himself along every line he could imagine, shifting the stones in his
mind until at last he pushed one black token forward. Stone-Made-Soft
didn't pause. It shifted a white stone behind the black that had just
moved, trapping it. Cehmai took a long deep breath and shifted a black
stone on the far end of the board back one space.
The andat stretched out its wide fingers, then paused. The storm
shifted, lessened. Stone-Made-Soft smiled ruefully and pulled back its
hand. The wide brow furrowed.
"Good sacrifice," it said.
Cehmai leaned hack. His body was shuddering with exhaustion and effort
and perhaps something else more to do with l3aarath running through the
night. The andat moved a piece forward. It was the obvious move, but it
was doomed. They had to play it out, but the game was as good as
finished. Cchmai moved a black token.
"I think she does love you," the andat said. "And you did swear you'd
protect her."
"She killed two men and plotted her own father's slaughter," Cehmai said.
"You love her. I know you do."
"I know it too," Cehmai said, and then a long moment later. "It's your
move."
Rain came in from the south. By midmorning tall clouds of billowing
white and yellow and gray had filled the wide sky of the valley. When
the sun, had it been visible, would have reached the top of its arc, the
rain poured down on the city like an upended bucket. The black cobbled
streets were brooks, every slant roof a little waterfall. Maati sat in
the side room of the teahouse and watched. The water seemed lighter than
the sky or the stone-alive and hopeful. It chilled the air, making the
warmth of the earthenware bowl in his hands more present. Across the
smooth wooden table, Otah-kvo's chief armsman scratched at the angry red
weals on his wrists.
"If you keep doing that, they'll never heal," Maati said.
"Thank you, grandmother," Sinja said. "I had an arrow through my arm
once that hurt less than this."
"It's no worse than what half the people in that hall suffered," Maati said.
"It's a thousand times worse. Those stings are on them. These are on me.
I'd have thought the difference obvious."
Maati smiled. It had taken three days to get all the insects out of the
great hall, and the argument about whether to simply choose a new venue
or wait for the last nervous slave to find and crush the last dying wasp
would easily have gone on longer than the problem itself. The time had
been precious. Sinja scratched again, winced, and pressed his hands flat
against the table, as if he could pin them there and not rely on his own
will to control himself.
"I hear you've had another letter from the Dai-kvo," Sinja said.
Maati pursed his lips. The pages were in his sleeve even now. "They'd
arrived in the night by a special courier who was waiting in apartments
Maati had bullied out of the servants of the dead Khai. The message
included an order to respond at once and commit his reply to the
courier. He hadn't picked up a pen yet. He wasn't sure what he wanted to
say.
"He ordered you back?" Sinja asked.
"Among other things," Maati agreed. "Apparently he's been getting
information from someone in the city besides myself."
"The other one? The boy?"
"Cehmai you mean? No. One of the houses that the Galts bought, I'd
guess. But I don't know which. It doesn't matter. He'll know the truth
soon enough."
"If you say so."
A bolt of lightning flashed and a half breath later, thunder rolled
through the thick air. Maati raised the bowl to his lips. The tea was
smoky and sweet, and it did nothing to unknot his guts. Sinja leaned
toward the window, his eyes suddenly bright. Maati followed his gaze.
Three figures leaned into the slanting rain-one a thick man with a
slight limp, the others clearly servants holding a canopy over the first
in a vain attempt to keep their master from being soaked to the skin.
All wore cloaks with deep hoods that hid their faces.
"Is that him?" Sinja asked.
"I think so," Maati said. "Go. Get ready."
Sinja vanished and Maati refilled his bowl of tea. It was only moments
before the door to the private room opened again and Porsha Radaani came
into the room. His hair was plastered back against his skull, and his
rich, ornately embroidered robes were dark and heavy with water. Maati
rose and took a pose of welcome. Radaani ignored it, pulled out the
chair Sinja had only recently left, and sat in it with a grunt.
"I'm sorry for the foul weather," Maati said. "I'd thought you'd take
the tunnels."
Radaani made an impatient sound.
"They're half flooded. The city was designed with snow in mind, not
water. The first thaw's always like a little slice of hell in the
spring. But tell me you didn't bring me here to talk about rain,
Maati-cha. I'm a busy man. The council's just about pulled itself back
together, and I'd like to see an end to this nonsense."
"That's what I wanted to speak to you about, Porsha-cha. I'd like you to
call for the council to disband. You're well respected. If you were to
adopt the position, the lower families would take interest. And the
Vaunani and Kamau can both work with you without having to work with
each other."
"I'm a powerful enough man to do that," Radaani agreed, his tone
matter-of-fact. "But I can't think why I would."
"There's no reason for the council to be called."
"No reason? We're short a Khai, MIaati-cha."
"The last one left a son to take his place," Maati said. "No one in that
hall has a legitimate claim to the name Khai Machi."
Radaani laced his thick fingers over his belly and narrowed his eyes. A
smile touched his lips that might have meant anything.
"I think you have some things to tell me," he said.
Nlaati began not with his own investigation, but with the story as it
had unfolded. Idaan Machi and Adrah Vaunvogi, the backing of the Gaits,
the murder of Biitrah Machi. He told it like a tale, and found it was
easier than he'd expected. Radaani chuckled when he reached the night of
Otah's escape and grew somber when he drew the connection between the
murder of Danat Machi and the hunting party that had gone with him. It
was all true, but it was not all of the truth. In the long conversations
that had followed Baarath's delivery of Cehmai's letter, Otah and Maati,