"And yet?"
Amiit forced a chuckle.
"This is why I don't play tiles. Just before the tiles man turns the
last chit, I convince myself that there's something I've overlooked."
"I hope you aren't right this time."
"If I am, I won't have to worry about next. They'll kill me as dead as you.
Otah picked up a peach and hit into it. The fuzz made his lips itch, but
the taste was sweet and rich and complex. He sighed and looked out.
Above the garden wall rose the towers, and beyond them the blue of the sky.
"If we win, you will have to have them killed, you know," Amiit said.
"Adrah and his father. Your sister, Idaan."
"Not her."
"Otah-cha, this is going to be hard enough as it stands. The utkhaiem
are going to accept you because they have to. But you won't be hailed as
a savior. And Kiyan-cha's a common woman from no family. She kept a
wayhouse. Showing mercy to the girl who killed your father isn't going
to win you anyone's support."
"I am the Khai Machi," Otah said. "I'll make my way."
"You don't understand how complex this is likely to be."
Otah shrugged.
"I trust your advice, Amiit-cha," Otah said. "You'll have to trust my
judgment."
The overseer's expression soured for a moment, and then he laughed. They
lapsed into silence. It was true. It was early in his career to appear
weak, and the Vaunyogi had killed two of his brothers and his father,
and had tried to kill Maati as well. And behind them, the Galts. And the
library. There had been something in there, some book or scroll or codex
worth all those lives, all that money, and the risk. By the time the sun
fled behind the mountains in the west, he would know whether he'd have
the power to crush their nation, reduce their houses to slag, their
cities to ruins. A word to Cehmai would put it in motion. All it would
require of him would be to forget that they also had children and
lovers, that the people of Galt were as likely as anyone in the cities
of the Khaiem to love and betray, lie and dream. And he was having pangs
over executing his own father's killer. He took another bite of the peach.
"You've gone quiet," Amiit said softly.
"Thinking about how complex this is likely to be," Otah said.
He finished the last of the peach flesh and threw the stone out into the
garden before he washed his hands clean in the water howl it had come
from. A company of armsmen in ceremonial mail appeared at the door with
a grim-faced servant in simple black robes.
"Your presence is requested in the council chamber," the servant said.
"I'll see you once it's over," Amiit said.
Otah straightened his robes, took and released a deep breath, and
adopted a pose of thanks. The servant turned silently, and Otah followed
with armsmen on either side of him and behind. Their pace was solemn.
The halls with their high, arched ceilings and silvered glass,
adornments of gold and silver and iron, were empty except for the jingle
of mail and the tread of boots. Slowly the murmur of voices and the
smells of bodies and lamp oil filled the air. The black-robed servant
turned a corner, and a pair of double doors swung open to the council
hall. The Master of Tides stood on the speaker's pulpit.
The black lacquer chair reserved for the Khai Machi had been brought,
and stood empty on a dais of its own. Otah held himself straight and
tall. He strode into the chamber as if his mind were not racing, his
heart not conflicted.
He walked to the base of the pulpit and looked up. The Master of "hides
was a smaller man than he'd thought, but his voice was strong enough.
"Otah Machi. In recognition of your blood and claim, we of the high
families of Machi have chosen to dissolve our council, and cede to you
the chair that was your father's."
Otah took a pose of thanks that he realized as he took it was a thousand
times too casual for the moment, dropped it, and walked up the dais.
Someone in the second gallery high above him began to applaud, and
within moments, the air was thick with the sound. Otah sat on the black
and uncomfortable chair and looked out. There were thousands of faces,
all of them fixed upon him. Old men, young men, children. The highest
families of the city and the palace servants. Some were exultant, some
stunned. A few, he thought, were dark with anger. He picked out Maati
and Cehmai. Even the andat had joined in. The ta bles at which the Kamau
and Vaunani, Radaani and Saya and Daikani all sat were surrounded by
cheering men. The table of the Vaunyogi was empty.
They would never all truly believe him innocent. They would never all
give him their loyalty. He looked out into their faces and he saw years
of his life laid out before him, constrained by necessity and petty
expedience. He guessed at the mockery he would endure behind his hack
while he struggled to learn his new-acquired place. He tried to appear
gracious and grave at once, certain he was failing at both.
For this, he thought, I have given up the world.
And then, at the far back of the hall, he caught sight of Kiyan. She,
perhaps alone, wasn't applauding him. She only smiled as if amused and
perhaps pleased. He felt himself soften. Amid all the meaningless
celebration, all the empty delight, she was the single point of
stillness. Kiyan was safe, and she was his, and their child would he
born into safety and love.
If all the rest was the price for those few things, it was one he would pay.
It was winter when Maati Vaupathai returned to Mlachi. "I'he days were
brief and hitter, the sky often white with a scrim of cloud that faded
seamlessly into the horizon. Roads were forgotten; the snow covered road
and river and empty field. "I'hc sledge dogs ran on the thick glaze of
ice wherever the teamsman aimed them. Maati sat on the skidding waxed
wood, his arms pulled inside his clothes, the hood of his cloak pulled
low and tight to warm the air before he breathed it. He'd been told that
he must above all else be careful not to sweat. If his robes got wet,
they would freeze, and that would be little better than running naked
through the drifts. He had chosen not to make the experiment.
His guide seemed to stop at every wayhouse and low town. INlaati learned
that the towns had been planned by local farmers and merchants so that
no place was more than a day's fast travel from shelter, even on the
short days around Candles Night when the darkness was three times as
long as the light. When Maati walked up the shallow ramps and through
the snow doors, he appreciated their wisdom. A night in the open during