hack?"
He kissed her eyes, his lips soft as a girl's. His voice was calm and
implacable and hard as stone. When she heard it, she knew he had been
thinking himself down the same pathways and had come to the same place.
"No, love. It's too late. It was too late as soon as your brother died.
We have started, and there's no ending it now except to win through or die."
They stayed still in each others' embrace. If all went well, she would
die an old woman in this man's arms, or he would die in hers. While
their sons killed one another. And there had been a time not half a year
ago she'd thought the prize worth winning.
"I should go," she murmured. "I have to attend to my father. There's
some dignitary just come to the city that I'm to smile at."
"Have you heard of the others? Kaiin and Danat?"
"Nothing," Idaan said. "They've vanished. Gone to ground."
"And the other one? Otah?"
Idaan pulled back, straightening the sleeves of her robes as she spoke.
"Otah's a story that the utkhaiem tell to make the song more
interesting. He's likely not even alive any longer. Or if he is, he's
wise enough to have no part of this."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Of course not," she said. "But what else can I give you?"
They spoke little after that. Adrah walked with her through the gardens
of the Second Palace and then out to the street. Idaan made her way to
her rooms and sent for the slave boy who repainted her face. The sun
hadn't moved the width of two hands together before she strode again
though the high palaces, her face cool and perfect as a player's mask.
The formal poses of respect and deference greeted and steadied her. She
was Idaan Machi, daughter of the Khai and wife, though none knew it yet,
of the man who would take his place. She forced confidence into her
spine, and the men and women around her reacted as if it were real.
Which, she supposed, meant that it was. And that the sorrow and darkness
they could not see were false.
When she entered the council chambers, her father greeted her with a
silent pose of welcome. He looked ill, his skin gray and his mouth
pinched by the pain in his belly. The delicate lanterns of worked iron
and silver made the wood-sheathed walls glow, and the cushions that
lined the floor were thick and soft as pillows. The men who sat on
them-yes, men, all of them-made their obeisances to her, but her father
motioned her closer. She walked to his side and knelt.
"There is someone I wish you to meet," her father said, gesturing to an
awkward man in the brown robes of a poet. "The I)ai-kvo has sent him.
Maati Vaupathai has come to study in our library."
Fear flushed her mouth with the taste of metal, but she simpered and
took a pose of welcome as if the words had meant nothing. Her mind
raced, ticking through ways that the Dal-kvo could have discovered her,
or Adrah, or the Galts. The poet replied to her gesture with a formal
pose of gratitude, and she took the opportunity to look at him more
closely. The body was soft as a scholar's, the lines of his face round
as dough, but there was a darkness to his eyes that had nothing to do
with color or light. She felt certain he was someone worth fearing.
"The library?" she said. "That's dull. Surely there are more interesting
things in the city than room after room of old scrolls."
"Scholars have strange enthusiasms," the poet said. "But it's true, I've
never been to any of the winter cities before. I'm hoping that not all
my time will be taken in study."
'T'here had to be a reason that the Dai-kvo and the Galts wanted the
same thing. There had to be a reason that they each wanted to plumb the
depths of the library of Machi.
"And how have you found the city, Maati-cha?" she asked. "When you
haven't been studying."
"It is as beautiful as I had been told," the poet said.
"He has been here only a few days," her father said. "Had he come
earlier, I would have had your brothers here to guide him, but perhaps
you might introduce him to your friends."
"I would be honored," Idaan said, her mind considering the thou sand
ways that this might be a trap. "Perhaps tomorrow evening you would join
me for tea in the winter gardens. I have no doubt there are many people
who would be pleased to join us."
"Not too many, I hope," he said. He had an odd voice, she thought. As if
he was amused at something. As if he knew how badly he had shaken her.
Her fear shifted slightly, and she raised her chin. "I already find
myself forgetting names I should remember," the poet continued. "It's
most embarrassing."
"I will he pleased to remind you of my own, should it be required," she
said. Her father's movement was almost too slight to see, but she caught
it and cast her gaze down. Perhaps she had gone too far. But when the
poet spoke, he seemed to have taken no offense.
"I expect I will remember yours, Idaan-cha. It would be very rude not
to. I look forward to meeting your friends and seeing your city. Perhaps
even more than closeting myself in your library."
He had to know. He had to. Except that she was not being led away under
guard. She was not being taken to the quiet chambers and questioned. If
he did not know, he must only suspect.
Let him suspect, then. She would get word to Adrah and the Galts. They
would know better than she what to do with this NIaati Vaupathai. If he
was a threat, he would be added to the list. I3iitrah, Danat, Kaiin,
Otah, Maati. The men she would have to kill or have killed. She smiled
at him gently, and he nodded to her. One more name could make little
difference now, and he, at least, was no one she loved.
"WHEN ARE THEY SENDING YOU?" KIYAN ASKED AS SIZE POURED OUT THE bucket.
Gray water flowed over the bricks that paved the small garden at the
hack of the wayhouse. Otah took the longhandled brush and swept the
water off to the sides, leaving the walkway deep red and glistening in
the sunlight. He felt Kiyan's gaze on him, felt the question in the air.
The gardens smelled of fresh turned earth. Spices for the kitchen grew
here. In a few weeks, the place would be thick with growing things:
basil and mint and thyme. He imagined scrubbing these bricks week after
week over the span of years until they wore smooth or he died, and felt
an irrational surge of fondness for the walkway. He smiled to himself.
"Itani?"