Abraham Daniel: A Betrayal in Winter

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."

"You are merciful, most high."

The old man looked up at him, squinting. His lips were pressed thin, and

the lines in his face were black as charcoal. Maati stood waiting. At

length, the Dai-kvo turned away again with a sigh.

"Will you be able to do it?" he asked.

"I will do as the Dai-kvo commands," Maati said.

"Yes, I know you'll go there. But will you be able to tell me that he's

there? You know if he is behind this, they'll kill him before they go on

to each other. Are you able to bear that responsibility? Tell me now if

you aren't, and I'll find some other way. You don't have to fail again."

"I won't fail again, most high."

"Good. That's good," the Dai-kvo said and went silent. Maati waited so

long for the pose that would dismiss him that he wondered whether the

Dai-kvo had forgotten he was there, or had chosen to ignore him as an

insult. But the old man spoke, his voice low.

"How old is your son, Maati-cha?"

"Twelve, most high. But I haven't seen him in some years."

"You're angry with me for that." Maati began to take a pose of denial,

but checked himself and lowered his arms. This wasn't the time for court

politics. The Dai-kvo saw this and smiled. "You're getting wiser, my

boy. You were a fool when you were young. In itself, that's not such a

bad thing. Many men are. But you embraced your mistakes. You de fended

them against all correction. That was the wrong path, and don't think

I'm unaware of how you've paid for it."

"As you say, most high."

"I told you there was no place in a poet's life for a family. A lover

here or there, certainly. Most men are too weak to deny themselves that

much. But a wife? A child? No. There isn't room for both what they

require and what we do. And I told you that. You remember? I told you

that, and you ..

The Dai-kvo shook his head, frowning in remembered frustration. It was a

moment, Maati knew, when he could apologize. He could repent his pride

and say that the Dai-kvo had indeed known better all along. He remained

silent.

"I was right," the Dai-kvo said for him. "And now you've done half a job

as a poet and half a job as a man. Your studies are weak, and the woman

took your whelp and left. You've failed both, just as I knew you would.

I'm not condemning you for that, Maati. No man could have taken on what

you did and succeeded. But this opportunity in Machi is what will wipe

clean the slate. Do this well and it will be what you're remembered for."

"Certainly I will do my best."

"Fail at it, and there won't be a third chance. Few enough men have two."

Maati took a pose appropriate to a student receiving a lecture.

Considering him, the Dal-kvo responded with one that closed the lesson,

then raised his hand.

"Don't destroy this chance in order to spite me, Maati. Failing in this

will do me no harm, and it will destroy you. You're angry because I told

you the truth, and because what I said would happen, did. Consider while

you go north, whether that's really such a good reason to hate me."

THE OPEN WINDOW LET IN A COOT, BREEZE THAT SMELLED OF PINE AND RAIN.

Otah Mach], the sixth son of the Khai Machi, lay on the bed, listening

to the sounds of water-rain pattering on the flagstones of the

wayhouse's courtyard and the tiles of its roof, the constant hushing of

the river against its banks. A fire danced and spat in the grate, but

his bare skin was still stippled with cold. The night candle had gone

out, and he hadn't bothered to relight it. Morning would come when it came.

The door slid open and then shut. He didn't turn to look.

"You're brooding, Itani," Kiyan said, calling him by the false name he'd

chosen for himself, the only one he'd ever told her. Her voice was low

and rich and careful as a singer's. He shifted now, turning to his side.

She knelt by the grate-her skin smooth and brown, her robes the formal

cut of a woman of business, one strand of her hair fallen free. Her face

was thin-she reminded him of a fox sometimes, when a smile just touched

her mouth. She placed a fresh log on the fire as she spoke. "I half

expected you'd be asleep already."

He sighed and sketched a pose of contrition with one hand.

"Don't apologize to me," she said. "I'm as happy having you in my rooms

here as in the teahouse, but Old Mani wanted more news out of you. Or

maybe just to get you drunk enough to sing dirty songs with him. He's

missed you, you know."

"It's a hard thing, being so loved."

"Don't laugh at it. It's not a love to carry you through ages, but it's

more than some people ever manage. You'll grow into one of those pinched

old men who want free wine because they pity themselves."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of Old Mani. It's just ..."

He sighed. Kiyan closed the window and relit the night candle.

"It's just that you're brooding," she said. "And you're naked and not

under the blankets, so you're feeling that you've done something wrong

and deserve to suffer."

"Ah," Otah said. "Is that why I do this?"

"Yes," she said, untying her robes. "It is. You can't hide it from me,

Itani. You might as well come out with it."

Otah held the thought in his mind. I'm not who I've told you I am. Itani

Noygu is the name I picked for myself when I was a child. My father is

dying, and brothers I can hardly recall have started killing each other,

and I find it makes me sad. He wondered what Kiyan would say to that.

She prided herself on knowing him-on knowing people and how their minds

worked. And yet he didn't think this was something she'd already have

guessed.

Naked, she lay beside him, pulling thick blankets up over them both.

"Did you find another woman in Chaburi-Tan?" she asked, halfteasing. But

only half. "Some young dancing girl who stole your heart, or some other