A Betrayal in Winter (The Long Price Quartet Book 2)

  “I understand, most high.”

  “You do not, Maati-cha. The spring roses are starting to bloom, and I will not see high summer. Neither of us has the luxury of time.”

  THE GATHERING was all that Cehmai had hoped for, and less. Spring breezes washed the pavilion with the scent of fresh flowers. Kilns set along the edges roared behind the music of reed organ, flute, and drum. Overhead, the stars shone like gems strewn on dark velvet. The long months of winter had given musicians time to compose and practice new songs, and the youth of the high families week after weary week to tire of the cold and dark and the terrible constriction that deep winter brought to those with no business to conduct on the snow.

  Cehmai laughed and clapped time with the music and danced. Women and girls caught his eye, and he, theirs. The heat of youth did where heavier robes would otherwise have been called for, and the draw of body to body filled the air with something stronger than the perfume of flowers. Even the impending death of the Khai lent an air of license. Momentous things were happening, the world’s order was changing, and they were young enough to find the thought romantic.

  And yet he could not enjoy it.

  A young man in an eagle’s mask pressed a bowl of hot wine into his hand, and spun away into the dance. Cehmai grinned, sipped at it, and faded back to the edge of the pavilion. In the shadows behind the kilns, Stone-Made-Soft stood motionless. Cehmai sat beside it, put the bowl on the grass, and watched the revelry. Two young men had doffed their robes entirely and were sprinting around the wide grounds in nothing but their masks and long scarves trailing from their necks. The andat shifted like the first shudder of a landslide, then was still again. When it spoke, its voice was so soft that they would not be heard by the others.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time the Dai-kvo had lied.”

  “Or the first time I’d wondered why,” Cehmai said. “It’s his to decide what to say and to whom.”

  “And yours?”

  “And mine to satisfy my curiosity. You heard what he said to the overseer in the mines. If he truly didn’t want me to know, he would have lied better. Maati-kvo is looking into more than the library, and that’s certain.”

  The andat sighed. Stone-Made-Soft had no more need of breath than did a mountainside. The exhalation could only be a comment. Cehmai felt the subject of their conversation changing even before the andat spoke.

  “She’s come.”

  And there, dressed black as rooks and pale as mourning, Idaan Machi moved among the dancers. Her mask hid only part of her face and not her identity. Wrapped as he was by the darkness, she did not see him. Cehmai felt a lightening in his breast as he watched her move through the crowd, greeting friends and looking, he thought, for something or perhaps someone among them. She was not beautiful—well painted, but any number of the girls and women were more nearly perfect. She was not the most graceful, or the best spoken, or any of the hundred things that Cehmai thought of when he tried to explain to himself why this girl should fascinate him. The closest he could come was that she was interesting, and none of the others were.

  “It won’t end well,” the andat murmured.

  “It hasn’t begun,” Cehmai said. “How can something end when it hasn’t even started?”

  Stone-Made-Soft sighed again, and Cehmai rose, tugging at his robes to smooth their lines. The music had paused and someone in the crowd laughed long and high.

  “Come back when you’ve finished and we’ll carry on our conversation,” the andat said.

  Cehmai ignored the patience in its voice and strode forward, back into the light. The reed organ struck a chord just as he reached Idaan’s side. He brushed her arm, and she turned—first annoyed and then surprised and then, he thought, pleased.

  “Idaan-cha,” he said, the exaggerated formality acting as its opposite without taking him quite into the intimacy that the kya suffix would have suggested. “I’d almost thought you wouldn’t be joining us.”

  “I almost wasn’t,” she said. “I hadn’t thought you’d be here.”

  The organ set a beat, and the drums picked it up; the dance was beginning again. Cehmai held out a hand and, after a pause that took a thousand years and lasted perhaps a breath, Idaan took it. The music began in earnest, and Cehmai spun her, took her under his arm, and was turned by her. It was a wild tune, rich and fast with a rhythm like a racing heart. Around him the others were grinning, though not at him. Idaan laughed, and he laughed with her. The paving stones beneath them seemed to echo back the song, and the sky above them received it.

  As they turned to face each other, he could see the flush in Idaan’s cheek, and felt the same blood in his own, and then the music whirled them off again.

  In the center of the frenzy, someone took Cehmai’s elbow from behind, and something round and hard was pressed into his hands. A man’s voice whispered urgently in his ear.

  “Hold this.”

  Cehmai faltered, confused, and the moment was gone. He was suddenly standing alone in a throng of people, holding an empty bowl—a thread of wine wetting the rim—while Adrah Vaunyogi took Idaan Machi through the steps and turns of the dance. The pair shifted away from him, left him behind. Cehmai felt the flush in his cheek brighten. He turned and walked through the shifting bodies, handing the bowl to a servant as he left.

  “He is her lover,” the andat said. “Everyone knows it.”

  “I don’t,” Cehmai said.

  “I just told you.”

  “You tell me things all the time; it doesn’t mean I agree to them.”

  “This thing you have in mind,” Stone-Made-Soft said. “You shouldn’t do it.”

  Cehmai looked up into the calm gray eyes set in the wide, placid face. He felt his own head rise in defiance, even as he knew the words were truth. It was stupid and mean and petty. Adrah Vaunyogi wasn’t even entirely in the wrong. There was a perspective by which the little humiliation Cehmai had been dealt was a small price for flirting so openly with another man’s love.

  And yet.

  The andat nodded slowly and turned to consider the dancers. It was easy enough to pick out Idaan and Adrah. They were too far for Cehmai to be sure, but he liked to think she was frowning. It hardly mattered. Cehmai focused on Adrah’s movements—his feet, shifting in time with the drums while Idaan danced to the flutes. He doubled his attention, feeling it through his own body and also the constant storm at the back of his mind. In that instant he was both of them—a single being with two bodies and a permanent struggle at the heart. And then, at just the moment when Adrah’s foot came back to catch his weight, Cehmai reached out. The paving stone gave way, the smooth stone suddenly soft as mud, and Adrah stumbled backward and fell, landing on his rear, legs splayed. Cehmai waited a moment for the stone to flow back nearer to smooth, then let his consciousness return to its usual state. The storm that was Stone-Made-Soft was louder, more present in his mind, like the proud flesh where a thorn has scratched skin. And like a scratch, Cehmai knew it would subside.

  “We should go,” Cehmai said, “before I’m tempted to do something childish.”

  The andat didn’t answer, and Cehmai led the way through the night-dark gardens. The music floated in the distance and then faded. Far from the kilns and dancing, the night was cold—not freezing, but near it. But the stars were brighter, and the moon glowed: a rim of silver that made the starless thumbprint darker by contrast. They passed by the temple and the counting house, the bathhouse and base of the great tower. The andat turned down a side path then, and paused when Cehmai did not follow.

  Stone-Made-Soft took a pose of query.

  “Is this not where you were going?” it asked.

  Cehmai considered, and then smiled.

  “I suppose it is,” he said, and followed the captive spirit down the curving pathway and up the wide, shallow steps that led to the library. The great stone doors were barred from within, but Cehmai followed the thin gravel path at the side of the building, keeping close to the wal
l. The windows of Baarath’s apartments glowed with more than a night candle’s light. Even with the night half gone, he was awake. The door slave was an ancient man, and Cehmai had to shake him by the shoulder before he woke, retreated into the apartments, and returned to lead them in.

  The apartments smelled of old wine and the sandalwood resin that Baarath burned in his brazier. The tables and couches were covered with books and scrolls, and no cushion had escaped from some ink stain. Baarath, dressed in deep red robes as thick as tapestry, rose from his desk and took a pose of welcome. His copper torc of office was lying discarded on the floor at his feet.

  “Cehmai-cha, to what do I owe this honor?”

  Cehmai frowned. “Are you angry with me?” he asked.

  “Of course not, great poet. How could a poor man of books dare to feel angry with a personage like yourself?”

  “Gods,” Cehmai said as he shifted a pile of papers from a wide chair. “I don’t know, Baarath-kya. Do tell me.”

  “Kya? Oh, you are too familiar with me, great poet. I would not suggest so deep a friendship as that with a man so humble as myself.”

  “You’re right,” Cehmai said, sitting. “I was trying to flatter you. Did it work?”

  “You should have brought wine,” the stout man said, taking his own seat. The false graciousness was gone, and a sour impatience in its place. “And come at an hour when living men could talk business. Isn’t it late for you to be wandering around like a dazed rabbit?”

  “There was a gathering at the rose pavilion. I was just going back to my apartments and I noticed the lights burning.”

  Baarath made a sound between a snort and a cough. Stone-Made-Soft gazed placidly at the marble walls, as thoughtful as a lumberman judging the best way to fell a tree. Cehmai frowned at it, and the andat replied with a gesture more eloquent than any pose. Don’t blame me. He’s your friend, not mine.

  “I wanted to ask how things were proceeding with Maati Vaupathai,” Cehmai said.

  “About time someone took an interest in that annoying, feckless idiot. I’ve met cows with more sense than he has.”

  “Not proceeding well, then?”

  “Who can tell? Weeks, it’s been. He’s only here about half the morning, and then he’s off dining with the dregs of the court, taking meetings with trading houses, and loafing about in the low towns. If I were the Dai-kvo, I’d pull that man back home and set him to plowing fields. I’ve eaten hens that were better scholars.”

  “Cows and hens. He’ll be a whole farmyard soon,” Cehmai said, but his mind was elsewhere. “What does he study when he is here?”

  “Nothing in particular. He picks up whatever strikes him and spends a day with it, and then comes back the next for something totally unrelated. I haven’t told him about the Khai’s private archives, and he hasn’t bothered to ask. I was sure, you know, when he first came, that he was after something in the private archives. But now it’s like the library itself might as well not exist.”

  “Perhaps there is some pattern in what he’s looking at. A common thread that places them all together.”

  “You mean maybe poor old Baarath is too simple to see the picture when it’s being painted for him? I doubt it. I know this place better than any man alive. I’ve even made my own shelving system. I have read more of these books and seen more of their relationships than anyone. When I tell you he’s wandering about like tree fluff on a breezy day, it’s because he is.”

  Cehmai tried to feel surprise, and failed. The library was only an excuse. The Dai-kvo had sent Maati Vaupathai to examine the death of Biitrah Machi. That was clear. Why he would choose to do so, was not. It wasn’t the poets’ business to take sides in the succession, only to work with—and sometimes cool the ambitions of—whichever son survived. The Khaiem administered the city, accepted the glory and tribute, passed judgment. The poets kept the cities from ever going to war one against the other, and fueled the industries that brought wealth from the Westlands and Galt, Bakta, and the east islands. But something had happened, or was happening, that had captured the Dai-kvo’s interest.

  And Maati Vaupathai was an odd poet. He held no post, trained under no one. He was old to attempt a new binding. By many standards, he was already a failure. The only thing Cehmai knew of him that stood out at all was that Maati had been in Saraykeht when that city’s poet was murdered and the andat set free. He thought of the man’s eyes, the darkness that they held, and a sense of unease troubled him.

  “I don’t know what the point of that sort of grammar would be,” Baarath said. “Dalani Toygu’s was better for one thing, and half the length.”

  Cehmai realized that Baarath had been talking this whole time, that the subject had changed, and in fact they were in the middle of a debate on a matter he couldn’t identify. All this without the need that he speak.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Cehmai said. “I hadn’t seen it from that angle.”

  Stone-Made-Soft’s calm, constant near-smile widened slightly.

  “You should have, though. That’s my point. Grammars and translations and the subtleties of thought are your trade. That I know more about it than you and that Maati person is a bad sign for the world. Note this, Cehmai-kya, write down that I said it. It’s that kind of ignorance that will destroy the Khaiem.”

  “I’ll write down that you said it,” Cehmai said. “In fact, I’ll go back to my apartments right now and do that. And afterwards, I’ll crawl into bed, I think.”

  “So soon?”

  “The night candle’s past its center mark,” Cehmai said.

  “Fine. Go. When I was your age, I would stay up nights in a row for the sake of a good conversation like this, but I suppose the generations weaken, don’t they?”

  Cehmai took a pose of farewell, and Baarath returned it.

  “Come by tomorrow, though,” Baarath said as they left. “There’s some old imperial poetry I’ve translated that might interest you.”

  Outside, the night had grown colder, and few lanterns lit the paths and streets. Cehmai pulled his arms in from their sleeves and held his fingers against his sides for warmth. His breath plumed blue-white in the faint moonlight, and even the distant scent of pine resin made the air seem colder.

  “He doesn’t think much of our guest,” Cehmai said. “I would have thought he’d be pleased that Maati took little interest in the books, after all the noise he made.”

  When Stone-Made-Soft spoke, its breath did not fog. “He’s like a girl bent on protecting her virginity until she finds no one wants it.”

  Cehmai laughed.

  “That is entirely too apt,” he said, and the andat took a pose accepting the compliment.

  “You’re going to do something,” it said.

  “I’m going to pay attention,” Cehmai said. “If something needs doing, I’ll try to be on hand.”

  They turned down the cobbled path that led to the poet’s house. The sculpted oaks that lined it rustled in the faint breeze, rubbing new leaves together like a thousand tiny hands. Cehmai wished that he’d thought to bring a candle from Baarath’s. He imagined Maati Vaupathai standing in the shadows with his appraising gaze and mysterious agenda.

  “You’re frightened of him,” the andat said, but Cehmai didn’t answer.

  There was someone there among the trees—a shape shifting in the darkness. He stopped and slid his arms back into their sleeves. The andat stopped as well. They weren’t far from the house—Cehmai could see the glow of the lantern left out before his doorway. The story of a poet slaughtered in a distant city raced in his mind until the figure came out between him and his doorway, silhouetted in the dim light. Cehmai’s heart didn’t slow, but it did change contents.

  She still wore the half-mask she’d had at the gathering. Her black and white robes shifted, the cloth so rich and soft, and he could hear it even over the murmur of the trees. He stepped toward her, taking a pose of welcome.

  “Idaan,” he said. “Is there something … I d
idn’t expect to find you here. I mean … I’m doing this rather badly, aren’t I?”

  “Start again,” she said.

  “Idaan.”

  “Cehmai.”

  She took a step toward him. He could see the flush in her cheek and smell the faint, nutty traces of distilled wine on her breath. When she spoke, her words were sharp and precise.

  “I saw what you did to Adrah,” she said. “He left a heel mark in the stone.”

  “Have I given offense?” he asked.

  “Not to me. He didn’t see it, and I didn’t say.”

  In the back of his mind, or in some quarter of his flesh, Cehmai felt Stone-Made-Soft receding as if in answer to his own wish. They were alone on the dark path.

  “It’s difficult for you, isn’t it?” she said. “Being a part of the court and yet not. Being among the most honored men in the city, and yet not of Machi.”

  “I bear it. You’ve been drinking.”

  “I have. But I know who I am and where I am. I know what I’m doing.”

  “What are you doing, Idaan-kya?”

  “Poets can’t take wives, can they?”

  “We don’t, no. There’s not often room in our lives for a family.”

  “And lovers?”

  Cehmai felt his breath coming faster and willed it to slow. An echo of amusement in the back of his mind was not his own thought. He ignored it.

  “Poets take lovers,” he said.

  She stepped nearer again, not touching, not speaking. There was no chill to the air now. There was no darkness. Cehmai’s senses were as fresh and bright and clear as midday, his mind as focused as the first day he’d controlled the andat. Idaan took his hand and slowly, deliberately, drew it through the folds of her robes until it cupped her breast.

  “You … you have a lover, Idaan-kya. Adrah …”

  “Do you want me to sleep here tonight?”

  “Yes, Idaan. I do.”

  “And I want that too.”

  He struggled to think, but his skin felt as though he was basking in some hidden sun. There seemed to be some sound in his ears that he couldn’t place that drove away everything but his fingertips and the cold-stippled flesh beneath them.