the palaces, Maati again thanked Cehmai for taking the

time from his work to accompany him, and Cehmai-still with the

half-certain stance of a dog hearing an unfamiliar soundassured him that

he'd been pleased to do so. Maati watched the slight young man and his

thick-framed andat walk away across the flagstones of the courtyard.

Their hems were black and sodden, ruining the drape of the robes. Much

like his own, he knew.

Thankfully, his own apartments were warm. He stripped off his robes,

leaving them in a lump for the servants to remove to a launderer, and

replaced them with the thickest he had-lamb's wool and heavy leather

with a thin cotton lining. It was the sort that natives of Machi wore in

deep winter, but Maati pulled it close about him, vowing to use it

whenever he went out, whatever the others might think of him. His boots

thrown into a corner, he stretched his pale, numb feet almost into the

fire grate and shuddered. He would have to go to the wayhouse where

Biitrah Machi had died. The owners there had spoken to the officers of

the utkhaiem, of course. They had told their tale of the moonfaced man

who had come with letters of introduction, worked in their kitchens, and

been ready to take over for a night when the overseers all came down

ill. Still, he could not be sure there was nothing more to know unless

he made his visit. Some other day, when he could feel his toes.

The summons came to him when the sun-red and angry-was just preparing to

slide behind the mountains to the west. Maati pulled on thick, warm

boots of soft leather, added his brown poet's robes over the warmer

ones, and let himself be led to the Khai Machi's private chambers. He

passed through several rooms on his way-a hall of worked marble the

color of honey with a fountain running through it like a creek, a

meeting chamber large enough to hold two dozen at a single table, then a

smaller corridor that led to chambers of a more human size. Ahead of

him, a woman passed from one side of the corridor to the other leaving

the impression of night-black hair, warm brown skin, and robes the

yellow of sunrise. One of the wives, Maati knew, of a man who had several.

At last, the servant slid open a door of carved rosewood, and Maati

stepped into a room hardly larger than his own bedroom. The old man sat

on a couch, his feet toward the fire that burned in the grate. His robes

were lush, the silks seeming to take up the firelight and dance with it.

They seemed more alive than his flesh. Slowly, the Khai raised a clay

pipe to his mouth and puffed on it thoughtfully. The smoke smelled rich

and sweet as a cane field on fire.

Maati took a pose of greeting as formal as high court. The Khai Machi

raised an ancient eyebrow and only smiled. With the stem of the pipe, he

pointed to the couch opposite him and nodded to Maati that he should sit.

"They make me smoke this," the Khai said. "Whenever my belly troubles

me, they say. I tell them they might as well make it air, burn it by the

bushel in all the firekeeper's kilns, but they only laugh as if it were

wit, and I play along."

"Yes, most high."

There was a long pause as the Khai contemplated the flames. Maati

waited, uncertain. He noticed the catch in the Khai Machi's breath, as

if it pained him. He had not noticed it before.

"Your search for my outlaw son," the Khai said. "It is going well?"

"It is early yet, most high. I have made myself visible. I have let it

be known that I am looking into the death of your son."

"You still expect Otah to come to you?"

"Yes."

"And if he does not?"

"Then it will take more time, most high. But I will find him."

The old man nodded, then exhaled a plume of pale smoke. He took a pose

of gratitude, his wasted hands holding the position with the grace of a

lifetime's practice.

"His mother was a good woman. I miss her. Iyrah, her name was. She gave

me Idaan too. She was glad to have a child of her own that she could keep."

Maati thought he saw the old man's eyes glisten for a moment, lost as he

was in old memories of which Maati could only guess the substance. Then

the Khai sighed.

"Idaan," the Khai said. "She's treated you gently?"

"She's been nothing but kind," Maati said, "and very generous with her

time."

The Khai shook his head, smiling more to himself than his audience.

"That's good. She was always unpredictable. Age has calmed her, I think.

There was a time she would study outrages the way most girls study face

paints and sandals. Always sneaking puppies into court or stealing

dresses she fancied from her little friends. She relied on me to keep

her safe, however far she flew," he said, smiling fondly. "A mischievous

girl, my daughter, but good-hearted. I'm proud of her."

Then he sobered.