The andat frowned and shook its massive head.
"I don't understand."
"If I die," Maati said, forcing himself to speak above a whisper, "you
have to tell Cehmai. It isn't Otah-kvo that did this. There's someone else."
The chamber was laid out like a temple or a theater. On the long,
sloping floor, representatives of all the high families sat on low
stools or cushions. Beyond them sat the emissaries of the trading
houses, the people of the city, and past them rank after rank of
servants and slaves. The air was rich with the smells of incense and
living bodies. Idaan looked out over the throng, though she knew proper
form called for her gaze to remain downcast. Across the dais from her,
Adrah knelt, his posture mirroring hers, except that his head was held
high. He was, after all, a man. His robes were deep red and woven gold,
his hair swept back and tied with bands of gold and iron like a child of
the Empire. He had never looked more handsome. Her lover. Her husband.
She considered him as she might a fine piece of metalwork or a
well-rendered drawing. As a likeness of himself.
His father sat beside him on a bench, dressed in jewels and rich cloth.
Daaya Vaunyogi was beaming with pride, but Idaan could see the unease in
the way he held himself. The others would sec only the patriarch of one
high family marrying his son into the blood of the Khaiem-it was reason
enough for excitement. Of all the people there, only Idaan would also
see a traitor against his city, forced to sit before the man whose sons
he conspired to slaughter and act as if his pet assassin was not locked
in a room with armsmen barring the way, his intended victim alive. Idaan
forced herself not to smirk at his weakness.
Her father spoke. His voice was thick and phlegmy, and his hands
trembled so badly that he took no formal poses.
"I have accepted a petition from House Vaunyogi. They propose that the
son of their flesh, Adrah, and the daughter of my blood, Idaan, be joined."
He waited while the appointed whisperers repeated the words, the hall
filled, it seemed, with the sound of a breeze. Idaan let her eyes close
for a long moment, and opened them again when he continued.
"This proposal pleases me," her father said. "And I lay it before the
city. If there is cause that this petition he refused, I would know of
it now.
The whisperers dutifully passed this new statement through the hall as
well. There was a cough from nearby, as if in preparation to speak.
Idaan looked over. There in the first rank of cushions sat Cehmai and
his andat. Both of them were smiling pleasantly, but Cehmai's eyes were
on hers, his hands in a pose of offering. It was the same pose he might
have used to ask if she wanted some of the wine he was drinking or a lap
blanket on a cold night. Here, now, it was a deeper thing. Would you
like me to stop this? Idaan could not reply. No one was looking at
Cehmai, and half the eyes in the chamber were on her. She looked down
instead, as a proper girl would. She saw the movement in the corner of
her eye when the poet lowered his hands.
"Very well," her father said. "Adrah Vaunyogi, come here before me."
Idaan did not look up as Adrah stood and walked with slow, practiced
steps until he stood before the Khai's chair. He knelt again, with his
head bowed, his hands in a pose of gratitude and submission. The Khai,
despite the grayness in his skin and the hollows in his cheeks, held
himself perfectly, and when he did move, the weakness did not undo the
grace of a lifetime's study. He put a hand on the boy's head.
"Most high, I place myself before you as a man before his elder," Adrah
said, his voice carrying the ritual phrases through the hall. Even with
his hack turned, the whisperers had little need to speak. "I place
myself before you and ask your permission. I would take Idaan, your
blood issue, to be my wife. If it does not please you, please only say
so, and accept my apology."
"I am not displeased," her father said.
"Will you grant me this, most high?"
Idaan waited to hear her father accept, to hear the ritual complete
itself. The silence stretched, profound and horrible. Idaan felt her
heart begin to race, fear rising up in her blood. Something had
happened; Oshai had broken. Idaan looked up, prepared to see armsmen
descending upon them. But instead, she saw her father bent close to
Adrah-so close their foreheads almost touched. There were tears on the
sunken cheeks. The formal reserve and dignity was gone. The Khai was
gone. All that remained was a desperately ill man in robes too gaudy for
a sick house.
"Will you make her happy? I would have one of my children be happy."
Adrah's mouth opened and shut like a fish pulled from the river. Idaan
closed her eyes, but she could not stop her ears.
"I ... most high, I will do ... Yes. I will."
Idaan felt her own tears forcing their way into her eyes like traitors.
She hit her lip until she tasted blood.
"Let it be known," her father said, "that I have authorized this match.
Let the blood of the Khai Maehi enter again into House Vaunyogi. And let
all who honor the Khaiem respect this transfer and join in our
celebration. The ceremony shall be held in thirty-four days, on the
opening of summer."
The whisperers began, but the hush of their voices was quickly drowned
out by cheering and applause. Idaan raised her head and smiled as if the
smears on her cheeks were from joy. Every man and woman in the chamber
had risen. She turned to them and took a pose of thanks, and then to
Adrah and his father, and then, finally, to her own. He was still
weeping-a show of weakness that the gossips and hackbiters of the court
would be chewing over for days. But his smile was so genuine, so
hopeful, that Idaan could do nothing but love him and taste ashes.
"Thank you, most high," she said. He bowed his head, as if honoring her.
The Khai Nlachi left the dais first, attended by servants who lifted him
into his litter and others who bore him away. "I 'hen Idaan herself
retreated. The others would escape according to the status of their
families and their standing within them. It would be a hand and a half
before the chamber was completely empty. Idaan strode along white marble
corridors to a retiring room, sent away her servants, locked the door
and sobbed until her heart was empty again. Then she washed her face in
cool water from her basin, arrayed her kohl and blush, whitener and lip
rouge before a mirror and carefully made a mask of her skin.
There would be talk, of course. Even without her father's unseemly
display of humanity-and she hated them all for the laughter and
amusement that would occasion-there would be enough to pick apart. The
strength of Adrah's voice would be commented on. The way in which he