Idaan felt her belly tighten. Below her and across the hall, Radaani
lifted his arms to the crowd.
"Brothers, we have come here in these solemn times to take the fate of
our city into our hands," he intoned, and his voice was rich as cream.
"We have suffered tragedy and in the spirit of our ancestors, we rise to
overcome it. No one can doubt the nobility of our intentions. And yet
the time has come to dissolve this council. There is no call to choose a
new Khai Machi when a man with legitimate claim to the chair still lives."
The noise was like a storm. Voices rose and feet stamped. On the council
floor, half the families were on their feet, the others sitting with
stunned expressions. And yet it was as if it were happening in some
other place. Idaan felt the unreality of the moment wash over her. It
was a dream. A nightmare.
"I have not stood down!" Radaani shouted. "I have not finished! Yes, an
heir lives! And he has the support of my family and my house! Who among
you will refuse the son of the Khai Machi his place? Who will side with
the traitors and killers that slaughtered his father?"
"Porsha-cha!" one of the men of the council said, loud enough to carry
over the clamor. "Explain yourself or step down! You've lost your mind!"
"I'll better that! Brothers, I give my place before you to the son of
the Khai and his one surviving heir!"
Had she thought the hall loud before? It was deafening. No one was left
seated. Bodies pressed at her hack, jostling her against the railing as
they craned and stretched for a glimpse of the man entering the chamber.
He stood tall and straight, his dark robes with their high collar
looking almost priestly. Otah Machi, the upstart, strode into the hall,
with the grace and calm of a man who owned it and every man and woman
who breathed air.
He's mad, she thought. He's gone mad to come here. They'll tear him
apart with their hands. And then she saw behind him the brown robes of a
poet-Maati Vaupathai, the envoy of the Dal-kvo. And behind him ...
Her mouth went dry and her body began to tremble. She shrieked, she
screamed, but no one could hear her over the crowd. She couldn't even
hear herself. And yet, walking at Maati's side, Cehmai looked tip. His
face was grim and calm and distant. The poets strode together behind the
upstart. And then the armsmen of Radaani and Vaunani, Kaman and Daikani
and Saya. Hardly a tenth of the families of the utkhaicm, but still a
show of power. The poets alone would have been enough.
She didn't think, couldn't recall pushing back the people around her,
she only knew her own intentions when she was over the rail and falling.
It wasn't so far to the ground-no more than the height of two men, and
yet in the roar and chaos, the drop seemed to last forever. When she
struck the floor at last, it jarred her to the hone. Her ankle bloomed
with pain. She put it aside and ran as best she could through the
stunned men of the utkhaiem. Men all about her, unable to act, unable to
move. They were like statues, frozen by their uncertainty and confusion.
She knew that she was screaming-shc could feel it in her throat, could
hear it in her cars. She sounded crazed, but that was unimportant. Her
attention was single, focused. The rage that possessed her, that lifted
her up and sped her steps by its power alone, was only for the upstart,
Otah Machi, who had taken her lover from her.
She saw Adrah and Daaya already on the floor, an armsman kneeling on
each back. "There was a blade still in Adrah's hand. And then there
before her like a fish rising to the surface of a pond was Otah Machi,
her brother. She launched herself at him, her hands reaching for him
like claws. She didn't see how the andat moved between them; perhaps it
had been waiting for her. Its wide, cold body appeared, and she collided
with it. Huge hands wrapped her own, and the wide, inhuman face bent
close to hers.
"Stop this," it said. "It won't help."
"'t'his isn't right!" she shouted, aware now that the pandemonium had
quieted, that her voice could be heard, but she could no more stop
herself now than learn to fly. "He swore he'd protect me. He swore it.
It's not right!"
"Nothing is," the andat agreed, as it pulled her aside, lifted her as if
she was still a child, and pressed her against the wall. She felt
herself sinking into it, the stone giving way to her like mud. She
fought, but the wide hands were implacable. She shrieked and kicked,
sure that the stone would close over her like water, and then she
stopped fighting. Let it kill her, let her die.
Let it end.
The hands went away, and Idaan found herself immobile, trapped in stone
that had found its solidity again. She could breathe, she could see, she
could hear. She opened her mouth to scream, to call for Cehmai. To beg.
Stone-Made-Soft put a single finger to her lips.
"It won't help," the andat said again, then turned and lumbered up
beside the speaker's pulpit where Cehmai stood waiting for it. She
didn't look at her brother as he took the pulpit, only Cehmai. He didn't
look back at her. When Utah spoke, his words cut through the air, clean
and strong as wine.
"I am Otah 1MIachi, sixth son of the Khai Machi. I have never renounced
my claim to this place; I have never killed or plotted to kill my
brothers or my father. But I know who has, and I have come here before
this council to show you what has been done, and by whom, and to claim
what is mine by right."
Idaan closed her eyes and wept, surprised to find her desolation
complicated by relief.
"I NOTICE YOU NEVER MENTIONED THE MALTS," AM1IIT SAID.
The waiting area to which the protocol servant had led them was open and
light, looking out over a garden of flowering vines. A silver howl with
water cooling fresh peaches sat on a low table. Amiit leaned against the
railing. He looked calm, but Otah could see the white at the corners of
his mouth and the small movements of his hands; Amiit's belly was as
much in knots as his own.
"There was no call," Utah said. "The families that were involved know
that they were being used, and if they only suspect that I know it,
that's almost as good as being sure. How long are we going to have to wait?"
"Until they've finished deciding whether to kill you as a murderer or
raise you up as the Khai Maehi," Amiit said. "It shouldn't take long.
You were very good out there."
"You could sound more sure of all this."
"We'll be fine," Amiit said. "We have hacking. We have the poets."