"He's agreed?" Cehmai asked.
"As near as we can expect. He smells profit in it for himself and
disappointment for his rivals. That's the best we can offer, but I think
he's pleased enough to do the thing."
"That's good."
Maati sat in the chair Radaani had used, sighing. Cehmai leaned against
the table, his arms folded. His mouth was thin, his eyes dark. He looked
more than half ill. The andat pulled out the chair beside him and sat
with a mild, companionable expression.
"What did the Dai-kvo say?" Cehmai asked. "In the letter?"
"He said I was under no circumstances to take sides in the succession.
He repeated that I was to return to his village as soon as possible. He
seems to think that by involving myself in all this court intrigue, I
may he upsetting the utkhaiem. And then he went into a long commentary
about the andat being used in political struggle as the reason that the
Empire ate itself."
"He's not wrong," Cchmai said.
"Well, perhaps not. But it's late to undo it."
"You can blame me if you'd like," Cehmai said.
"I think not. I chose what I'd do, and I don't think I chose poorly. If
the Dai-kvo disagrees, we can have a conversation about it."
"He'll throw you out," Cchmai said.
Maati thought for a moment of his little cell at the village, of the
years spent in minor tasks at the will of the Dal-kvo and the poets se
nior to himself. Liat had asked him to leave it all a hundred times, and
he'd refused. The prospect of failure and disgrace faced him now, and he
heard her words, saw her face, and wondered why it had all seemed so
wrong when she'd said it and so clear now. Age perhaps. Experience. Some
tiny sliver of wisdom that told him that in the balance between the
world and a woman, either answer could be right.
"I'm sorry for all this, Cehmai. About Idaan. I know how hard this is
for you."
"She picked it. No one made her plot against her family."
"But you love her."
The young poet frowned now, then shrugged.
"Less now than I did two days ago," he said. "Ask again in a month. I'm
a poet, after all. There's only so much room in my life. Yes, I loved
her. I'll love someone else later. Likely someone that hasn't set
herself to kill off her relations."
"It's always like this," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Every one of them. The
first love always comes closest. I had hopes for this one. I really did."
"You'll live with the disappointment," Cehmai said.
"Yes," the andat said amiably. "There's always another first girl."
Maati laughed once, amused though it was also unbearably sad. The andat
shifted to look at him quizzically. Cehmai's hands took a pose of query.
Maati tried to find words to fit his thoughts, surprised by the sense of
peace that the prospect of his own failure brought him.
"You're who I was supposed to be, Cehmai-kvo, and you're much better at
it. I never did very well."
IDAAN LEANED FORWARD, HER HANDS ON THE RAIL. THE GALLERY BEHIND her was
full but restless, the air thick with the scent of their bodies and
perfumes. People shifted in their seats and spoke in low tones, prepared
for some new attack, and Idaan had noticed a great fashion for veils
that covered the heads and necks of men and women alike that tucked into
their robes like netting on a bed. The wasps had done their work, and
even if they were gone now, the feeling of uncertainty remained. She
took another deep breath and tried to play her role. She was the last
blood of her murdered father. She was the bride of Adrah Vaunyogi.
Looking down over the council, her part was to remind them of how
Adrah's marriage connected him to the old line of the Khaiem.
And yet she felt like nothing so much as an actor, put out to sing a
part on stage that she didn't have the range to voice. It had been so
recently that she'd stood here, inhabiting this space, owning the air
and the hall around her. Today, everything was the same-the families of
the utkhaiem arrayed at their tables, the leaves-in-wind whispering from
the galleries, the feeling of eyes turned toward her. But it wasn't
working. The air itself seemed different, and she couldn't begin to say why.
"The attack leveled against this council must not weaken us," Daaya, her
father now, half-shouted. His voice was hoarse and scratched. "We will
not be bullied! We will not be turned aside! When these vandals tried to
make mockery of the powers of the utkhaiem, we were preparing to
consider my son, the honorable Adrah Vaunyogi, as the proper man to take
the place of our lamented Khai. And to that matter we must return."
Applause filled the air, and Idaan smiled sweetly. She wondered how many
of the people now present had heard her cry out Cehmai's name in her
panic. Those that hadn't had no doubt heard it from other lips. She had
kept clear of the poet's house since then, but there hadn't been a
moment her heart hadn't longed toward it. He would understand, she told
herself. He would forgive her absence once this was all finished. All
would be well.
And yet, when Adrah looked up to her, when their gaze met, it was like
looking at a stranger. He was beautifuclass="underline" his hair fresh cut, his robes
of jeweled silk. He was her husband, and she no longer knew him.
Daaya stepped down, glittering, and Adaut Kamau rose. If, as the
gossipmongers had told, the wasps had been meant to keep old Kamau
silent that day, this would be the moment when something more should
follow. The galleries became suddenly quiet as the old man stepped to
the stage. Even from across the hall, Idaan could see the red weal on
his face where the sting had marked him.
"I had intended," he said, "to speak in support of Ghiah Vaunani in his
urging of caution and against hasty decision. Since that time, however,
my position has changed, and I would like to invite my old, dear friend
Porsha Radaani to address the council."
With nothing more than that, old Kamau stepped down. Idaan leaned
forward, looking for the green and gray robes of the Radaani. And there,
moving between the tables, was the man striding toward the speaker's
dais. Adrah and his father were bent together, speaking swiftly and
softly. Idaan strained to hear something of what they said. She didn't
notice how tight she was holding the rail until her fingers started to
ache with it.
Radaani rose up in the speaker's pulpit, looking over the council and
the galleries for the space of a half-dozen breaths. His expression was
considering, like a man at a fish market judging the freshest catch.
Idaan felt her belly tighten. Below her and across the hall, Radaani
lifted his arms to the crowd.
"Brothers, we have come here in these solemn times to take the fate of
our city into our hands," he intoned, and his voice was rich as cream.