Daniel Abraham - THE

taken place in the finest of meeting rooms in the high palaces instead

found its place in a third-rate wayhouse, free of ceremony or ritual or

even well-brewed tea. Maati felt himself trembling. He had the powerful

physical memory of being a boy at the school, holding himself still and

waiting for Tahi-kvo's lacquer rod to split his skin.

"Maati Vaupathai," the Emperor said.

"Most High," Maati replied, crossing his arms.

"I suppose I should start by asking why I shouldn't have you killed

where you stand."

Eiah, beside him, twitched as if wasp-stung. Maati stared at his old

friend, his old enemy, and all the conciliatory words that he had

imagined in the last day vanished like a snuffed candle. There was rage

in Otah's stance, and Maati found himself more than matching it.

"How dare you?" Maati said, his voice little more than a hiss. "How dare

you? I thought, coming here, I would at least be treated with respect. I

thought at the very least, that. And instead you stand me up like a

common thief in a low-town courtroom and have me defend my life? Justify

my right to breathe to the man who killed my son?"

"Nayiit has nothing to do with this," Otah said. "Sinja Ajutani, to

contrast, died because of you. Every Galt who has starved since you

exacted this sick, petty revenge is dead because of you. Every-"

"Nayiit has everything to do with this. Your sick love of all things

Galtic has everything to do with it. Your disloyalty to the women you

claim to rule. Your perfect calm in making me an outcast living in

gutters for something you were just as guilty of. You are a hypocrite

and a liar in everything you've done. I owe you nothing, Otah-kvo. Nothing!"

Otah was shouting something, but Maati's ears were rushing with blood

and raw anger. He saw the armsmen shift forward, blades at the ready,

but Maati was far past caring. Every injustice, every slight, every

cupful of pent-up outrage spilled out, all made worse by the fact that

Otah-self-righteous, entitled, and arrogant-was so busy shouting back

that he wasn't hearing a word of what Maati was saying.

When he noticed through his rage that a third voice had entered the

fray, he couldn't say how long it had been going.

"I said stop!" the Galt shouted again. "Stop it! Both of you!"

Maati turned to the girl, a sneer on his lip, but he was having a hard

time catching his breath. Otah also was now silent, his imperial face

flushed bright red. Maati felt the urge to offer up an obscene gesture,

but he restrained himself. The girl stood in the space between the two,

her hands outstretched. Danat stepped to her side. If anything, her

anger appeared as high as either of her elders', but she was able to

speak coherently.

"Gods," she said. "Is this really what we've been doing? Someone please

tell me that the world is on its knees over something more than two old

men chewing over quarrels from their boyhood."

"This is much, much more than that," Otah said. His voice, though

severe, had lost some of its certainty.

"I wouldn't know from listening to that display," Idaan said. "Ana-cha

has more sense than you on this, brother. Listen to her."

Otah had calmed down enough to look merely peeved. Maati held his fist

to his chest, but his heart was slowing to its usual pace. Nothing had

happened. He was fine. Otah, across from him, took a pose appropriate to

the beginning of a short break in a negotiation. His jaw was tight and

his stance only civil. Maati replied with one that accepted the

proposal. He wanted to sit at Eiah's side, to talk with her about what

to do next and how to go about it. It would have been a provocation,

though, so instead, Maati retreated to the door leading out into the

cold, black courtyard and the clean night air.

It had been a mistake. Otah was too proud and self-centered to help

them. He was too wrapped up in anger that the world hadn't followed his

one and only holy and anointed plan. They should have gone on to Utani,

found someone in the utkhaiem who would support them. Or they should

have gone after Vanjit themselves.

They should have done anything but this.

Voices came from behind him. Danat's, Otah's, Eiah's. They sounded

tense, but they weren't shouting. Maati pressed his hands into their

opposite sleeves and watched his breath steam like a soup kettle. He

wondered where Vanjit was and how she was keeping warm. It seemed the

woman had become two different people in his mind-one, the girl who had

come to him in despair and been given hope again, the other a halfmad

poet he'd loosed on the world. The impulses to kill her and to see to

her care shouldn't have been able to exist in him at the same time, and

yet there they were. He prayed she was dead, and he hoped she was well.

Between that and seeing Otah again, his head was buzzing like a hive.

"We've reached a conclusion," Idaan said from behind him. He turned. She

was standing in the doorway, blocking the light. His belly itched where

her assassin had stabbed him all those years before.

"Should I be grateful?" Maati asked. Idaan ignored the jab.

"If you and Otah can't play gently, and it's clear as the moon that you

can't, we're going to go through channels. Eiah's talking with Danat.

They sent me to speak with you."

"Ah, because we're such excellent friends?"

"Say it's because our relationship is simpler," Idaan said. Her voice

took on the texture of cast iron. "Tell me what happened."

Maati leaned against the rough wall and shook his head. He'd become too

excited, and now that he was calming, it was coming out in an urge to

weep. He would not under any circumstances allow that in front of Idaan.

Idaan, who'd tried to have Otah killed and had now become his traveling

companion. What more did anyone need to know to understand how far Otah

had fallen?

"Maati," Idaan said, her voice still hard. "Now."

He began with leaving the school, Eiah's opinion of his health, Vanjit's

escalating unreliability. The story took on a rhythm as he told it, the

words putting themselves in order as if he had practiced it all before.

Idaan didn't speak, but her listening was intense, drawing detail from

him almost against his will.

It was as if he were telling himself what had happened, offering a kind

of confession to the empty night, Idaan Machi-of all people in the

world, Idaan Machi-as his intercessor.

He reached the end-Vanjit's discovery of the poison, her escape, his

decision to find help. Somewhere in the course of things, he'd let

himself slip to the ground, sitting with his legs stuck out before him

and the stone paving leaching the warmth from his body. Idaan squatted

beside him. He imagined that the manner of her listening had softened,

as if silences could differ like speech.

"I see," she said. "Well. Who'd have thought this would become worse?"

"You led him to us," Maati said.

"I did my best," Idaan agreed. "It's been years since I put my hand to

this kind of work. I'm out of practice, but I did what I could."

"All to regain his imperial favor," Maati said. "I would never have

guessed that you'd become his toady."

"Actually, I started it to protect Cehmai," Idaan said as if he had

offered her no insult. "With you stirring up the mud, I was afraid for

him. I wanted Otah to know that he wasn't part of it. And then, once I

was at the court ... well, I had amends to make to Danat."