If it wasn't Otah Machi who had engineered all this bloodletting, then
some other viper was in the city, and the prospect of Adrah Vaun yogi
taking the prize away by marrying Idaan and wooing the poets would drive
the killer mad. And even if it was Otah Machi, he might still hope to
take his father's place. Adrah's rise would threaten that claim as well.
"You're thinking too hard," the andat said.
"Thinking never hurt anyone."
"So you've all said," the andat sighed.
She wasn't at the ceremony. She wasn't at her quarters. Cehmai and
Stone-Made-Soft walked together through the gardens and pavilions, the
courtyards and halls and passages. Mourning didn't fill the streets and
towers the way celebration had. The dry music of the funeral drums
wasn't taken up in the teahouses or gardens. Only the pillar of smoke
blotting out the stars stood testament to the ceremony. 'twice, Cehmai
took them past his own quarters, hoping that Idaan might be there
waiting for him, but without effect. She had vanished from the city like
a bird flying up into darkness.
His OLD NOTES WERE GONE, I?F'I' IN A PACKET IN HIS ROOMS. KAIIN AND
Danat were forgotten, and instead, Maati had fresh papers spread over
the library table. Lists of the houses of the utkhaicm that might
possible succeed in a bid to become the next Khai. Beside them, a fresh
ink brick, a pen with a new bronze nib, and a pot of tea that smelled
rich, fresh cut, and green. Summer tea in the winter cities. Maati
poured himself a bowl, then blew across the pale surface, his eyes going
over the names again.
According to Baarath, who had accepted his second apology with a grace
that had surprised him, the most likely was Kamau-a family that traced
its bloodline back to the Second Empire. They had the wealth and the
prestige. And, most important, an unmarried son in his twenties who was
well-respected and active in the court. "Then the Vaunani, less wealthy,
less prestigious, but more ruthless. Or possibly the Radaani, who had
spent generations putting their hands into the import and export trade
until almost every transaction in the city fed their coffers. They were
the richest of the utkhaiem, but apparently unable to father males.
There were seventeen daughters, and the only candidates for the Khai's
chair were the head of the house, his son presently overseeing a trading
venture in Yalakeht, and a six-year-old grandson.
And then there were the Vaunyogi. Adrah Vaunyogi was a decent candidate,
largely because he was young and virile, and about to be married to
Idaan Machi. But the rumors held that the family was underfunded and not
as well connected in court. Maati sipped his tea and considered whether
to leave them on his list. One of these housesmost likely one of these,
though there were certainly other possibilities-had engineered the
murder of the Khai Machi. They had placed the blame on Otah. They had
spirited him away, and once the mourning was finished with ...
Once the mourning was finished, the city would attend the wedding of
Adrah Vaunyogi to Idaan. No, no, lie would keep the Vaunyogi on his
list. It was such a convenient match, and the timing so apt.
Others, of course, put the crimes down to Otah-kvo. A dozen hunting
packs had gone out in the four days since the bloody morning that killed
the Khai and Danat both. The utkhaiem were searching the low towns for
Otah and those who had aided his escape, but so far no one had
succeeded. It was Maati's task now to solve the puzzle before they found
him. He wondered how many of them had guessed that he alone in the city
was working to destroy all their chances. If someone else had done these
things ... if he could show it ... Otah would still be able to take his
father's place. He would become Khai Machi.
And what, Maati wondered, would Liat think of that, once she heard of
it? He imagined her cursing her ill judgment in losing the ruler of a
city and gaining half a poet who hadn't proved worth keeping.
"Maati," Baarath said.
Maati jumped, startled, and spilled a few drops of tea over his papers.
Ink swirled into the pale green as he blotted them with a cloth. Baarath
clicked his teeth and hurried over to help.
"My fault," the librarian said. "I thought you had noticed me. You were
scowling, after all."
Maati didn't know whether to laugh at that, so he only took a pose of
gratitude as Baarath blew across the still damp pages. The damage was
minor. Even where the ink had smudged, he knew what he had meant.
Baarath fumbled in his sleeve and drew out a letter, its edges sewn in
green silk.
"It's just come for you," he said. "The I)ai-kvo, I think?"
Maati took it. The last he had reported, Otah had been found and turned
over to the Khai Machi. It was a faster response than he had ex peered.
He turned the letter over, looking at the familiar handwriting that
formed his name. Baarath sat across the table from him, smiling as if he
were, of course, welcome, and waiting to see what the message said. It
was one of the little rudenesses to which the librarian seemed to feel
himself entitled since Nlaati's apology. Maati had the uncomfortable
feeling Baarath thought they were becoming friends.
He tore the paper at the sewn scams, pulled the thread free, and
unfolded it. The chop was clearly the Dai-kvo's own. It began with the
traditional forms and etiquette. Only at the end of the first page did
the matter become specific to the situation at hand.
ihith Otah discovered and given over to the Khai, your work in Machi is
completed. Your suggestion that he be accepted again as a poet is, of
course, impossible but the sentiment is commendable. I am quite pleased
with you, and trust that this will mark a change in your work. %here are
many tasks that a man in your position might take on to the benefit of
all-we shall discuss these opportunities upon your return.
The critical issue now is that you withdraw, from Mllachi. Me have
performed our service to the Khai, and your continued presence would
only serve to draw attention to the fact that he and whichever of his
sons eventually takes his place were unable to discover the plot without
aid. It is dangerous for the poets to involve themselves with the
politics of the courts.
For this reason, I now recall you to my side. You are to announce that
you have found the citations in the library that I had desired, and must
now return them to me. I will expect you within five weeks....
It continued, though Maati did not. Baarath smiled and leaned forward in
obvious interest as Nlaati tucked the letter into his own sleeve. After
a moment's silence, Baarath frowned.
"Fine," he said. "If it's the sort of thing you have to keep to
yourself, I can certainly respect that."
"I knew you could, Baarath-cha. You're a man of great discretion."
"You needn't flatter me. I know my proper place. I only thought you
might want someone to speak with. In case there were questions that
someone with my knowledge of the court could answer for you."
"No," Maati said, taking a pose that offered thanks. "It's on another
matter entirely."
Maati sat with a pleasant, empty expression until Baarath huffed, stood,
took a pose of leave-taking, and walked deeper into the galleries of the
library. Maati turned hack to his notes, but his mind would not stay
focused on them. After half a hand of frustration and distress, he
packed them quietly into his sleeve and took himself away.
The sun shone bright and clear, but to the west, huge clouds rose white
and proud into the highest reaches of the sky. There would be storms
later-if not today, in the summer weeks to come. Maati imagined he could
smell the rain in the air. He walked toward his rooms, and then past
them and into a walled garden. The cherry trees had lost their flowers,
the fruits forming and swelling toward ripeness. Netting covered the
wide branches like a bed, keeping the birds from stealing the harvest.
Maati walked in the dappled shade. The pangs from his belly were fewer
now and farther between. The wounds were nearly healed.
It would be easiest, of course, to do as he was told. The Dai-kvo had
taken him back into his good graces, and the fact that things had gone
awry since his last report could in no way be considered his
responsibility. He had discovered Otah, and if it was through no skill
of his own, that didn't change the result. He had given Otah over to the
Khai. Everything past that was court politics; even the murder of the
Khai was nothing the [)ai-kvo would want to become involved with.
Maati could leave now with honor and let the utkhaiem follow his
investigations or ignore them. The worst that would happen was that Otah
would be found and slaughtered for something he had not done and an evil
man would become the Khai Machi. It wouldn't be the first time in the
world that an innocent had suffered or that murder had been rewarded.
The sun would still rise, winter would still become spring. And Maati
would be restored to something like his right place among the poets. He
might even be set over the school, set to teach boys like himself the
lessons that he and Otah-kvo and Heshai-kvo and Cehmai had all learned.
It would be something worth taking pride in.
So why was it, he wondered, that he would not do as he was told? Why was
the prospect of leaving and accepting the rewards he had dreamed of less
appealing than staying, risking the Dai-kvo's displeasure, and
discovering what had truly happened to the Khai Machi? It wasn't love of
justice. It was more personal than that.
Maati paused, closed his eyes, and considered the roiling anger in his
breast. It was a familiar feeling, like an old companion or an illness
so protracted it has become indistinguishable from health. He couldn't
say who he was angry with or why the banked rage demanded that he follow
his own judgment over anyone else's. He couldn't even say what he hoped
he would find.
He plucked the Dai-kvo's letter from his sleeve, read it again slowly
from start to finish, and began to mentally compose his reply.
Most high Dai-kvo, I hope you will forgive me, but the situation in
Machi is such that ...
Most high Dai-kvo, I am sure that, had you known the turns of event
since my last report ...
Most high, I must respectfully ...
Most high Dai-kvo, what have you ever done for me that I should do
anything you say? Why do I agree to be your creature when that agreement
has only ever caused inc pain and loss, and you still instruct me to
turn my hack on the people I care for most?
Most high Dai-kvo, I have fed your last letter to pigs....
"Maati-kvo!"
Maati opened his eyes and turned. Cehmai, who had been running toward
him, stopped short. Maati thought he saw fear in the boy's expression
and wondered for a moment what Cehmai had seen in his face to inspire
it. Maati took a pose that invited him to speak.
"Otah," Cehmai said. "'They've found him."
Too late, then, Maati thought. I've been too slow and come too late.
"Where?" he asked.
"In the river. There's a bend down near one of the low towns. They found
his body, and a man in leather armor. One of the men who helped him
escape, or that's what they've guessed. The Master of Tides is having
them brought to the Khai's physicians. I told him that you had seen Otah
most recently. You would be able to confirm it's really him."
Maati sighed and watched a sparrow try to land on the branch of a cherry
tree. The netting confused it, and the bird pecked at the lines that
barred it from the fruit just growing sweet. Nlaati smiled in sympathy.
"Let's go, then," he said.
There was a crowd in the courtyard outside the physician's apartments.
Armsmen wearing mourning robes barred most of the onlookers but parted
when Maati and Cehmai arrived. The physician's workroom was wide as a
kitchen, huge slate tables in the center of the room and thick incense
billowing from a copper brazier. The bodies were laid out naked on their
bellies-one thick and well-muscled with a heaped pile of black leather
on the table beside it, the other thinner with what might have been the
robes of a prisoner or cleaning rags clinging to its back. The Master of
Tides-a thin man named Saani Vaanga-and the Khai's chief physician were
talking passionately, but stopped when they saw the poets.
The Master of Tides took a pose that offered service.