Abraham Daniel - A Betrayal in Winter

of jeweled silk. He was her husband, and she no longer knew him.

Daaya stepped down, glittering, and Adaut Kamau rose. If, as the

gossipmongers had told, the wasps had been meant to keep old Kamau

silent that day, this would be the moment when something more should

follow. The galleries became suddenly quiet as the old man stepped to

the stage. Even from across the hall, Idaan could see the red weal on

his face where the sting had marked him.

"I had intended," he said, "to speak in support of Ghiah Vaunani in his

urging of caution and against hasty decision. Since that time, however,

my position has changed, and I would like to invite my old, dear friend

Porsha Radaani to address the council."

With nothing more than that, old Kamau stepped down. Idaan leaned

forward, looking for the green and gray robes of the Radaani. And there,

moving between the tables, was the man striding toward the speaker's

dais. Adrah and his father were bent together, speaking swiftly and

softly. Idaan strained to hear something of what they said. She didn't

notice how tight she was holding the rail until her fingers started to

ache with it.

Radaani rose up in the speaker's pulpit, looking over the council and

the galleries for the space of a half-dozen breaths. His expression was

considering, like a man at a fish market judging the freshest catch.

Idaan felt her belly tighten. Below her and across the hall, Radaani

lifted his arms to the crowd.

"Brothers, we have come here in these solemn times to take the fate of

our city into our hands," he intoned, and his voice was rich as cream.

"We have suffered tragedy and in the spirit of our ancestors, we rise to

overcome it. No one can doubt the nobility of our intentions. And yet

the time has come to dissolve this council. There is no call to choose a

new Khai Machi when a man with legitimate claim to the chair still lives."

The noise was like a storm. Voices rose and feet stamped. On the council

floor, half the families were on their feet, the others sitting with

stunned expressions. And yet it was as if it were happening in some

other place. Idaan felt the unreality of the moment wash over her. It

was a dream. A nightmare.

"I have not stood down!" Radaani shouted. "I have not finished! Yes, an

heir lives! And he has the support of my family and my house! Who among

you will refuse the son of the Khai Machi his place? Who will side with

the traitors and killers that slaughtered his father?"

"Porsha-cha!" one of the men of the council said, loud enough to carry

over the clamor. "Explain yourself or step down! You've lost your mind!"

"I'll better that! Brothers, I give my place before you to the son of

the Khai and his one surviving heir!"

Had she thought the hall loud before? It was deafening. No one was left

seated. Bodies pressed at her hack, jostling her against the railing as

they craned and stretched for a glimpse of the man entering the chamber.

He stood tall and straight, his dark robes with their high collar

looking almost priestly. Otah Machi, the upstart, strode into the hall,

with the grace and calm of a man who owned it and every man and woman

who breathed air.

He's mad, she thought. He's gone mad to come here. They'll tear him

apart with their hands. And then she saw behind him the brown robes of a

poet-Maati Vaupathai, the envoy of the Dal-kvo. And behind him ...

Her mouth went dry and her body began to tremble. She shrieked, she

screamed, but no one could hear her over the crowd. She couldn't even

hear herself. And yet, walking at Maati's side, Cehmai looked tip. His

face was grim and calm and distant. The poets strode together behind the

upstart. And then the armsmen of Radaani and Vaunani, Kaman and Daikani

and Saya. Hardly a tenth of the families of the utkhaicm, but still a

show of power. The poets alone would have been enough.

She didn't think, couldn't recall pushing back the people around her,

she only knew her own intentions when she was over the rail and falling.

It wasn't so far to the ground-no more than the height of two men, and

yet in the roar and chaos, the drop seemed to last forever. When she

struck the floor at last, it jarred her to the hone. Her ankle bloomed

with pain. She put it aside and ran as best she could through the

stunned men of the utkhaiem. Men all about her, unable to act, unable to

move. They were like statues, frozen by their uncertainty and confusion.

She knew that she was screaming-shc could feel it in her throat, could

hear it in her cars. She sounded crazed, but that was unimportant. Her

attention was single, focused. The rage that possessed her, that lifted

her up and sped her steps by its power alone, was only for the upstart,

Otah Machi, who had taken her lover from her.

She saw Adrah and Daaya already on the floor, an armsman kneeling on

each back. "There was a blade still in Adrah's hand. And then there

before her like a fish rising to the surface of a pond was Otah Machi,

her brother. She launched herself at him, her hands reaching for him

like claws. She didn't see how the andat moved between them; perhaps it

had been waiting for her. Its wide, cold body appeared, and she collided

with it. Huge hands wrapped her own, and the wide, inhuman face bent

close to hers.

"Stop this," it said. "It won't help."

"'t'his isn't right!" she shouted, aware now that the pandemonium had

quieted, that her voice could be heard, but she could no more stop

herself now than learn to fly. "He swore he'd protect me. He swore it.

It's not right!"

"Nothing is," the andat agreed, as it pulled her aside, lifted her as if

she was still a child, and pressed her against the wall. She felt

herself sinking into it, the stone giving way to her like mud. She

fought, but the wide hands were implacable. She shrieked and kicked,

sure that the stone would close over her like water, and then she

stopped fighting. Let it kill her, let her die.

Let it end.

The hands went away, and Idaan found herself immobile, trapped in stone

that had found its solidity again. She could breathe, she could see, she

could hear. She opened her mouth to scream, to call for Cehmai. To beg.

Stone-Made-Soft put a single finger to her lips.

"It won't help," the andat said again, then turned and lumbered up

beside the speaker's pulpit where Cehmai stood waiting for it. She

didn't look at her brother as he took the pulpit, only Cehmai. He didn't

look back at her. When Utah spoke, his words cut through the air, clean

and strong as wine.

"I am Otah 1MIachi, sixth son of the Khai Machi. I have never renounced

my claim to this place; I have never killed or plotted to kill my

brothers or my father. But I know who has, and I have come here before

this council to show you what has been done, and by whom, and to claim

what is mine by right."

Idaan closed her eyes and wept, surprised to find her desolation

complicated by relief.

"I NOTICE YOU NEVER MENTIONED THE MALTS," AM1IIT SAID.

The waiting area to which the protocol servant had led them was open and

light, looking out over a garden of flowering vines. A silver howl with

water cooling fresh peaches sat on a low table. Amiit leaned against the

railing. He looked calm, but Otah could see the white at the corners of

his mouth and the small movements of his hands; Amiit's belly was as

much in knots as his own.

"There was no call," Utah said. "The families that were involved know