Abraham Daniel - A Betrayal in Winter

that Otah Machi's not dead, and that Idaan Machi's the one who arranged

her family's death."

"That's so," Cehmai agreed.

"I see. And you were the one who brought that to light?"

"That's so."

Radaani paused, his lips pursed, his fingers knotted around each other.

"Does the Dai-kvo back the upstart, then?"

"No," Maati said before Cehmai could speak. "We take no side in this. We

support the council's decision, but that doesn't mean we withhold the

truth from the utkhaiem."

"As Maati-kvo says," Cehmai agreed. "We are servants here."

"Servants with the world by its balls," Radaani said. "It's easy,

Cehmai-cha, to support a position in a side room with no one much around

to hear you. It's a harder thing to say the same words in front of the

gods and the court and the world in general. If I take this to the

council and you decide that perhaps it wasn't all quite what you've said

it was, it will go badly for me."

"I'll tell what I know," Cehmai said. "Whoever asks."

"Well," Radaani said, then more than half to himself, "Well well well."

In the pause that followed, another roll of thunder rattled the

shutters. But Porsha Radaani's smile had faded into something less

amused, more serious. We have him, Maati thought. Radaani clapped his

hands on his thighs and stood.

"I have some conversations I'll have to conduct, Maati-cha," he said.

"You understand that I'm taking a great personal risk doing this? Me and

my family both."

"And I know that Otah-kvo will appreciate that," Maati said. "In my

experience, he has always been good to his friends."

"TThat's best," Radaani said. "After this, I expect he'll have about two

of them. Just so long as he remembers what he owes me."

"He will. And so will the Kamau and the Vaunani. And I imagine a fair

number of your rival families will be getting less favorable terms from

the Galts in the future."

"Yes. That had occurred to me too."

Radaani smiled broadly and took a formal pose of leavetaking that

ineluded the room and all three of them in it-the two poets, the one

spirit. When he was gone, Maati went to the window again. Radaani was

walking fast down the street, his servants half-skipping to keep the

canopy over him. His limp was almost gone.

Maati closed the shutters.

"He's agreed?" Cehmai asked.

"As near as we can expect. He smells profit in it for himself and

disappointment for his rivals. That's the best we can offer, but I think

he's pleased enough to do the thing."

"That's good."

Maati sat in the chair Radaani had used, sighing. Cehmai leaned against

the table, his arms folded. His mouth was thin, his eyes dark. He looked

more than half ill. The andat pulled out the chair beside him and sat

with a mild, companionable expression.

"What did the Dai-kvo say?" Cehmai asked. "In the letter?"

"He said I was under no circumstances to take sides in the succession.

He repeated that I was to return to his village as soon as possible. He

seems to think that by involving myself in all this court intrigue, I

may he upsetting the utkhaiem. And then he went into a long commentary

about the andat being used in political struggle as the reason that the

Empire ate itself."

"He's not wrong," Cchmai said.

"Well, perhaps not. But it's late to undo it."

"You can blame me if you'd like," Cehmai said.

"I think not. I chose what I'd do, and I don't think I chose poorly. If

the Dai-kvo disagrees, we can have a conversation about it."

"He'll throw you out," Cchmai said.

Maati thought for a moment of his little cell at the village, of the

years spent in minor tasks at the will of the Dal-kvo and the poets se

nior to himself. Liat had asked him to leave it all a hundred times, and

he'd refused. The prospect of failure and disgrace faced him now, and he

heard her words, saw her face, and wondered why it had all seemed so

wrong when she'd said it and so clear now. Age perhaps. Experience. Some

tiny sliver of wisdom that told him that in the balance between the

world and a woman, either answer could be right.

"I'm sorry for all this, Cehmai. About Idaan. I know how hard this is

for you."

"She picked it. No one made her plot against her family."

"But you love her."

The young poet frowned now, then shrugged.

"Less now than I did two days ago," he said. "Ask again in a month. I'm

a poet, after all. There's only so much room in my life. Yes, I loved

her. I'll love someone else later. Likely someone that hasn't set

herself to kill off her relations."

"It's always like this," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Every one of them. The

first love always comes closest. I had hopes for this one. I really did."

"You'll live with the disappointment," Cehmai said.

"Yes," the andat said amiably. "There's always another first girl."

Maati laughed once, amused though it was also unbearably sad. The andat

shifted to look at him quizzically. Cehmai's hands took a pose of query.

Maati tried to find words to fit his thoughts, surprised by the sense of

peace that the prospect of his own failure brought him.

"You're who I was supposed to be, Cehmai-kvo, and you're much better at

it. I never did very well."

IDAAN LEANED FORWARD, HER HANDS ON THE RAIL. THE GALLERY BEHIND her was

full but restless, the air thick with the scent of their bodies and

perfumes. People shifted in their seats and spoke in low tones, prepared

for some new attack, and Idaan had noticed a great fashion for veils

that covered the heads and necks of men and women alike that tucked into

their robes like netting on a bed. The wasps had done their work, and

even if they were gone now, the feeling of uncertainty remained. She

took another deep breath and tried to play her role. She was the last

blood of her murdered father. She was the bride of Adrah Vaunyogi.

Looking down over the council, her part was to remind them of how

Adrah's marriage connected him to the old line of the Khaiem.

And yet she felt like nothing so much as an actor, put out to sing a

part on stage that she didn't have the range to voice. It had been so

recently that she'd stood here, inhabiting this space, owning the air

and the hall around her. Today, everything was the same-the families of

the utkhaiem arrayed at their tables, the leaves-in-wind whispering from

the galleries, the feeling of eyes turned toward her. But it wasn't

working. The air itself seemed different, and she couldn't begin to say why.

"The attack leveled against this council must not weaken us," Daaya, her

father now, half-shouted. His voice was hoarse and scratched. "We will

not be bullied! We will not be turned aside! When these vandals tried to

make mockery of the powers of the utkhaiem, we were preparing to

consider my son, the honorable Adrah Vaunyogi, as the proper man to take

the place of our lamented Khai. And to that matter we must return."

Applause filled the air, and Idaan smiled sweetly. She wondered how many

of the people now present had heard her cry out Cehmai's name in her

panic. Those that hadn't had no doubt heard it from other lips. She had

kept clear of the poet's house since then, but there hadn't been a

moment her heart hadn't longed toward it. He would understand, she told

herself. He would forgive her absence once this was all finished. All

would be well.

And yet, when Adrah looked up to her, when their gaze met, it was like

looking at a stranger. He was beautiful: his hair fresh cut, his robes