"I don't know how he did it, sister. There must be people backing him within the palaces. The armsmen in the tower were slaughtered."
"How did he find our father?" Idaan asked, uninterested in the answer. "He must have found a secret way into the palaces. Someone would have seen him."
Danat shook his head. There was rage in him, and pain. She could see them, could feel them resonate in her own breast. But more than that, there was an almost superstitious fear in him. The upstart had slipped his bonds, had struck in the very heart of the city, and her brother feared him like Black Chaos.
"We have to secure the city," he said. "I've called for more guards. You should stay here. We can't know how far he will take his vendetta."
"You're going to let him escape?" Idaan demanded. "You aren't going to hunt him down?"
"He has resources I can't guess at. Look! Look what he's done. Until I know what I'm walking towards, I don't dare follow."
The plan was failing. Danat was staying safe in his walls with his armsmcn around him like a blanket. Idaan sighed. It was tip to her, of course, to save it.
"Adrah Vaunyogi has a hunt prepared. It was to be for fresh meat for my wedding feast. You stay here, Danat-kya. I'll bring you Otah's head."
She turned and walked away. She couldn't hesitate, couldn't invite him to follow her. He would see it in her gait if she were anything less than totally committed. For a moment, she even believed herself that she was going out to find her father's killer and bring him down-riding with her hunt into the low towns and the fields to track down the evil Otah Machi, her fallen brother. Danat's voice stopped her.
"I forbid you, Idaan. You can't do this."
She paused and looked back at him. He was thicker than her father had been. Already his jaw line ran toward jowls. She took a pose that disagreed.
"I'm actually quite good with a bow," she said. "I'll find him. And I will see him dead."
"You're my child sister," Danat said. "You can't do this."
Something flared in her, dark and hot. She stepped back toward Danat, feeling the rage lift her up like a leaf in the wind.
"Ah, and if I do this thing, you'll be shamed. Because I have breasts and you've a prick, I'm supposed to muzzle myself and be glad. Is that it? Well I won't. You hear me? I will not be controlled, I will not be owned, and I will not step hack from anything to protect your petty pride. It's gone too far for that, brother. If a woman shrinks meekly back into the shadows, then you he the woman. See how it feels to you!"
By the end she was shrieking. Her fists were balled so tight they hurt. Danat's expression was hard as stone and as gray.
"You shame me," he said.
"Live with it," she said and spat.
"Send my body servant," he said. "I'll want my own bow. And then go to Adrah. The hunt won't leave without me."
She was on the edge of refusing, of telling him that this wasn't courage. He was only more afraid of losing the respect of the utkhaiem than of dying, and that made him not only a coward but a stupid one. She was the one with courage. She was the one who had the will to act. What was he after all but a mewling kitten lost in the world, while she ... she was Otah Machi. She was the upstart who had earned the Khai's chair. She had killed her father for it; it was more than Danat would have done.
But, of course, truth would destroy everything. That was its nature. So she swallowed it down deep where it could go on destroying her and took an acquiescing pose. She'd won. He'd know that soon enough.
Once Danat's body servant had been sent scampering for his bow, Idaan returned to her apartments, shrugged out of her robes and put on the wide, loose trousers and red leather shirt of a hunter. She paused by her table of paints, her mirror. She sat for a moment and looked at her bare face. Her eyes seemed small and flat without the kohl. Her lips seemed pale and wide as a fish's, her cheeks pallid and low. She could be a peasant girl, plowing fields outside some low town. Her beauty had been in paint. Perhaps it would be again, someday. '['his was a poor day for beauty.
The huntsmen were waiting impatiently outside the palaces of the Vaunyogi, their mounts' hooves clattering against the dark stones of the courtyard. Adrah took a pose of query when he saw her clothes. ldaan didn't answer it, but went to one of the horsemen, ordered him down, took his blade and his bow and mounted in his place. Adrah cantered over to her side. His mount was the larger, and he looked down at her as if he were standing on a step.
"My brother is coming," she said. "I'll ride with him."
"You think that wise?" he asked coolly.
"I have asked too much of you already, Adrah-kya."
His expression was cold, but he didn't object further. Danat Nlachi rode in wearing pale robes of mourning and seated on a great hunting stallion, the very picture of vigor and manly prowess. Five riders were with him: his friends, members of the utkhaicm unfortunate enough to have heard of this hunt and marry themselves to the effort. "They would have to be dealt with. Adrah took a pose of obeisance before l)anat.
"We've had word that a cart left by the south gate last night," Adrah said. "It was seen coming from an alley beside the tower."
"Then let its follow it," l)anat said. He turned and rode. ldaan followed, the wind whipping her hair, the smell of the beast under her rich and sweet. There was no keeping up the gallop, of course. But this was theater-the last remaining sons of the Khai Machi, one the assassin and servant of chaos slipping away in darkness, one the righteous avenger riding forth in the name of justice. I)anat knew the part he was to act, and Idaan gave him credit for playing it, now that she had goaded him into action. Those who saw them in the streets would tell others, and the word would spread. It was a sight songs were made from.
Once they had crossed the bridge over the "l'idat, they slowed, looking for people who had heard or seen the cart go by. Idaan knew where it had really gone-the ruins of an old stone wayhouse a half-hand's walk from the nearest low town west of the city. The morning hadn't half passed before the hunt had taken a wrong scent, turned north and headed into the foothills. The false trail took them to a crossroad-a mining track led cast and west, the thin road from the city winding north up the side of a mountain. Danat looked frustrated and tired. When Adrah spoke-his voice loud enough for everyone in the party to hear-Idaan's belly tightened.
"We should fan out, Danat-cha. Eight east, eight west, eight north, and two to stay here. If one group finds sign of the upstart, they can send back a runner, and the two waiting here will retrieve the rest."
Danat weighed the thought, then agreed. Danat claimed the north road for himself, and the members of the utkhaiem, smelling the chance of glory, divided themselves among the hands heading east and west.
Adrah took the cast, his eyes locked on hers as he turned to go. She saw the meaning in his expression, daring her to do this thing. Idaan made no reply to him at all. She, six huntsmen of the Vaunyogi loyal to their house and master, and Danat rode into the mountains.
When the sun had reached the highest point in the day's arc, they stopped at small lake. The huntsmen rode out in their wide-ranging search as they had done at every pause before this. Danat dismounted, stretched, and paced. His eyes were dark. Idaan waited until the others disappeared into the trees, unslung her bow, and went to stand near her brother. He looked at her, then away.
"He didn't come this way," Danat said. "Ile's tricked us again."
"Perhaps. But he won't survive. Even if he killed you, he could never become Khai Machi. The utkhaiem and the poets wouldn't support him."
"It's hatred now," Danat said. "He's doing it from hatred."
"Perhaps," Idaan said. Out on the lake, a bird skimmed the shining surface of the water, then shrieked and plunged in, rising moments later with a flash of living silver in its claws. A quarter moon was in the sky-white crescent showing through the blue. The lake smelled colder than it was, and the wind tugged at her hair and the reeds alike. Danat sighed.
"Was it hard killing Kaiin?" Idaan asked.
Danat looked at her, as if shocked that she had asked. She met his gaze, her eyes fixed on his until he turned away.
"Yes," he said. "Yes it was. I loved him. I miss them both."
"But you did the thing anyway."
He nodded. Idaan stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. His stubble tickled her lips, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she walked away, trying to stop the sensation. At ten paces she put an arrow to her bow, drew back the string. Uanat was still looking out over the water. Passionlessly, she judged the wind, the distance.
The arrow struck the back of his head with a sound like an axe splitting wood. Danat seemed at first not to notice, and then slowly sank to the ground. Blood soaked the collar of his robes, the pale cloth looking like cut meat by the time she walked back to him. She knelt by him, took his hand in her own, and looked out over the lake.
She was singing before she knew she intended to sing. In her imagination, she had screamed and shrieked, her cries calling the hunters hack to her, but instead she sang. It was an old song, a lamentation she'd heard in the darkness of the tunnels and the cold of winter. The words were from the Empire, and she hardly knew what they all meant. The rising and falling melody, aching and sorrowful, seemed to fill her and the world.
Two hunters approached her at last, unsure of themselves. She had not seen them emerge from the trees, and she didn't look at them now as she spoke.
"My brother has been murdered by Otah or one of his agents," she said. "While we were waiting for you."
The hunters looked at one another. For a long, sick moment, she thought they might not believe her. She wondered if they would be loyal enough to the Vaunyogi to overlook the crime. And then the elder of them spoke.
"We will find him, Idaan-cha," the man said, his voice trembling with rage. "We'll send for the others and turn every stone on this mountain until we find him."
"It won't bring back my father. Or Danat. There won't be anyone to stand at my wedding."
She broke off, half surprised to find her sobs unfeigned. Gently, she cradled the corpse of her brother to her, feeling the blood soak her robes.
"I'll gather his horse," another of the hunters said. "We can strap him to it-"
"No," Idaan said. "You can give him to me. I'll carry him home."
"It's a long ride back to the city. Are you sure that-"
"I'll carry him home. He'd have done the same if our places were reversed," she said. "It is the way of our family."
In the end, they draped him over her mount's haunches. The scent of the blood made him skittish, but Idaan held control firmly, cooing in the animal's ears, coaxing and demanding. When she could think of nothing else, she sang to the beast, and the dirges possessed her. She felt no sorrow, no regret. She felt no triumph. It was as if she was in the moment of grace between the blow and the pain. In her mind were only the sounds of the songs and of an arrow splitting bone.
THE FARMSTEAD WAS SET HACK A SHORT WALK FROM THE ROAD. A CREEK RAN beside it, feeding, no doubt, into the river that was even now carrying dead men down to the main channel. The walls were as thick as a man's outstretched arm with a set of doors on both the inside and outside faces. On the second story, snow doors had been opened, letting in the summer air. Trees stood in close, making the house seem a part of the landscape. The horses were kept in the stables on the ground floor, hidden from casual observers.
Amiit led Otah up the stairs and into a bright, simple room with a table, a few rough wooden chairs, an unlit lantern and a wide, low cabinet. Roast chicken, fresh cheese, and apples just on the edge of ripeness had been laid out for them. Sharpened by Otah's hunger and relief and wonder, the smell of them was wonderful. Amiit gestured toward the table, then opened the cabinet and took out two earthenware mugs and flasks of wine and water. Otah took a leg from the chicken and hit into it-the flesh tasted of tarragon and black pepper. He closed his eyes and grinned. Nothing had ever in his life tasted so good.
Amiit chuckled.
"You've grown thinner, old friend," Amiit said as he poured himself wine and Otah a mixture of wine and water. "You'd think accommodations in Machi would he better."
"What's going on, Amiit-cha?" Otah asked, taking the proffered drink. "Last I heard, I was going to be either executed as a criminal or honorably killed in the succession. This ...... he gestured at the room with his mug. "This wasn't suggested as an option."
"It wasn't approved by the Khaiem, that's truth," Amiit said. He sat across from Otah and picked up one of the apples, turning it over slowly as he spoke, inspecting it for worm holes. "The fact is, I only know half of what's going on in Nlachi, if that. After our last talk-when you were first coming up here-I thought it might be best to put some plans in motion. In case an opportunity arose, you understand. It would be very convenient for House Siyanti if one of their junior couriers became the Khai Machi. It didn't seem likely at the time. But ..."
He shrugged and hit into the apple. Otah finished the chicken and took one of the fruits himself. Even watered, the wine was nearly too strong to drink.
"We put out men and women to listen," Amiit went on. "To gather what information we could find. We weren't looking for anything in particular, you understand. Just an opportunity."
"You were looking to sell information of me to the Khai in return for a foothold in Machi," Otah said.
"Only as a last resort," Amiit agreed. "It's business. You understand."
"But they found me instead," Otah said. The apple was sweet and chalky and just slightly bitter. Amiit pushed a platter of cheese toward him.
""That looked bleak. It's truth. And that you'd been in our pay seemed to seal it. House Siyanti wasn't going to be welcome, whichever of your brothers took the title."
"And taking me out of their tower was intended to win back their favor?"
Amiit's expression clouded. He shook his head.
"That wasn't our plan. Someone hired a mercenary company to take you from the city to a low town and hold you there. We don't know who it was; they only met with the captain, and he's not on our side. But I'm fairly certain it wasn't your brother or your father."
"But you got word of it?"
"I had word of it. Mercenaries ... well, they aren't always the most reliable of companions. Sinja-cha knew I was in the city, and would be interested in your situation. He was ready to make a break with his old cohort for other reasons, and offered me the opportunity to ... what? Outbid his captain for his services in the matter?"
"Sinja-cha is the commander?"
"Yes. Or, was. He's in my employ now. With luck, his old captain thinks him dead along with you and the other armsmen involved."
"And what will you do now? Ransom me back to the Khai?"
"No," Amiit said. "I've already made a bargain that won't allow that. Besides, I really did enjoy working with you. And ... and you may yet be in a position to help me more as an ally than a commodity, ne?"
"It's a bad bet," Otah said and smiled.
Amiit grinned again.
"Ah, but the stakes are high. Would you rather just have water? I wasn't thinking."
"No, I'll keep this."
"Whatever you like. So. Yes, something's happening in Machi. I expect they're out scouring the world for you even now. And in a day, perhaps two, they'll find you floating down the river or caught on a sandbar."
"And then?"
"I don't know," Amiit said. "And then we'll know what's happened in the meantime. Things are moving quickly, and there's more going on than I can fathom. For instance, I don't know what the Galts have to do with it."
Otah put down his cup. Even under the blanket of whiskers, he could see the half-smile twitch at Amiit's mouth. The overseer's eyes sparkled.
"But perhaps you do?" Amiit suggested.
"No, but ... no. I've dealt with something else once. Something happened. The Galts were behind it. What are they doing here? How do they figure in?"
"They're making contracts with half the houses in Machi. Large contracts at disadvantageous terms. They've been running roughshod over the Westlands so long they're sure to be good for it-they have almost as much money as the Khaiem. It may just be they've a new man acting as the overseer for the Machi contracts, and he's no good. But I doubt it. I think they're buying influence."
"Influence to do what?"
"I haven't the first clue," Amiit said. "I was hoping you might know."
Otah shook his head. He took another piece of chicken, but his mind was elsewhere. The Galts in Machi. He tried to make Biitrah's death, the attack on Maati, and his own improbable freedom into some pattern, but no two things seemed to fit. He drank his wine, feeling the warmth spread through his throat and belly.
"I need your word on something, Amiit-cha. That if I tell you what I know, you won't act on it lightly. There are lives at stake."
"Galtie lives?"
"Innocent ones."
Amiit considered silently. His face was closed. Otah poured more water into his cup. Amiit silently took a pose that accepted the offered terms. Otah looked at his hands, searching for the words he needed to say.
"Saraykeht. When Seedless acted against Heshai-kvo there, the Gaits were involved. They were allied with the andat. I believe they hoped to find the andat willing allies in their own freedom, only Seedless was ... unreliable. They hurt Heshai badly, even though their plan failed. They aren't the ones who murdered him, but Heshai-kvo let himself be killed rather than expose them."
"Why would he do an idiot thing like that?"
"He knew what would happen. He knew what the Khai Saraykeht would do."
Otah felt himself on the edge of confession, but he stopped before admitting that the poet had died at his hands. There was no need, and that, at least, was one secret that he chose to keep to himself. Instead, he looked up and met Amiit's gaze. When the overseer spoke, his voice was calm, measured, careful.
"He would have slaughtered Galt," Amiit said.
"Innocent lives."
"And some guilty ones."
"A few."
Amiit leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before his lips. Otah could almost see the calculations taking place behind those calm, dark eyes.
"So you think this is about the poets?"
"It was last time," Otah said. "Let me send a letter to Maati. Let me warn him-"
"We can't. You're dead, and half the safety we can give you depends on your staying dead until we know more than this. But ... but I can tell a few well-placed people to be on alert. And give them some idea what to be alert for. Another Saraykeht would be devastating." Amiit sighed deeply. "And here I thought only the succession, your life, and my house were in play. Poets now, too."
Amiit's smile was thoughtful.
"I'll give you this. You make the world more interesting, Itani-cha. Or...?"
He took a pose that asked for correction.
"Otah. Much as I've fought against it, my name is Otah Machi. We might as well both get used to saying it."
"Otah-cha, then," Amiit said. He seemed pleased, as if he'd won some small victory.
Voices came up through the window. The commander's was already familiar even after so short a time. Otah couldn't make out the words, but he sounded pleased. Another voice answered him that Otah didn't know, but the woman's laughter that pealed out after it was familiar as water.
Otah felt the air go thin. He stood and walked slowly to the open shutters. There in the yard behind the farmhouse Sinja and one of the archers were standing beside a lovely woman in loose cotton robes the blue of the sky at twilight. Her fox-thin face was smiling, one eyebrow arched as she said something to the commander, who chuckled in his turn. Her hair was dark and shot with individual strands of white that she had had since birth.
He saw the change in Kiyan's stance when she noticed him-a release and relaxation. She walked away from the two men and toward the open window. Otah's heart beat fast as if he'd been running. She stopped and put out her hands, palms up and open. It wasn't a formal pose, and seemed to mean here I am and here you are and who would have guessed this all at once.
"She came to me not long after you left," Amiit said from where he sat. "I'm half-partner in her wayhouse down in Udun. We've been keeping it a quiet arrangement, though. There's something to be said for having a whole wayhouse of one's own without the couriers of other houses knowing it's yours."
Otah wanted to look hack at the man, but his gaze seemed fastened on Kiyan. He thought he caught a faint blush rising in her cheeks. She shook her head as if clearing away some unwanted thought and walked in toward the house and out of his view. She was smiling, though. Sinja had also caught sight of Otah in the window and took a pose of congratulation.
"She's changed her mind, then. About me?"
"Apparently."
Otah turned back and leaned against the wall. Its coolness surprised him. After so many days in the cell at the tower's height, he'd come to think of stone as warm. Amiit poured himself another cup of wine. Otah swallowed to loosen his throat. The question didn't want to be asked.
"Why? What changed it?"
"I have known Kiyan-cha well for almost a quarter of this year. Not even that. You've been her lover for what? Three summers? And you want me to explain her mind to you? You've become an optimist."
Otah sat because his knees felt too weak to hold him. Amiit chuckled again and rose.
"You'll need rest for a few days. And some food and space enough to move again. We'll have you strong enough to do whatever it is needs doing, I hope. This place is better watched than it looks. We'll have warning if anyone comes near. Don't let any of this trouble you for now; you can trust us to watch over things."
"I want to see her," Otah said.
"I know," Amiit said, clapping him on the shoulder. "And she wants to see you. It's why I'm leaving. Just remember you haven't eaten to speak of in days, you're weak from the cell, you've hardly slept, and you were abducted last night. Don't expect too much from yourself. There really is no hurry."
Otah blushed now, and Amiit grabbed one last apple and made for the door. Kiyan reached it just as he did, and he stepped back to let her through. He closed the door gently behind him. Otah rose to his feet, suddenly tongue-tied. Kiyan also didn't speak, but her gaze traveled over him. He could see the distress in it even though she tried to keep it hidden.
"'Tani," she said, "you ... you look terrible."
"It's the beard," Otah said. "I'll shave it."
She didn't take up the humor, only walked across the room and folded him into her arms. The scent of her skin flooded him with a hundred jumbled memories of her. He put his arm around her, embarrassed to notice that his hand was unsteady.
"I didn't think I'd be seeing you again," he murmured. "I never meant to put you at risk."
"What did they do to you? Gods, what have they done?"
"Not so much. They only didn't feed me well fora time and locked me away. It wasn't so had."
She kissed his check and pulled back from him until each could see the other's face. 't'here were tears in her eyes, but she was angry.
"They were going to kill you," she said.
"Well, yes. I mean, I thought that was assumed."
"I'll kill them all with my bare hands if you'd like," she said with a smile that meant she was only half joking.
"That might be more than the situation calls for. But ... why are you here? I thought ... I thought I was too much a risk to you."
"That didn't change. Other things ... other things did. Come. Sit with me."
Kiyan took a bite of the cheese and poured herself water. Her hands were thin and strong and as lovely as a sculpture. Otah rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands, hoping that this was all as real as it seemed, that he wouldn't wake again in the cell above the city.
"Sinja-cha told me you wanted to turn hack. He said it was because of me. That your being there kept them from searching me out."
"Knowing me shouldn't have that kind of price on it," Otah said. "It was ... it was what I could do. That's all."
"Thank you," she said, her voice solemn.
Kiyan looked out the window. There was a dread in the lines of her mouth, a fear that confused him. He reached out, thinking to take her hand in his own, but the movement brought her back and a smile flitted over her and was gone.
"I don't know if you want to hear this. But I've been waiting to say it for longer than I can stand, and so I'm going to be selfish. And I don't know how to. Not well."
"Is it something I'll want to hear?"
"I don't know. I hope ... I ... Gods. Here. When you left, I missed you worse than I'd expected. I was sick with it. Physically ill. I thought I should be patient. I thought it would pass. And then I noticed that I seemed to miss you most in the early mornings. You understand?"
She looked Otah deep in the eye, and he frowned, trying to find some deeper significance in the words. And then he did, and he felt the world drop away from tinder him. He took a pose of query, and she replied with a confirmation.
"Ah," he said and then sat, utterly at a loss. After ten or twenty breaths, Kiyan spoke again.
"The midwife thinks sometime around Candles Night. Maybe a lit tle after. So you see, I knew there was no avoiding the issue, not as long as I was carrying a baby with your blood in it. I went to Amiit-cha and we ... he, really ... put things in motion."
"There are blood teas," Otah said.