or go farther and sleep in the open, Otah ran his eyes over the windows
and walked around to the back, looking for all the signs Kiyan had
taught him to know whether the keeper was working with robbers or
keeping an unsafe kitchen. The house met all of her best marks. It
seemed safe.
By the time he'd returned to the carts, his companions had decided to
stay. After Otah had helped stable the horses, they shifted the carts
into a locked courtyard. The caravan's leader haggled with the keeper
about the rooms and came to an agreement that Otah privately thought
gave the keep the better half. Otah made his way up two flights of
stairs to the room he was to share with five armsmen, two drivers, and
the old man. He curled himself up in a corner on the floor. It was too
small a room, and one of the drivers snored badly. A little sleep when
things were quiet would only make the next day easier.
He woke in darkness to the sound of music-a drum throbbed and a flute
sighed. A man's voice and a woman's moved in rough harmony. He wiped his
eyes with the sleeve of his robe and went down to the main room. The
members of his 'van were all there and half a dozen other men besides.
The air smelled of hot wine and roast lamb, pine trees and smoke. Otah
sat at a rough, worn table beside one of the drivers and watched.
The singer was the keep himself, a pot-bellied man with a nose that had
been broken and badly set. He drew the deep heat from a skin and
earthenware drum as he sang. His wife was shapely as a potato with an
ugly face and a missing eye tooth, but their voices were well suited and
their affection for each other forgave them much. Otah found himself
tapping his fingertips against the table to match the drumbeats.
His mind went back to Kiyan, and the nights of music and stories and
gossip he had spent in her wayhouse, far away to the south. He wondered
what she was doing tonight, what music filled the warm air and competed
with the murmur of the river.
When the last note had faded to silence, the crowd applauded, yelped,
and howled their appreciation. Otah made his way to the singer-he was
shorter than Otah had thought-and took his hand. The keeper beamed and
blushed when Otah told him how good the music had been.
"We've had a few years practice, and there's only so much to do when the
days are short," the keep said. "The winter choirs in Machi make us
sound like street beggars."
Otah smiled, regret pulling at him that he would never hear those songs,
and a moment later he heard his name being spoken.
"Itani Noygu's what he was calling himself," one of the merchants said.
"Played a courier for House Siyanti."
"I think I met him," a man said whom Otah had never met. "I knew there
was something odd about the man."
"And the poet ... the one that had his belly opened for him? He's
picking the other Siyanti men apart like they were baked fish. The
upstart has to wish that job had been done right the first time."
"Sounds as if I've missed something," Otah said, putting on his most
charming smile. "What's this about a poet's belly?"
The merchant frowned at the interruption until Otah motioned to the
keep's wife and bought bowls of hot wine for the table. After that, the
gossip flowed more freely.
Maati Vaupathai had been attacked, and the common wisdom held that Otah
had arranged it. The most likely version was that the upstart had been
passing as a courier, but others said that he had made his way into the
palaces dressed as a servant or a meat seller. There was no question,
though, that the Khai had sent out runners to all the winter cities
asking for the couriers and overseers of House Siyanti to attend him at
court. Amiit Foss, the man who'd been the upstart's overseer in tldun,
was being summoned in particular. It wasn't clear yet whether Siyanti
had knowingly backed the Otah Machi, but if they had, it would mean the
end of their expansion into the north. Even if they hadn't, the house
would suffer.
"And they're sure he was the one who had the poet killed?" Otah asked,
using all the skill the gentleman's trade had taught him to hide his
deepening despair and disgust.
"It seems they were in Saraykeht together, this poet and the upstart.
That was just before Saraykeht fell."
The implications of that hung over the room. Perhaps Otah Machi had
somehow been involved with the death of Heshai, the poet of Saraykeht.
Who knew what depravity the sixth son of the Khai Machi might sink to?
It was a ghost story for them; a tale to pass a night on the road; a
sport to follow.
Otah remembered the old, frog-mouthed poet, remembered his kindness and
his weakness and his strength. He remembered the regret and the respect
and the horrible complicity he'd felt in killing him, all those years
ago. It had been so complicated, then. Now, they said it so simply and
spoke as if they understood.
"There's rumor of a woman, too. They say he had a lover in Udun."
"If he was a courier, he's likely got a woman in half the cities of the
Khaiem. The gods know I would."
"No," the merchant said, shaking his head. He was more than half drunk.
"No, they were very clear. All the Siyanti men say he had a lover in
Udun and never took another. Loved her like the world, they said. But
she left him for another man. I say it's that turned him evil. Love
turns on you like ... like milk."
"Gentlemen," the keep's wife said, her voice powerful enough to cut
through any conversation. "It's late, and I'm not sleeping until these
rooms are cleaned, so get you all to bed. I'll have bread and honey for
you at sunrise."
The guests slurped down the last of the wine, ate the last mouthfuls of
dried cherries and fresh cheese, and made their various ways toward
their various beds. Otah walked down the inner stairs to the stables and
the goat yard, then out through a side door and into the darkness. His
body felt like he'd just run a race, or else like he was about to.
Kiyan. Kiyan and the wayhouse her father had run. Old Mani. He had set
the dogs on them, and that he hadn't intended to would count for nothing
if his brothers found her. Whatever happened, whatever they did, it
would be his fault.
He found a tall tree and sat with his back against it, looking out at
the stars nearest the horizon. The air had the bite of cold in it.
Winter never left this place. It made a little room for summer, but it
never left. He thought of writing her a letter, of warning her. It would
never reach her in time. It was ten days walk back to Machi, six days
forward to Cetani, and his brothers' forces would already be on the road
south. He could send to Amiit Foss, beg his old overseer to take Kiyan
in, to protect her. But there too, word would reach him too late.
Despair settled into his belly, too deep for tears. He was destroying