She liked Cehmai. She longed for him. She needed him in a way she
couldn't quite fathom, except to say that she hated herself less when
she was with him.
"Idaan!" a voice whispered from the darkness behind her. "Conic away
from there! You'll he seen!"
"Only if you're fool enough to bring a torch," she said, but she pulled
her feet hack in from the abyss and hauled the great bronze-bound oaken
sky doors shut. For a moment, there was nothing-black darker than
closing her eyes-and then the scrape of a lantern's hood and the flame
of a single candle. Crates and boxes threw deep shadows on the stone
walls and carved cabinets. Adrah looked pale, even in the dim light.
Idaan found herself amused and annoyed-pulled between wanting to comfort
him and the desire to point out that it wasn't his family they were
killing. She wondered if he knew yet that she had taken the poet to bed
and whether he would care. And whether she did. He smiled nervously and
glanced around at the shadows.
"He hasn't come," Idaan said.
"He will. Don't worry," Adrah said, and then a moment later: "My father
has drafted a letter. Proposing our union. He's sending it to the Khai
tomorrow."
"Good," Idaan said. "We'll want that in place before everyone finishes
dying."
"Don't."
"If we can't speak of it to each other, Adrah-kya, when will we ever? It
isn't as if I can go to our friends or the priest." Idaan took a pose of
query to some imagined confidant. "Adrah's going to take me as his wife,
but it's important that we do it now, so that when I've finished
slaughtering my brothers, he can use me to press his suit to become the
new Khai without it seeming so clearly that I'm being traded at market.
And don't you love this new robe? It's Westlands silk."
She laughed bitterly. Adrah did not step back, quite, but he did pull away.
"What is it, Idaan-kya?" he said, and Idaan was surprised by the pain in
his voice. It sounded genuine. "Have I done something to make you angry
with me?"
For a moment, she saw herself through his eyes-cutting, ironic, cruel.
It wasn't who she had been with him. Once, before they had made this
bargain with Chaos, she had had the luxury of being soft and warm. She
had always been angry, only not with him. How lost he must feel.
Idaan leaned close and kissed him. For one terrible moment, she meant
it-the softness of his lips against hers stirring something within her
that cried out to hold and be held, to weep and wail and take com fort.
Her flesh also remembered the poet, the strange taste of another man's
skin, the illusion of hope and of safety that she'd felt in her betrayal
of the man who was destined to share her life.
"I'm not angry, sweet. Only tired. I'm very tired."
"This will pass, Idaan-kya. Remember that this part only lasts a while."
"And is what follows it better?"
He didn't answer.
The candle had hardly burned past another mark when the moonfaced
assassin appeared, moving like darkness itself in his back cotton robe.
He put down his lantern and took a pose of welcome before dusting a
crate with his sleeve and sitting. His expression was pleasant as a
fruit seller in a summer market. It only made Idaan like him less.
"So," Oshai said. "You called, I've come. What seems to be the problem?"
She had intended to begin with Maati Vaupathai, but the pretense of
passive stupidity in Oshai's eyes annoyed her. Idaan raised her chin and
her brows, considering him as she would a garden slave. Adrah looked
back and forth between the two. The motion reminded her of a child
watching his parents fighting. When she spoke, she had to try not to spit.
"I would know where our plans stand," she said. "My father's ill, and I
hear more from Adrah and the palace slaves than from you."
"My apologies, great lady," Oshai said without a hint of irony. "It's
only that meetings with you are a risk, and written reports are
insupportable. Our mutual friends ..."
"The Galtic High Council," Idaan said, but Oshai continued as if she had
not spoken.
". . . have placed agents and letters of intent with six houses.
Contracts for iron, silver, steel, copper, and gold. The negotiations
are under way, and I expect we will be able to draw them out for most of
the summer, should we need to. When all three of your brothers die, you
will have been wed to Adrah, and between the powerful position of his
house, his connection with you, and the influence of six of the great
houses whose contracts will suddenly ride on his promotion to Khai, you
should be sleeping in your mother's bed by Candles Night."
"My mother never had a bed of her own. She was only a woman, remember.
Traded to the Khai for convenience, like a gift."
"It's only an expression, great lady. And remember, you'll be sharing
Adrah here with other wives in your turn."
"I won't take others," Adrah said. "It was part of our agreement."
"Of course you won't," Oshai said with a nod and an insincere smile. "My
mistake."
Idaan felt herself flush, but kept her voice level and calm when she spoke.
"And my brothers? Danat and Kaiin?"
"They are being somewhat inconvenient, it's true. They've gone to
ground. Frightened, I'm told, by your ghost brother Utah. We may have to
wait until your father actually dies before they screw up the courage to
stand against each other. But when they do, I will be ready. You know
all this, Idaan-cha. It can't be the only reason you've asked me here?"
The round, pale face seemed to harden without moving. "There had best be
something more pressing than seeing whether I'll declaim when told."
"Maati Vaupathai," Idaan said. "The Dai-kvo's sent him to study in the
library."
"Hardly a secret," Oshai said, but Idaan thought she read a moment's
unease in his eyes.
"And it doesn't concern your owners that this new poet has come for the
same prize they want? What's in those old scrolls that makes this worth
the risk for you, anyway?"
"I don't know, great lady," the assassin said. "I'm trusted with work of
this delicate nature because I don't particularly care about the points
that aren't mine to know."
"And the Galts? Are they worried about this Maati Vaupathai poking
through the library before them?"