Abraham Daniel - A Betrayal in Winter

a thousand maze-like corridors running under the old city. Along the

length of the passage, men and women stood or sat, some talking, some

singing. An old man, his dog lying at his feet, sold bread and sausages

from a hand cart. The girls he'd seen in the bathhouse had been joined

by young men, joking and posing in the timeless rituals of courtship.

Stone-Made-Soft was kneeling by the wall, looking out over all of it,

silently judging what it would take to bring the roof down and bury them

all. Cehmai reached out with his will and tugged at the andat. Still

smiling, Stone-Made-Soft rose and ambled over.

"I think the one on the far left was hoping to meet you," it said,

gesturing to the knot of young men and women as it drew near. "She was

watching you all the time we were in the baths."

"Perhaps it was Baraath she was looking at," Cehmai said.

"You think so?" the andat said. "I suppose he's a decent looking man.

And many women are overcome by the romance of the librarian. No doubt

you're right."

"Don't," Cehmai said. "I don't want to play that game again."

Something like real sympathy showed in the andat's wide face. The

struggle at the back of Cehmai's mind neither worsened nor diminished as

Stone-Made-Soft's broad hand reached out to rest on his shoulder.

"Enough," it said. "You did what you had to do, and whipping yourself

now won't help you or her. Let's go meet that girl. Talk to her. We can

find someone selling sweetcakes. Otherwise we'll only go back to the

rooms and sulk away another night."

Cehmai looked over, and indeed, the girl farthest to the left-her long,

dark hair unbound, her robes well cut and the green of jadecaught his

eyes, and blushing, looked away. He had seen her before, he realized.

She was beautiful, and he did not know her name.

"Perhaps another day," he said.

"There are only so many other days," the andat said, its voice low and

gentle. "I may go on for generations, but you little men rise and fall

with the seasons. Stop biting yourself. It's been months."

"One more day. I'll bite myself for one more day at least," Cehmai said.

"Come on."

The andat sighed and dropped its hand to its side. Cehmai turned east,

walking into the dim tunnels. He felt the temptation to look back, to

see whether the girl was watching his departure and if she was, what

expression she wore. He kept his eyes on the path before him and the

moment passed.

THE KHAI MACHI HAD NO OTHER NAME NOW THAT HE HAI) TAKEN HIS FAther's

office. It had been stripped from him in formal ceremony. He had

renounced it and sworn before the gods and the Emperor that he would be

nothing beyond this trust with which he had been charged. Otah had

forced his way through the ceremony, bristling at both the waste of time

and the institutional requirement that he lie in order to preserve

etiquette. Of Itani Noygu, Otah Machi, and the Khai Machi, the last was

the one least in his heart. But he was willing to pretend to have no

other self and the utkhaiem and the priests and the people of the city

were all willing to pretend to believe him. It was all like some

incredibly long, awkward, tedious game. And so when the rare occasion

arose when he could do something real, something with consequences, he

found himself enjoying it more perhaps than it deserved.

The emissary from Galt looked as if he were trying to convince himself

he'd misunderstood.

"Most high," he said, "I came here as soon as our ambassadors sent word

that they'd been expelled. It was a long journey, and winter travel's

difficult in the north. I had hoped that we could address your concerns

and ..."

Otah took a pose that commanded silence, then sat back on the black

lacquer chair that had grown no more comfortable in the months since

he'd first taken it. He switched from speaking in the Khaiate tongue to

Galtic. It seemed, if anything, to make the man more uncomfortable.

"I appreciate that the generals and lords of Gait are so interested in

... what? Addressing my concerns? And I thank you for coming so quickly,

even when I'd made it clear that you were not particularly welcome."

"I apologize, most high, if I've given offense."

"Not at all," Otah said, smiling. "Since you've come, you can do me the

favor of explaining again to the High Council how precarious their

position is with me. The Dai-kvo has been alerted to all I've learned,

and he shares my opinion and my policy."

"But I-"

"I know the role your people played in the succession. And more than

that, I know what happened in Saraykeht. Your nation survives now on my

sufferance. If word reaches me of one more intervention in the matters

of the cities of the Khaiem or the poets or the andat, I will wipe your

people from the memory of the world."

The emissary opened his mouth and closed it again, his eyes darting

about as if there was a word written somewhere on the walls that would

open the floodgates of his diplomacy. Otah let the silence press at him.

"I don't understand, most high," he managed at last.

"Then go home," Otah said, "and repeat what I've told you to your

overseer and then to his, and keep doing so until you find someone who

does. If you reach the High Council, you'll have gone far enough."

"I'm sure if you'll just tell me what's happened to upset you, most

high, there must be something I can do to make it right."

Otah pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. For a moment, he

remembered Saraykeht-the feel of the poet's death struggles tinder his

own hand. He remembered the fires that had consumed the compound of the

Vaunyogi and the screams and cries of his sister as her husband and his

father met their ends.

"You can't make this right," he said, letting his weariness show in his

voice. "I wish that you could."

"But the contracts ... I can't go back without some agreement made, most

high. If you want me to take your message back, you have to leave me

enough credibility that anyone will hear it."

"I can't help you," Otah said. "Take the letter I've given you and go

home. Now."

As he turned and left the room, the letter in his hand sewn shut and

sealed, the Galt moved like a man newly awakened. At Otah's gesture, the

servants followed the emissary and pulled the great bronze doors closed

behind them, leaving him alone in the audience chamber. The pale silk

banners shifted in the slight breath of air. The charcoal in the iron

braziers glowed, orange within white. He pressed his hands to his eyes.

He was tired, terribly tired. And there was so much more to be done.

He heard the scrape of the servant's door behind him, heard the soft,

careful footsteps and the faintest jingling of mail. He rose and turned,

his robes shifting with a sound like sand on stone. Sinja took a pose of

greeting.

"You sent for me, most high?"

"I've just sent the Galts packing again," Otah said.

"I heard the last of it. Do you think they'll keep sending men to bow

and scrape at your feet? I was thinking how gratifying it must be, being

able to bully a whole nation of people you've never met."

"Actually, it isn't. I imagine news of it will have spread through the

city by nightfall. More stories of the Mad Khai."

"You aren't called that. Upstart's still the most common. After the

wedding, there was a week or so of calling you the shopkeeper's wife,

but I think it was too long. An insult can only sustain a certain number