A Betrayal in Winter

"I know. The midwife offered them to me. Would you ... I mean, is that what you would have wanted?"



"No! Only I ... I'd thought you wouldn't give up what you had. Your father's wayhouse. I don't know that I have much of a life to give you. I was a dead man until a little before dawn today. But if you want ..."



"I wouldn't have left the wayhouse for you, 'Tani. It's where I grew up. It's my home, and I wouldn't give it up for a man. Not even a good man. I made that decision the night you told me who your father was. But for the both of you. Or really, even just for her. That's a harder question."



"Her?"



"Or him," Kiyan said. "Whichever. But I suppose that puts the decision in your hands now. The last time I saw you, I turned you out of my house. I won't use this as a means of forcing you into something you'd rather not. I've made my choice, not yours."



Perhaps it was the fatigue or the wine, but it took Otah the space of two or three breaths to understand what she was saying. lie felt the grin draw hack the corners of his mouth until they nearly ached.



"I want you to be with me, Kiyan-kya. I want you to always be with me. And the baby too. If I have to flee to the Westlands and herd sheep, I want you both with me."



Kiyan breathed in deeply, and let the breath out with a rough stutter. He hadn't seen how unsure she'd been until now, when the relief relaxed her face. She took his hand and squeezed it until he thought both of their bones were creaking.



"That's good. That's very good. I would have been . . ." laughter entered her voice ". . . very disappointed."



A knock at the door startled them both. The commander opened the door and then glanced from one of the laughing pair to the other. His face took a stern expression.



"You told him," Sinja said. "You should at least let the man rest before you tell him things like that. He's had a hard day."



"He's been up to the task," Kiyan said.



"Well, I've come to make things worse. We've just had a runner from the city, Otah-cha. It appears you've murdered your father in his sleep. Your brother Danat led a hunting party bent on bringing back your head on a stick, but apparently you've killed him too. You're running out of family, Otah-cha."



"Ah," Otah said, and then a moment later. "I think perhaps I should lie down now."



They burned the Khai Machi and his son together in the yard outside the temple. The head priest wore his hale robes, the hood pulled low over his eyes in respect, and tended the flames. Thick, black smoke rose from the pyre and vanished into the air high above the city. A~Iachi had woken from its revels to find the world worse than when they'd begun, and Cehmai saw it in every face he passed. A thousand of them at least stood in the afternoon sun. Shock and sorrow, confusion and fear.



And excitement. In a few eyes among the utkhaicm, he saw the bright eyes and sharp ears of men who smelled opportunity. Ile walked among them, Stone-Made-Soft at his side, peering through the funereal throng for the one familiar face. ldaan had to be there, but he could not find her.



The lower priests also passed through the crowds, singing dirges and beating the dry notes of drums. Slaves in ceremonially torn robes passed out tin cups of bittcrcd water. (,'China] ignored them. The burning would go on through the night until the ashes of the men and the ashes of the coal were indistinguishable. And then a week's mourning. And then these men weeping or staring, grim or secretly pleased, would meet and decide which of their number would have the honor of sitting on the dead family's chair and leading the hunt for the man who had murdered his own father. Cehmai found himself unable to care particularly who won or lost, whether the upstart was caught or escaped. Somewhere among all these mourners was the woman he'd come to love, in more pain than she had ever been in since he'd known her. And he-he who could topple towers at a whim and make mountains flow like floodwater-couldn't find her.



Instead, he found Maati in brown poet's robes standing on a raised walkway that overlooked the mourning throng. 'T'hough they were on the edge of the ceremony, Cehmai saw the pyre light reflecting in Maati's fixed eyes. Cehmai almost didn't approach him, almost didn't speak. 'T'here was a darkness wrapped around the poet. But it was possible he had been there from the ceremony's beginning. He might know where Idaan was. Cehmai took a pose of greeting which Maati did not return.



"Maati-kvo?"



Maati looked over first at Cehmai, then Stone-Made-Soft, and then back again at the fire. After a moment's pause, his face twisted in disgust.



"Not kvo. Never kvo. I haven't taught you anything, so don't address me as a teacher. I was wrong. From the beginning, I was wrong."



"Otah was very convincing," Cehmai said. "No one thought he would-"



"Not about that. He didn't do this. Baarath ... Gods, why did it have to be Baarath that saw it? Prancing, self-important, smug ..."



Maati fumbled with a sewn-leather wineskin and took a long deep, joyless drink from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, then held the skin out in offering. Cehmai declined. Maati offered it to the andat, but Stone-blade-Soft only smiled as if amused.



"I thought it was someone in the family. One of his brothers. It had to be. Who else would benefit? I was stupid."



"Forgive me, N,laati-kvo. But no one did benefit."



"One of them did," he said, gesturing out at the mourners. "One of them is going to he the new Khai. He'll tell you what to do, and you'll do it. He'll live in the high palaces, and everyone else in the city will lick his ass if he tells them to. That's what it's all about. Who has to lick whose ass. And there's blood enough to fill a river answering that." He took another long pull from the wineskin, then dropped it idly to the ground at his feet. "I hate all of them."



"So do I," Stone-Made-Soft said, his tone light and conversational.



"You're drunk, Maati-kvo."



"Not half enough. Here, look at this. You know what this is?"



Cehmai glanced at the object Maati had pulled from his sleeve.



"A book."



"This is my teacher's masterwork. Heshai-kvo, poet of Saraykeht. The Dai-kvo sent me to him when I was hardly younger than you are now. I was going to study under him, take control of Seedless. Removing-the-Part-ihat-Continues. We called him Seedless. This is Heshai-kvo's examination of everything he'd done wrong. Every improvement he could have made to his binding, if he'd had it to do over again. It's brilliant."



"But it can't work, can it?" Cehmai said. "It would he too close...."



"Of course not, it's a refinement of his work, not how to bind Seedless again. It's a record of his failure. I)o you understand what I'm saving?"



Cchmai grasped for a right answer to the question and ended with honesty.



"No," he said.



"Heshai-kvo was a drunkard. He was a failure. He was haunted his whole life by the woman he loved and the child he lost, and every measure of the hatred he had for himself was in his binding. I Ic imagined the andat as the perfect man and implicit in that was the disdain he imagined such a man would feel looking at him. But Heshai was strong enough to look his mistake in the face. He was strong enough to sit with it and catalog it and understand. And the I)ai-kvo sent me to him. Because he thought we could he the same. tic thought I would understand him well enough to stand in his place."



"Nlaati-kvo, I'm sorry. Have you seen Idaan?"



"Well," Maati said, ignoring the question as he swayed slightly and frowned at the crowd. "I can face my stupidities just as well as he did. The I)ai-kvo wants to know who killed Biitrah? I'll find out. He can tell me it's too late and he can tell me to come home, but he can't make me stop looking. Whoever gets that chair ... whoever gets it ..."



Maati frowned, confused for a moment, and a sudden racking sob shook him. He leaned forward. Cehmai moved to him, certain for a moment that Maati was about to pitch off the walkway and down to the distant ground, but instead the older poet gathered himself and took a pose of apology.



"I'm ... making an ass of myself," he said. "You were saying something."



Cehmai was torn for a moment. He could see the red that lined Maati's eyes, could smell the sick reek of distilled wine on his breath and something deeper-some drug mixed with the wine. Someone needed to see Maati back to his apartments, needed to see that he was cared for. On another night, Cehmai would have done it.



"Idaan," he said. "She must have been here. They're burning her brother and her father. She had to attend the ceremony."



"She did." Nlaati agreed. "I saw her."



"Where's she gone?"



"With her man, I think. He was there beside her," Maati said. "I don't know where they went."



"Are you going to he all right, Maati-kvo?"



Nlaati seemed to think about this, then nodded once and turned hack to watch the pyre burning. The brown leather hook had fallen to the ground by the wineskin, and the andat retrieved it and put it back in Maati's sleeve. As they walked away, Cehmai took a pose of query.



"I didn't think he'd want to lose it," the andat said.



"So that was a favor to him?" Cehmai said. Stone-Made-Soft didn't reply. They walked toward the women's quarters and Idaan's apartments. If she was not there, he would go to the Vaunyogi's palace. He would say he was there to offer condolences to Idaan-cha. That it was his duty as poet and representative of the Dai-kvo to offer condolences to Idaan Machi on this most sorrowful of days. It was his duty. Gods. And the Vaunyogi would be chewing their own livers out. They'd contracted to marry their son to the Khai 1MIachi's sister. Now she was no one's family.



"Maybe they'll cancel the arrangement," Stone-Made-Soft said. "It isn't as if anyone would blame them. She could come live with us."



"You can be quiet now," Cehmai said.



At Idaan's quarters, the servant boy reported that Idaan-cha had been there, but had gone. Yes, Adrah-cha had been there as well, but he had also gone. The unease in the boy's manner made Cehmai wonder. Part of him hoped that they had been fighting, those two. It was despicable, but it was there: the desire that he and not Adrah Vaunyogi be the one to comfort her.



He stopped next at the palace of the Vaunyogi. A servant led him to a waiting chamber that had been dressed in pale mourning cloth fragrant from the cedar chests in which it had been stored. The chairs and statuary, windows and floors were all swathed in white rags that candlelight made gold. The andat stood at the window, peering out at the courtyard while Cehmai sat on the front handspan of a seat. Every breath he took here made him wonder if coming had been a mistake.



The door to the main hall swung open. Adrah Vaunyogi stepped in. His shoulders rode high and tight, his lips thin as a line drawn on paper. Cehmai stood and took a pose of greeting which Adrah mirrored before he closed the door.



"I'm surprised to sec you, Cchmai-cha," Adrah said, walking forward slowly, as if unsure what precisely he was approaching. Cehmai smiled to keep his unease from showing. "My father is occupied. But perhaps I might be able to help you?"



"You're most kind. I came to offer my sympathies to ldaan-cha. I had heard she was with you, and so ..."



"No. She was, but she's left. Perhaps she went back to the ceremony." Adrah's voice was distant, as if only half his attention was on the conversation. His eyes, however, were fixed on Cehmai like a snake on a mouse, only Cehmai wasn't sure which of them would be the mouse, which the serpent.



"I will look there," Cehmai said. "I didn't mean to disturb you."



"We are always pleased by an audience with the poet of Machi. Wait. Don't ... don't go. Sit with me a moment."



Stone-Made-Soft didn't shift, but Cehmai could feel its interest and amusement in the back of his mind. Cehmai sat in it rag-covered chair. Adrah pulled a stool near to him, nearer than custom required. It was as if Adrah wanted to make him feel they were in a smaller room together. Cehmai kept his face as placid as the andat's.



"The city is in terrible trouble, Cehmai-cha. You know how had these things can get. When it's only the three sons of the Khai, it's bad enough. But with all the utkhaicm scheming and fighting and betraying one another, the damage to the city ...



"I'd thought about that," Cehmai said, though in truth he cared more about Idaan than the political struggles that the coming weeks would bring. "And there's still the problem of Otah. He has a claim ..."



"He's murdered his own father."



"Have we proven that?"



"You doubt that he did the thing?"



"No," Cehmai said after a moment's pause. "No, I don't." Rrit,lfaati- kt o still does.



"It would be best to end this quickly. To name the new Khai before things can get out of control. You are a man of tremendous power. I know the Dai-kvo takes no sides in matters of succession. But if you were to let it be known that you favored some particular house, without taking any formal position, it would make things easier."



"Only if I backed a house that was prepared to win," Cehmai said. "If I chose poorly, I'd throw some poor unprepared family in with the pit hounds."



"My family is ready. We are well respected, we have partners in all the great trading houses, and the silversmiths and ironworkers are closer to us than to any other family. Idaan is the only blood of the old Khai remaining in the city. Her brothers will never be Khai Machi, but someday, her son might."



Cehmai considered. Here was a man asking his help, asking for political backing, unaware that Cehmai knew the shape and taste of his lover's body as well as he did. It likely was in his power to elevate Adrah Vaunyogi to the ranks of the Khaiem. He wondered if it was what Idaan would want.



"That may be wise," Cehmai said. "I would need to think about it, of course, before I could act."



Adrah put his hand on Cehmai's knee, familiar as if they were brothers. The andat moved first, ambling toward the door, and then Cehmai stood and adopted a pose appropriate to parting. The amusement coming from Stone-Made-Soft was like constant laughter that only Cehmai could hear.



When they had made their farewells, Cehmai started cast again, toward the burning bodies and the priests. His mind was a jumbleconcern for Idaan, frustration at not finding her, unease with Adrah's proposal, and at the hack, stirring like something half asleep, a dread that seemed wrapped tip with Maati Vaupathai staring drunk into the fire.



One of them, Maati had said, meaning the high families of the utkhaiem. One of them would benefit. Unless Cehmai took a hand and put his own lover's husband in the chair. That wasn't the sort of thing that could have been planned for. No scheme for power could include the supposition that Cehmai would fall in love with Idaan, or that her husband would ask his aid, or that his guilt and affection would drive him to give it. It was the kind of thing that could come from nowhere and upset the perfect plan.



If it wasn't Otah Machi who had engineered all this bloodletting, then some other viper was in the city, and the prospect of Adrah Vaun yogi taking the prize away by marrying Idaan and wooing the poets would drive the killer mad. And even if it was Otah Machi, he might still hope to take his father's place. Adrah's rise would threaten that claim as well.



"You're thinking too hard," the andat said.



"Thinking never hurt anyone."



"So you've all said," the andat sighed.



She wasn't at the ceremony. She wasn't at her quarters. Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft walked together through the gardens and pavilions, the courtyards and halls and passages. Mourning didn't fill the streets and towers the way celebration had. The dry music of the funeral drums wasn't taken up in the teahouses or gardens. Only the pillar of smoke blotting out the stars stood testament to the ceremony. 'twice, Cehmai took them past his own quarters, hoping that Idaan might be there waiting for him, but without effect. She had vanished from the city like a bird flying up into darkness.



His OLD NOTES WERE GONE, I?F'I' IN A PACKET IN HIS ROOMS. KAIIN AND Danat were forgotten, and instead, Maati had fresh papers spread over the library table. Lists of the houses of the utkhaicm that might possible succeed in a bid to become the next Khai. Beside them, a fresh ink brick, a pen with a new bronze nib, and a pot of tea that smelled rich, fresh cut, and green. Summer tea in the winter cities. Maati poured himself a bowl, then blew across the pale surface, his eyes going over the names again.



According to Baarath, who had accepted his second apology with a grace that had surprised him, the most likely was Kamau-a family that traced its bloodline back to the Second Empire. They had the wealth and the prestige. And, most important, an unmarried son in his twenties who was well-respected and active in the court. "Then the Vaunani, less wealthy, less prestigious, but more ruthless. Or possibly the Radaani, who had spent generations putting their hands into the import and export trade until almost every transaction in the city fed their coffers. They were the richest of the utkhaiem, but apparently unable to father males. There were seventeen daughters, and the only candidates for the Khai's chair were the head of the house, his son presently overseeing a trading venture in Yalakeht, and a six-year-old grandson.



And then there were the Vaunyogi. Adrah Vaunyogi was a decent candidate, largely because he was young and virile, and about to be married to Idaan Machi. But the rumors held that the family was underfunded and not as well connected in court. Maati sipped his tea and considered whether to leave them on his list. One of these housesmost likely one of these, though there were certainly other possibilities-had engineered the murder of the Khai Machi. They had placed the blame on Otah. They had spirited him away, and once the mourning was finished with ...



Once the mourning was finished, the city would attend the wedding of Adrah Vaunyogi to Idaan. No, no, lie would keep the Vaunyogi on his list. It was such a convenient match, and the timing so apt.



Others, of course, put the crimes down to Otah-kvo. A dozen hunting packs had gone out in the four days since the bloody morning that killed the Khai and Danat both. The utkhaiem were searching the low towns for Otah and those who had aided his escape, but so far no one had succeeded. It was Maati's task now to solve the puzzle before they found him. He wondered how many of them had guessed that he alone in the city was working to destroy all their chances. If someone else had done these things ... if he could show it ... Otah would still be able to take his father's place. He would become Khai Machi.



And what, Maati wondered, would Liat think of that, once she heard of it? He imagined her cursing her ill judgment in losing the ruler of a city and gaining half a poet who hadn't proved worth keeping.



"Maati," Baarath said.



Maati jumped, startled, and spilled a few drops of tea over his papers. Ink swirled into the pale green as he blotted them with a cloth. Baarath clicked his teeth and hurried over to help.



"My fault," the librarian said. "I thought you had noticed me. You were scowling, after all."



Maati didn't know whether to laugh at that, so he only took a pose of gratitude as Baarath blew across the still damp pages. The damage was minor. Even where the ink had smudged, he knew what he had meant. Baarath fumbled in his sleeve and drew out a letter, its edges sewn in green silk.



"It's just come for you," he said. "The I)ai-kvo, I think?"



Maati took it. The last he had reported, Otah had been found and turned over to the Khai Machi. It was a faster response than he had ex peered. He turned the letter over, looking at the familiar handwriting that formed his name. Baarath sat across the table from him, smiling as if he were, of course, welcome, and waiting to see what the message said. It was one of the little rudenesses to which the librarian seemed to feel himself entitled since Nlaati's apology. Maati had the uncomfortable feeling Baarath thought they were becoming friends.



He tore the paper at the sewn scams, pulled the thread free, and unfolded it. The chop was clearly the Dai-kvo's own. It began with the traditional forms and etiquette. Only at the end of the first page did the matter become specific to the situation at hand.



ihith Otah discovered and given over to the Khai, your work in Machi is completed. Your suggestion that he be accepted again as a poet is, of course, impossible but the sentiment is commendable. I am quite pleased with you, and trust that this will mark a change in your work. %here are many tasks that a man in your position might take on to the benefit of all-we shall discuss these opportunities upon your return.



The critical issue now is that you withdraw, from Mllachi. Me have performed our service to the Khai, and your continued presence would only serve to draw attention to the fact that he and whichever of his sons eventually takes his place were unable to discover the plot without aid. It is dangerous for the poets to involve themselves with the politics of the courts.



For this reason, I now recall you to my side. You are to announce that you have found the citations in the library that I had desired, and must now return them to me. I will expect you within five weeks....



It continued, though Maati did not. Baarath smiled and leaned forward in obvious interest as Nlaati tucked the letter into his own sleeve. After a moment's silence, Baarath frowned.



"Fine," he said. "If it's the sort of thing you have to keep to yourself, I can certainly respect that."



"I knew you could, Baarath-cha. You're a man of great discretion."



"You needn't flatter me. I know my proper place. I only thought you might want someone to speak with. In case there were questions that someone with my knowledge of the court could answer for you."



"No," Maati said, taking a pose that offered thanks. "It's on another matter entirely."



Maati sat with a pleasant, empty expression until Baarath huffed, stood, took a pose of leave-taking, and walked deeper into the galleries of the library. Maati turned hack to his notes, but his mind would not stay focused on them. After half a hand of frustration and distress, he packed them quietly into his sleeve and took himself away.



The sun shone bright and clear, but to the west, huge clouds rose white and proud into the highest reaches of the sky. There would be storms later-if not today, in the summer weeks to come. Maati imagined he could smell the rain in the air. He walked toward his rooms, and then past them and into a walled garden. The cherry trees had lost their flowers, the fruits forming and swelling toward ripeness. Netting covered the wide branches like a bed, keeping the birds from stealing the harvest. Maati walked in the dappled shade. The pangs from his belly were fewer now and farther between. The wounds were nearly healed.



It would be easiest, of course, to do as he was told. The Dai-kvo had taken him back into his good graces, and the fact that things had gone awry since his last report could in no way be considered his responsibility. He had discovered Otah, and if it was through no skill of his own, that didn't change the result. He had given Otah over to the Khai. Everything past that was court politics; even the murder of the Khai was nothing the [)ai-kvo would want to become involved with.



Maati could leave now with honor and let the utkhaiem follow his investigations or ignore them. The worst that would happen was that Otah would be found and slaughtered for something he had not done and an evil man would become the Khai Machi. It wouldn't be the first time in the world that an innocent had suffered or that murder had been rewarded. The sun would still rise, winter would still become spring. And Maati would be restored to something like his right place among the poets. He might even be set over the school, set to teach boys like himself the lessons that he and Otah-kvo and Heshai-kvo and Cehmai had all learned. It would be something worth taking pride in.



So why was it, he wondered, that he would not do as he was told? Why was the prospect of leaving and accepting the rewards he had dreamed of less appealing than staying, risking the Dai-kvo's displeasure, and discovering what had truly happened to the Khai Machi? It wasn't love of justice. It was more personal than that.



Maati paused, closed his eyes, and considered the roiling anger in his breast. It was a familiar feeling, like an old companion or an illness so protracted it has become indistinguishable from health. He couldn't say who he was angry with or why the banked rage demanded that he follow his own judgment over anyone else's. He couldn't even say what he hoped he would find.



He plucked the Dai-kvo's letter from his sleeve, read it again slowly from start to finish, and began to mentally compose his reply.



Most high Dai-kvo, I hope you will forgive me, but the situation in Machi is such that ...



Most high Dai-kvo, I am sure that, had you known the turns of event since my last report ...



Most high, I must respectfully ...



Most high Dai-kvo, what have you ever done for me that I should do anything you say? Why do I agree to be your creature when that agreement has only ever caused inc pain and loss, and you still instruct me to turn my hack on the people I care for most?



Most high Dai-kvo, I have fed your last letter to pigs....



"Maati-kvo!"



Maati opened his eyes and turned. Cehmai, who had been running toward him, stopped short. Maati thought he saw fear in the boy's expression and wondered for a moment what Cehmai had seen in his face to inspire it. Maati took a pose that invited him to speak.



"Otah," Cehmai said. "'They've found him."



Too late, then, Maati thought. I've been too slow and come too late.



"Where?" he asked.



"In the river. There's a bend down near one of the low towns. They found his body, and a man in leather armor. One of the men who helped him escape, or that's what they've guessed. The Master of Tides is having them brought to the Khai's physicians. I told him that you had seen Otah most recently. You would be able to confirm it's really him."



Maati sighed and watched a sparrow try to land on the branch of a cherry tree. The netting confused it, and the bird pecked at the lines that barred it from the fruit just growing sweet. Nlaati smiled in sympathy.



"Let's go, then," he said.



There was a crowd in the courtyard outside the physician's apartments. Armsmen wearing mourning robes barred most of the onlookers but parted when Maati and Cehmai arrived. The physician's workroom was wide as a kitchen, huge slate tables in the center of the room and thick incense billowing from a copper brazier. The bodies were laid out naked on their bellies-one thick and well-muscled with a heaped pile of black leather on the table beside it, the other thinner with what might have been the robes of a prisoner or cleaning rags clinging to its back. The Master of Tides-a thin man named Saani Vaanga-and the Khai's chief physician were talking passionately, but stopped when they saw the poets.



The Master of Tides took a pose that offered service.



"I have come on behalf of the Dai-kvo," Maati said. "I wished to confirm the reports that Otah Machi is dead."



"Well, he isn't going dancing," the physician said, pointing to the thinner corpse with his chin.



"We're pleased by the Dai-kvo's interest," the Master of Tides said, ignoring the comment. "Cehmai-cha suggested that you might be able to confirm for us that this is indeed the upstart."



Maati took a pose of compliance and stepped forward. The reek was terrible-rotting flesh and something deeper, more disturbing. Cehmai hung back as Maati circled the table.



Maati gestured at the body, his hand moving in a circle to suggest turning it over that he might better see the dead man's face. The physician sighed, came to Maati's side, and took a long iron hook. He slid the hook under the body's shoulder and heaved. There was a wet sound as it lifted and fell. The physician put away the hook and arranged the limbs as Maati considered the bare flesh before him. Clearly the body had spent its journey face down. The features were bloated and fisheaten-it might have been Otah-kvo. It might have been anyone.



On the pale, water-swollen flesh of the corpse's breast, the dark ink was still visible. The tattoo. Maati had his hand halfway out to touch it before he realized what he was doing and pulled his fingers back. The ink was so dark, though, the line where the tattoo began and ended so sharp. A stirring of the air brought the scent fully to his nose, and Maati gagged, but didn't look away.



"Will this satisfy the Dai-kvo?" the Master of Tides asked.



Maati nodded and took a pose of thanks, then turned and gestured to Cehmai that he should follow. The younger poet was stone-faced. Maati wondered if he had seen many dead men before, much less smelled them. Out in the fresh air again, they navigated the crowd, ignoring the questions asked them. Cehmai was silent until they were well away from any curious ear.



"I'm sorry, Maati-kvo. I know you and he were-"



"It's not him," Maati said.



Cehmai paused, his hands moved up into a pose that spoke of his confusion. Maati stopped, looking around.



"It isn't him," Maati said. "It's close enough to be mistaken, but it isn't him. Someone wants us to think him dead-someone willing to go to elaborate lengths. But that's no more Otah Machi than I am."



"I don't understand," Cehmai said.



"Neither do I. But I can say this, someone wants the rumor of his death but not the actual thing. They're buying time. Possibly time they can use to find who's really done these things, then-"



"We have to go back! You have to tell the Master of Tides!"



Maati blinked. Cehmai's face had gone red and he was pointing back toward the physician's apartments. The boy was outraged.



"If we do that," Maati said, "we spoil all the advantage. It can't get out that-"



"Are you blind? Gods! It is him. All the time it's been him. This as much as proves it! Otah Machi came here to slaughter his family. To slaughter you. He has hackers who could free him from the tower, and he has done everything that he's been accused of. Buying time? He's buying safety! Once everyone thinks him dead, they'll stop looking. He'll be free. You have to tell them the truth!"



"Otah didn't kill his father. Or his brothers. It's someone else."



Cehmai was breathing hard and fast as a runner at the race's end, but his voice was lower now, more controlled.



"How do you know that?" he asked.



"I know Otah-kvo. I know what he would do, and-"



"Is he innocent because he's innocent, or because you love him?" Cehmai demanded.



"This isn't the place to-"



""Tell me! Say you have proof and not just that you wish the sky was red instead of blue, because otherwise you're blinded and you're letting him escape because of it. There were times I more than half believed you, Maati-kvo. But when I look at this I see nothing to suggest any conspiracy but his."