Shadow and Betrayal (96 page)
Read Shadow and Betrayal Online
Authors: Daniel Abraham
Cehmai glared at the wide face, the slow, calm eyes, searching for a shred of sarcasm. There was none.
‘Why are you trying to confuse me?’ he asked.
The andat turned to look out the window and stood as still as a statue. Cehmai waited, but it didn’t shift, even to look at him. The rooms darkened and Cehmai lit lemon candles to keep the insects away. His mind was divided into a hundred different thoughts, each of them powerful and convincing and no two fitting together.
When at last he went up to his bed, he couldn’t sleep. The blankets still smelled of her, of the two of them. Of love and sleep. Cehmai wrapped the sheets around himself and willed his mind to quiet, but the whirl of thoughts didn’t allow rest. Idaan loved him. She had had her own father killed. Maati had been right, all this time. It was his duty to tell what he knew, but he couldn’t. It was possible - she might have tricked him all along. He felt as cracked as river ice when a stone had been dropped through it; jagged fissures cut through him in all directions. There was no center of peace within him.
And yet he must have drifted off, because the storm pulled him awake. Cehmai stumbled out of bed, pulling down half his netting with a soft ripping sound. He crawled to the corridor almost before he understood that the pitching and moaning, the shrieking and the nausea were all in the private space behind his eyes. It had never been so powerful.
He fell as he went to the front of the house, barking his knee against the wall. The thick carpets were sickening to touch, the fibers seeming to writhe under his fingers like dry worms. Stone-Made-Soft sat at the gaming table. The white marble, the black basalt. A single white stone was shifted out of its beginning line.
‘Not now,’ Cehmai croaked.
‘Now,’ the andat said, its voice loud and low and undeniable.
The room pitched and spun. Cehmai dragged himself to the table and tried to focus on the pieces. The game was simple enough. He’d played it a thousand times. He shifted a black stone forward. He felt he was still half dreaming. The stone he’d moved was Idaan. Stone-Made-Soft’s reply moved a token that was both its fourth column and also Otah Machi. Groggy with sleep and distress and annoyance and the angry pressure of the andat struggling against him, he didn’t understand how far things had gone until twelve moves later when he shifted a black stone one place to the left, and Stone-Made-Soft smiled.
‘Maybe she’ll still love you afterwards,’ the andat said. ‘Do you think she’ll care as much about your love when you’re just a man in a brown robe?’
Cehmai looked at the stones, the shifting line of them, flowing and sinuous as a river, and he saw his mistake. Stone-Made-Soft pushed a white stone forward and the storm in Cehmai’s mind redoubled. He could hear his own breath rattling. He was sticky with the rancid sweat of effort and fear. He was losing. He couldn’t make himself think; controlling his own mind was like wrestling a beast - something large and angry and stronger than he was. In his confusion, Idaan and Adrah and the death of the Khai all seemed connected to the tokens glowing on the board. Each was enmeshed with the others, and all of them were lost. He could feel the andat pressing toward freedom and oblivion. All the generations of carrying it, gone because of him.
‘It’s your move,’ the andat said.
‘I can’t,’ Cehmai said. His own voice sounded distant.
‘I can wait as long as you care to,’ it said. ‘Just tell me when you think it’ll get easier.’
‘You knew this would happen,’ Cehmai said. ‘You knew.’
‘Chaos has a smell to it,’ the andat agreed. ‘Move.’
Cehmai tried to study the board, but every line he could see led to failure. He closed his eyes and rubbed them until ghosts bloomed in the darkness, but when he reopened them, it was no better. The sickness grew in his belly. He felt he was falling. The knock on the door behind him was something of a different world, a memory from some other life, until the voice came.
‘I know you’re in there! You won’t believe what’s happened. Half the utkhaiem are spotty with welts. Open the door!’
‘Baarath!’
Cehmai didn’t know how loud he’d called - it might have been a whisper or a scream. But it was enough. The librarian appeared beside him. The stout man’s eyes were wide, his lips thin.
‘What’s wrong?’ Baarath asked. ‘Are you sick? Gods, Cehmai . . . Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll have a physician—’
‘Paper. Bring me paper. And ink.’
‘It’s your
move
!’ the andat shouted, and Baarath seemed about to bolt.
move
!’ the andat shouted, and Baarath seemed about to bolt.
‘Hurry,’ Cehmai said.
It was a week, a month, a year of struggle before the paper and ink brick appeared at his side. He could no longer tell whether the andat was shouting to him in the real world or only within their shared mind. The game pulled at him, sucking like a whirlpool. The stones shifted with significance beyond their own, and confusion built on confusion in waves so that Cehmai grasped his one thought until it was a certainty.
There was too much. There was more than he could survive. The only choice was to simplify the panoply of conflicts warring within him; there wasn’t room for them all. He had to fix things, and if he couldn’t make them right, he could at least make them end.
He didn’t let himself feel the sorrow or the horror or the guilt as he scratched out a note - brief and clear as he could manage. The letters were shaky, the grammar poor. Idaan and the Vaunyogi and the Galts. Everything he knew written in short, unadorned phrases. He dropped the pen to the floor and pressed the paper into Baarath’s hand.
‘Maati,’ Cehmai said. ‘Take it to Maati. Now.’
Baarath read the letter, and whatever blood had remained in his face drained from it now.
‘This . . . this isn’t . . .’
‘Run!’ Cehmai screamed, and Baarath was off, faster than Cehmai could have gone if he’d tried, Idaan’s doom in his hands. Cehmai closed his eyes. That was over, then. That was decided, and for good or ill, he was committed. The stones now could be only stones.
He pulled himself back to the game board. Stone-Made-Soft had gone silent again. The storm was as fierce as it had ever been, but Cehmai found he also had some greater degree of strength against it. He forced 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 back. His body was shuddering with exhaustion and effort and perhaps something else more to do with Baarath 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. Cehmai 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.’
14
R
ain 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.
ain 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, Maati-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.
Maati began not with his own investigation, but with the story as it had unfolded. Idaan Machi and Adrah Vaunyogi, the backing of the Galts, 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, Kiyan and Amiit had all agreed that the Galts’ interest in the library was something that could be safely neglected. It added nothing to their story, and knowing more than they seemed to might yet prove an advantage. Watching Porsha Radaani’s eyes, Maati thought it had been the right decision.
He outlined what he wanted of the Radaani - the timing of the proposal to disband, the manner in which it would be best approached, the support they would need on the council. Radaani listened like a cat watching a pigeon until the whole proposal was laid out before him. He coughed and loosened the belt of his robe.
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