Abraham Daniel - A Betrayal in Winter

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