as I can tell, independently, backing the Vaunyogi."
"And they all have contracts with Galt," Amiit said. "What about the
others?"
"Of the families we know? None have come out against them. And none for,
or at least not openly."
"There should be more fighting," Amiit said. "There should be struggles
and coalitions. Alliances should be forming and breaking by the moment.
It's too steady."
"Only if there was a real struggle going on. If the decision was already
made, it would look exactly like this."
"Yes. There are times I hate being right. Any word from the poet?"
Otah shook his head and sat, then stood again. Maati had gone from their
first meeting, and he'd seemed convinced. Otah had been sure at the time
that he wouldn't betray them. He was sure in his bones. He only wished
he'd had his thoughts more in order at the time. He'd been swept up in
the moment, more concerned with his lies about Liat's son than anything
else. He'd had time since to reflect, and the other worries had swarmed
out. Otah had sat up until the night candle was at its halfway mark,
listing the things he needed to consider. It hadn't lent him peace.
"It's hard, waiting," Amiit said. "You must feel like you're back up in
that tower."
"That was easier. Then at least I knew what was going to happen. I wish
I could go out. If I could be up there listening to the people
themselves ... If I spent half an evening in the right teahouse, I'd
know more than I'll learn skulking down here for days. Yes, I know.
You've the best minds of the house out watching for us. But listening to
reports isn't the same as putting my hands to something."
"I know it. More than half my work has been trying to guess the truth
out of a dozen different reports of a thing. There's a knack to it.
You'll have your practice with it."
"If this ends well," Otah said.
"Yes," Amiit agreed. "If that."
Otah filled a tin cup with water from a stone jar and sat back down. It
was warm, and a thin grit swam at the cup's bottom. He wished it were
wine and pushed the thought away. If there was any time in his life to
be sober as stone, this was it, but his unease shifted and tightened. He
looked up from his water to sec Amiit's gaze on him, his expression
quizzical.
"We have to make a plan for if we lose," Otah said. "If the Vaunyogi are
to blame and the council gives them power, they'll be able to wash away
any number of crimes. And all those families that supported them will be
invested in keeping things quiet. If it comes out that Daaya Vaunyogi
killed the Khai in order to raise up his son and half the families of
the utkhaiem took money to support it, they'll all share in the guilt.
Being in the right won't mean much then."
"There's time yet," Amiit said, but he was looking away when he said it.
"And what happens if we fail?"
"That all depends on how we fail. If we're discovered before we're ready
to move, we'll all be killed. If Adrah is named Khai, we'll at least
have a chance to slip away quietly."
"You'll take care of Kiyan?"
Amiit smiled. "I hope to see to it that you can perform that duty."
"But if not?"
"Then of course," Amiit said. "Provided I live."
The rapping came again, and the door opened on a young man. Otah
recognized him from the meetings in House Siyanti, but he couldn't
recall his name.
"The poet's come," the young man said.
Amiit rose, took a pose appropriate to the parting of friends, and left.
The young man went with him, and for a moment the door swung free, half
closing. Otah drank the last of his water, the grit rough in his throat.
Maati came in slowly, a diffidence in his body and his face, like a man
called in to hear news that might bring him good or ill or some
unimagined change that folded both inextricably together. Otah gestured
to the door, and Maati closed it.
"You sent for me?" Maati asked. "That's a dangerous habit, Otah-kvo."
"I know it, but ... Please. Sit. I've been thinking. About what we do if
things go poorly."
"If we fail?"
"I want to be ready for it, and when Kiyan and I were talking last
night, something occurred to me. Nayiit? That's his name, isn't it? The
child that you and Liat had?"
Maati's expression was cool and distant and misleading. Otah could see
the pain in it, however still the eyes.
"What of him?"
"He mustn't be my son. Whatever happens, he has to be yours."
"If you fail, you don't take your father's title-"
"If I don't take his title, and someone besides you decides he's mine,
they'll kill him to remove all doubt of the succession. And if I
succeed, Kiyan may have a son," Otah said. "And then they would someday
have to kill each other. Nayiit is your son. He has to be."
"I see," Maati said.
"I've written a letter. It looks like something I'd have sent Kiyan
before, when I was in Chaburi-Tan. It talks about the night I left
Saraykeht. It says that on the night I came back to the city, I found
the two of you together. That I walked into her cell, and you and she
were in her cot. It makes it clear that I didn't touch her, that I
couldn't have fathered a child on her. Kiyan's put it in her things. If
we have to flee, we'll take it with us and find a way for it to come to
light-we can hide it at her wayhouse, perhaps. If we're found and killed
here, it will be found with us. You have to back that story."
Maati steepled his fingers and leaned back in the chair.
"You've put it with Kiyan-cha's things to be found in case she's
slaughtered?" he asked.
"Yes," Otah said. "I don't think about it when I can help it, but I know
she could die here. There's no reason that your son should die with us."
Maati nodded slowly. He was struggling with something, Otah could see
that much, but whether it was sorrow or anger or joy, he had no way to
know. When the question came, though, it was the one he had been
dreading for years.
"What did happen?" Maati asked at last, his voice low and hushed. "The
night Heshai-kvo died. What happened? Did you just leave? Did you take
Mai with you? Did . . . did you kill him?"
Otah remembered the cord cutting into his hands, remembered the way Mai