DANAT MACIII ARRIVED LIKE. A HERO. THE STREETS WERE FILLET) WITH people cheering and singing. Festivals filled the squares. Young girls danced through the streets in lines, garlands of summer blossoms in their hair. And from his litter strewn with woven gold and silver, Danat Machi looked out like a protective father indulging a well-loved child. Idaan had been present when the word came that Danat Machi waited at the bridge for his father's permission to enter the city. She had gone down behind the runner to watch the doors fly open and the celebration that had been building spill out into the dark stone streets. They would have sting as loud for Kaiin, if Danat had been dead.
While Danat's caravan slogged its way through the crowds, Idaan retreated to the palaces. The panoply of the utkhaiem was hardly more restrained than the common folk. Members of all the high families appeared as if by chance outside the Third Palace's great hall. Musicians and singers entertained with beautiful ballads of great warriors returning home from the field, of time and life renewed in a new generation. They were songs of the proper function of the world. It was as if no one had known Biitrah or Kaiin, as if the wheel of the world were not greased with her family's blood. Idaan watched with a calm, pleasant expression while her soul twisted with disgust.
When Danat reached the long, broad yard and stepped down from his litter, a cheer went up from all those present; even from her. Danat raised his arms and smiled to them all, beaming like a child on Candles Night. His gaze found her, and he strode through the crowd to her side. Idaan raised her chin and took a pose of greeting. It was what she was expected to do. He ignored it and picked her up in a great hug, swinging her around as if she weighed nothing, and then placed her back on her own feet.
"Sister," he said, smiling into her eyes. "I can't say how glad I am to see you.
"Danat-kya," she said, and then failed.
"How are things with our father?"
The sorrow that was called for here was at least easier than the feigned delight. She saw it echoed in Danat's eyes. So close to him, she could see the angry red in the whites of his eyes, the pallor in his skin. He was wearing paint, she realized. Rouge on his cheeks and lips and some warm-toned powder to lend his skin the glow of health. Beneath it, he was sallow. She wondered if he'd grown sick, and whether there was some slow poison that might be blamed for his death.
"He has been looking forward to seeing you," she said.
"Yes. Yes, of course. And I hear that you're to become a Vaunyogi. I'm pleased for you. Adrah's a good man."
"I love him," she said, surprised to find that in some dim way it was still truth. "But how are you, brother? Are you ... are things well with you?"
For a moment, Danat seemed about to answer. She thought she saw something weaken in him, his mouth losing its smile, his eyes looking into a darkness like the one she carried. In the end, he shook himself and kissed her forehead, then turned again to the crowd and made his way to the Khai's palace, greeting and rejoicing with everyone who crossed his path. And it was only the beginning. Danat and their father would be closeted away for a time, then the ritual welcome from the heads of the families of the utkhaicm. And then festivities and celebrations, feasts and dances and revelry in the streets and palaces and teahouses.
Idaan made her way to the compound of the Vaunyogi, and to Adrah and his father. The house servants greeted her with smiles and poses of welcome. The chief overseer led her to a small meeting room in the hack. If it seemed odd that this room-windowless and dark-was used now in the summer when most gatherings were in gardens or open pavilions, the overseer made no note of it. Nothing could have been more different from the mood in the city than the one here; like a winter night that had crept into summer.
"Has House Vaunyogi forgotten where it put its candles?" she asked, and turned to the overseer. "Find a lantern or two. These fine men may be suffering from their drink, but I've hardly begun to celebrate."
The overseer took a pose that acknowledged the command and scampered off, returning immediately with his gathered light. Adrah and his father sat at a long stone table. Dark tapestries hung from the wall, red and orange and gold. When the doors were safely closed behind them, Idaan pulled out one of the stools and sat on it. tier gaze moved from the father's face to the son's. She took a pose of query.
"You seem distressed," she said. "The whole city is loud with my brother's glory, and you two are skulking in here like criminals."
"We have reason to be distressed," Daaya Vaunyogi said. She wondered whether Adrah would age into the same loose jowls and watery eyes. "I've finally reached the Galts. They've cooled. Killing Oshai's made them nervous, and now with Danat back ... we expected to have the fighting between your brothers to cover our ... our work. There's no hope of that now. And that poet hasn't stopped hunting around, even with the holes Oshai poked in him."
""The more reason you have to be distressed," Idaan said, "the more important that you should not seem it. Besides, I still have two living brothers."
"Ah, and you have some way to make Danat die at Otah's hand?" the old man said. There was mockery in his voice, but there was also hope. And fear. He had seen what she had done, and perhaps now he thought her capable of anything. She supposed that would be something worthy of his hope and fear.
"I don't have the details. But, yes. The longer we wait, the more suspicious it will look when Danat and the poet die."
"You still want Maati Vaupathai dead?" Daaya asked.
"Otah is locked away, and the poet's digging. Maati Vaupathai isn't satisfied to blame the upstart for everything, even if the whole city besides him is. There are three breathing men between Adrah and my father's chair. Danat, Otah, and the poet. I'll need armsmen, though, to do what I intend. How many could you put together? They would have to he men you trust."
Daaya looked at his son, as if expecting to find some answer there, but Adrah neither spoke nor moved. He might very nearly not have been there at all. Idaan swallowed her impatience and leaned forward, her palms spread on the cool stone of the table. One of the candles sputtered and spat.
"I know a man. A mercenary lord. He's done work for me before and kept quiet," Daaya said at last. He didn't seem certain.
"We'll free the upstart and slit the poet's throat," Idaan said. "There won't be any question who's actually done the thing. No sane person would doubt that it was Otah's hand. And when Danat rides out to find him, our men will be ready to ride with him. That will be the dangerous part. You'll have to find a way to get him apart from anyone else who goes.
"And the upstart?" Daaya asked.
"He'll go where we tell him to go. We'll just have saved him, after all. 't'here will be no reason to think we mean him harm. They'll all be dead in time for the wedding, and if we do it well, the joy that is our bonding will put us as the clear favorites to take the chair. That should be enough to push the Galts into action. Adrah will be Khai before the harvest."
Idaan leaned hack, smiling in grim satisfaction. It was Adrah who broke the silence, his voice calm and sure and unlike him.
"It won't work."
Idaan began to take a pose of challenge, but she hesitated when she saw his eyes. Adrah had gone cold as winter. It wasn't fear that drove him, whatever his father's weakness. There was something else in him, and Idaan felt a stirring of unease.
"I can't sec why not," Idaan said, her voice still strong and sure.
"Killing the poet and freeing Otah would be simple enough to manage. But the other. No. It supposes that Danat would lead the hunt himself. He wouldn't. And if he doesn't, the whole thing falls apart. It won't work."
"I say that he would," Idaan said.
"And I say that your history planning these schemes isn't one that inspires confidence," Adrah said and stood. The candlelight caught his face at an angle, casting shadows across his eyes. Idaan rose, feeling the blood rushing into her face.
"I was the one who saved us when Oshai fell," she said. "You two were mewling like kittens, and crying despair-"
"That's enough," Adrah said.
"I don't recall you being in a position to order me when to speak and when to he silent."
Daaya coughed, looking from one to the other of them like a lamb caught between wolf and lion. The smile that touched Adrah's mouth was thin and unamused.
"Idaan-kya," Adrah said, "I am to be your husband and the Khai of this city. Sit with that. Your plan to free Oshai failed. Do you understand that? It failed. It lost us the support of our hackers, it killed the man most effective in carrying out these unfortunate duties we've taken on, and it exposed me and my father to risk. You failed before, and this scheme you've put before us now would also fail if we did as you propose.
Adrah began to pace slowly, one hand brushing the hanging tapestries. Idaan shook her head, remembering some epic she'd seen when she was young. A performer in the role of Black Chaos had moved as Adrah moved now. Idaan felt her heart grow tight.
"It isn't that it's without merit-the shape of it generally is useful, but the specifics are wrong. If Danat is to grab what men he can find and rush out into the night, it can't be because he's off to avenge a poet. He would have to be possessed by some greater passion. And it would help if he were drunk, but I don't know that we can arrange that."
"So if not the Maati Vaupathai ... ," she began, and her throat closed.
Cehmai, she thought. He means to kill Cehmai and free the andat. Her hands balled into fists, her heart thudded as if she'd been sprinting. Adrah turned to face her, his arms folded, his expression calm as a butcher in the slaughterhouse.
"You said there were three breaths blocking us. There's a fourth. Your father."
No one spoke. When Idaan laughed, it sounded shrill and panicked in her own cars. She took a pose that rejected the suggestion.
"You've gone mad, Adrah-kya. You've lost all sense. My father is dying. He's dying, there's no call to ..."
"What else would enrage Danat enough to let his caution slip? The upstart escapes. Your father is murdered. In the confusion, we come to him, a hunting party in hand, ready to ride with him. We can put it out today that we're planning to ride out before the end of the week. Fresh meat for the wedding feast, we'll say."
"It won't work," Idaan said, raising her chin.
"And why not?" Adrah replied.
"Because I won't let you!"
She spun and grabbed for the door. As she hauled it open, Adrah was around her, his arms pressing it shut again. Daaya was there too, his wide hands patting at her in placating gestures that filled her with rage. Her mind left her, and she shrieked and howled and wept. She clawed at them both and kicked and tried to bite her way free, but Adrah's arms locked around her, lifted her, tightened until she lost her breath and the room spun and grew darker.
She found herself sitting again without knowing when she'd been set down. Adrah was raising a cup to her lips. Strong, unwatered wine. She sipped it, then pushed it away.
"Have you calmed yourself yet?" Adrah asked. There was warmth in his voice again, as if she'd been sick and was only just recovering.
"You can't do it, Adrah-kya. He's an old man, and ..."
Adrah let the silence stretch before he leaned toward her and wiped her lips with a soft cloth. She was trembling, and it annoyed her. Her body was supposed to be stronger than that.
"It will cost him a few days," Adrah said. "A few weeks at most. Idaan-kya, his murder is the thing that will draw your brother out if anything will. You said it to me, love. If we falter, we fail."
He smiled and caressed her cheek with back of his hand. Daaya was at the table, drinking wine of his own. Idaan looked into Adrah's dark eyes, and despite the smiles, despite the caresses, she saw the hardness there. I should have said no, she thought. When he asked if I had taken another lover, I shouldn't have danced around it. I should have said no.
She nodded.
"We can make it quick. Painless," Adrah said. "It will be a mercy, really. His life as it is now can hardly be worth living. Sick, weak. That's no way for a proud man to live."
She nodded again. Her father. The simple pleasure in his eyes.
"He wanted so much to see us wed," she murmured. "He wanted so much for me to be happy."
Adrah took a pose that offered sympathy, but she wasn't such a fool as to believe it. She rose shakily to her feet. They did not stop her.
"I should go," she said. "I'll be expected at the palaces. I expect there will be food and song until the sun comes up."
Daaya looked up. His smile was sickly, but Adrah took a pose of reassurance and the old man looked away again.
"I'm trusting you, Idaan-kya," Adrah said. "To let you go. It's because I trust you."
"It's because you can't lock me away without attracting attention. If I vanish, people will wonder why, and my brother not the least. We can't have that, can we? Everything must seem perfectly normal."
"It still might be wise, locking you away," Adrah said. He pretended to be joking, but she could see the debate going on behind his eyes. For a moment, her life spread out before her. The first wife of the Khai Machi, looking into these eyes. She had loved him once. She had to remember that. Idaan smiled, leaned forward, kissed his lips.
"I'm only sad," she said. "It will pass. I'll come and meet you tomorrow. We can plan what needs to be done."
Outside, the revelry had spread. Garlands arched above the streets. Choirs had assembled and their voices made the city chime like a struck bell. Joy and relief were everywhere, except in her. For most of the afternoon, she moved from feast to feast, celebration to celebration-always careful not to be touched or bumped, afraid she might break like a girl made from spun sugar. As the sun hovered three hands' widths above the mountains to the west, she found the face she had been longing for.
Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were in a glade, sitting with a dozen children of the utkhaiem. The little boys and girls were sitting on the grass, grinding green into their silk robes with knees and elbows, while three slaves performed with puppets and dolls. The players squealed and whistled and sang, the puppets hopped and tumbled, beat one another, and fled. The children laughed. Cehmai himself was stretched out like a child, and two adventurous girls were sitting in Stone-MadeSoft's wide lap, their arms around each other. The andat seemed mildly amused.
When Cehmai caught sight of her, he came over immediately. She smiled as she had been doing all day, took a greeting pose that her hands had shaped a hundred times since morning. He was the first one, she thought, to see through pose and smile both.
"What's happened?" he asked, stepping close. His eyes were as dark as Adrah's, but they were soft. They were young. There wasn't any hatred there yet, or any pain. Or perhaps she only wished that was true. Her smile faltered.
"Nothing," she said, and he took her hand. Here where they might be seen-where the children at least were sure to see them-he took her hand and she let him.
"What's happened?" he repeated, his voice lower and closer. She shook her head.
"My father is going to die," she said, her voice breaking on the words, her lips growing weak. "My father's going to die, and there's nothing I can do to help it. No way for me to stop it. And the only time crying makes me feel better is when I can do it with you. Isn't that strange?"
Cchmai rode tip the wide track, switchbacking up the side of the mountain. The ore chute ran straight from the mine halfway up the mountain's face to the carter's base at its foot. When the path turned toward it, Cchmai considered the broad beams and pillars that held the chute smooth and even down the rough mountainside. When they turned away, he looked south to where the towers of Machi stood like reeds in the noonday sun. His head ached.
"We do appreciate your coming, Cehmai-cha," the mine's engineer said again. "With the new Khai come home, we thought everyone would put business off for a few days."
Cchmai didn't bother taking a pose accepting the thanks as he had the first few times. Repetition had made it clear that the gratitude was less than wholly sincere. He only nodded and angled his horse around the next bend, swinging around to a view of the ore chute.
There were six of them; Cchmai and Stone-blade-Soft, the mine's engineer, the overseer with the diagrams and contracts in a leather satchel on his hip, and two servants to carry the water and food. Normally there would have been twice as many people. Cehmai wondered how many miners would he in the tunnels, then found he didn't particularly care, and returned to contemplating the ore chute and his headache.
They had left before dawn, trekking to the Raadani mines. It had been arranged weeks before, and business and money carried a momentum that even stone didn't. A landslide might overrun a city, but it only went down. Something had to have tremendous power to propel something as tired and heavy as he felt up the mountainside. Something in the back of his mind twitched at the thought-attention shifting of its own accord like an extra limb moving without his willing it.
"Stop," Cehmai snapped.
The overseer and engineer hesitated for a moment before Cehmai understood their confusion.
"Not you," he said and gestured to Stone-Made-Soft. "Him. He was judging what it would take to start a landslide."
"Only as an exercise," the andat said, its low voice sounding both hurt and insincere. "I wasn't going to do it."
The engineer looked up the slope with an expression that suggested Cehmai might not hear any more false thanks. Cehmai felt a spark of vindictive pleasure at the man's unease and saw Stone-Made-Soft's lips thin so slightly that no other man alive would have recognized the smile.
Idaan had spent the first night of the festival with him, weeping and laughing, taking comfort and coupling until they had both fallen asleep in the middle of their pillow talk. The night candle had hardly burned down a full quarter mark when the servant had come, tapping on his door to wake him. He'd risen for the trek to the mines, and Idaan- alone in his bed-had turned, wrapping his bedclothes about her naked body, and watched him as if afraid he would tell her to leave. By the time he had found fresh robes, her eyelids had closed again and her breath was deep and slow. He'd paused for a moment, considering her sleeping face. With the paint worn off and the calm of sleep, she looked younger. Her lips, barely parted, looked too soft to bruise his own, and her skin glowed like honey in sunlight.
But instead of slipping back into bed and sending out a servant for new apples, old cheese, and sugared almonds, he'd strapped on his boots and gone out to meet his obligations. His horse plodded along, flies buzzed about his face, and the path turned away from the ore chute and looked back toward the city.
There would be celebrations from now until Idaan's wedding to Adrah Vaunyogi. Between those two joys-the finished succession and the marriage of the high families-there would also be the preparations for the Khai Machi's final ceremony. And, despite everything Maati-kvo had done, likely the execution of Otah Machi in there as well. With as many rituals and ceremonies as the city faced, they'd be lucky to get any real work done before winter.
The yipping of the mine dogs brought him back to himself, and he realized he'd been half-dozing for the last few switchbacks. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. He would have to pull himself together when they began working in earnest. It would help, he told himself, to have some particular problem to set his mind to instead of the tedium of travel. Thankfully, Stone-Made-Soft wasn't resisting him today. The effort it would have taken to force the unwilling andat to do as it was told could have pushed the day from merely unpleasant to awful.
They reached the mouth of the mine and were greeted by several workers and minor functionaries. Cehmai dismounted and walked Unsteadily to the wide table that had been set up for their consultations. His legs and back and head ached. When the drawings and notes were laid out before him, it took effort to turn his attention to them. His mind wandered off to Idaan or his own discomfort or the mental windstorm that was the andat.
"We would like to join these two passages," the overseer was saying, his fingers tracing lines on the maps. Cehmai had seen hundreds of sets of plans like this, and his mind picked up the markings and translated them into holes dug through the living rock of the mountain only slightly less easily than usual. "The vein seems richest here and then here. Our concern is-"
"My concern," the engineer broke in, "is not bringing half the mountain down on us while we do it."
The structure of tunnels that honeycombed the mountain wasn't the most complicated Cehmai had ever seen, but neither was it simple. The mines around Machi were capable of a complexity difficult in the rest of the world, mostly because he himself was not in the rest of the world, and mines in the Westlands and Galt weren't interested in paying the Khai Mach] for his services. The engineer made his casewhere the stone would support the tunnels and where it would not. The overseer made his counter-case-pointing out where the ores seemed richest. The decision was left to him.
The servants gave them bowls of honeyed beef and sausages that tasted of smoke and black pepper; a tart, sweet paste made from last year's berries; and salted Hatbrcad. Cehmai ate and drank and looked at the maps and drawings. Fie kept remembering the curve of Idaan's mouth, the feeling of her hips against his own. He remembered her tears, her reticence. He would have sacrificed a good deal to better understand her sorrow.
It was more, he thought, than the struggle to face her father's mortal ity. Perhaps he should talk to Maati about it. He was older and had greater experience with women. Cehmai shook his head and forced himself to concentrate. It was half a hand before he saw a path through the stone that would yield a fair return and not collapse the works. Stone-Made-Soft neither approved nor dissented. It never did.
The overseer took a pose of gratitude and approval, then folded tip the maps. The engineer sucked his teeth, craning his neck as the diagrams and notes vanished into the overseer's satchel, as if hoping to see one last objection, but then he too took an approving pose. They lit the lanterns and turned to the wide, black wound in the mountain's side.
The tunnels were cool, and darker than night. The smell of rock dust made the air thick. As he'd guessed, there were few men working, and the sounds of their songs and the barking of their dogs only made the darkness seem more isolating. They talked very little as they wound their way through the maze. Usually Cehmai made a practice of keeping a mental map, tracking their progress through the dark passages. After the second unexpected intersection, he gave up and was content to let the overseer lead them.
Unlike the mines on the plain, even the deepest tunnels here were dry. When they reached the point Cehmai had chosen, they took out the maps one last time, consulting them in the narrow section of the passageway that the lanterns lit. Above them, the mountain felt bigger than the sky.
"Don't make it too soft," the engineer said.
"It doesn't bear any load," the overseer said. "Gods! Who's been telling you ghost stories? You're nervous as a puppy first time down the hole."
Cehmai ignored them, looked up, considering the stone above him as if he could see through it. He wanted a path wide as two men walking with their arms outstretched. And it would need to go forward from here and then tilt to the left and then up. Cehmai pictured the distances as if he would walk them. It was about as far from where he was now to the turning point as from the rose pavilion to the library. And then, the shorter leg would be no longer than the walk from the library to Maati's apartments. He turned his mind to it, pressed the whirlwind, applied it to the stone before him, slowly, carefully loosening the stone in the path he had imagined. Stone-Made-Soft resisted-not in the body that scowled now looking at the tunnel's blank side, but in their shared mind. The andat shifted and writhed and pushed, though not so badly as it might have. Cehmai reached the turning point, shifted his attention and began the shorter, upward movement.
The storm's energy turned and leapt ahead, spreading like spilled water, pushing its influence out of the channel Cehmai's intention had prepared. Cehmai gritted his teeth with the effort of pulling it back in before the structure above them weakened and failed. The andat pressed again, trying to pull the mountain down on top of them. Cehmai felt a rivulet of sweat run down past his ear. The overseer and the engineer were speaking someplace a long way off, but he couldn't be bothered by them. They were idiots to distract him. He paused and gathered the storm, concentrated on the ideas and grammars that had tied the andat to him in the first place, that had held it for generations. And when it had been brought to heel, he took it the rest of the way through his pathway and then slowly, carefully, brought his mind, and its, back to where they stood.
"Cehmai-cha?" the overseer asked again. The engineer was eyeing the walls as if they might start speaking with him.
"I'm done," he said. "It's fine. I only have a headache."
Stone-Made-Soft smiled placidly. Neither of them would tell the men how near they had all just come to dying: Cehmai, because he wished to keep it from them, Stone-Made-Soft, because it would never occur to it to care.
The overseer took a hand pick from his satchel and struck the wall. The metal head chimed and a white mark appeared on the stone. Cehmai waved his hand.
"To your left," he said. "'t'here."
The overseer struck again, and the pick sank deep into the stone with a sound like a footstep on gravel.
"Excellent," the overseer said. "Perfect."
Even the engineer seemed grudgingly pleased. Cehmai only wanted to get out, into the light and hack to the city and his own bed. Even if they left now, they wouldn't reach hlachi before nightfall. probably not before the night candle hit its half mark.
On the way back up, the engineer started telling jokes. Cehmai allowed himself to smile. There was no call to make things unpleasant even if the pain in his head and spine were echoing his heartbeats.
When they reached the light and fresh air, the servants had laid out a more satisfying meal-rice, fresh chickens killed here at the mine, roasted nuts with lemon, cheeses melted until they could be spread over their bread with a blade. Cehmai lowered himself into a chair of strung cloth and sighed with relief. To the south, they could see the smoke of the forges rising from Machi and blowing off to the east. A city perpetually afire.
"When we get there," Cehmai said to the andat, "we'll be playing several games of stones. You'll be the one losing."
The andat shrugged almost imperceptibly.
"It's what I am," it said. "You may as well blame water for being wet."
"And when it soaks my robes, I do," Cehmai said. The andat chuckled and then was silent. Its wide face turned to him with something like concern. Its brow was furrowed.
"The girl," it said.
"What about her?"
"It seems to me the next time she asks if you love her, you could say yes.
Cehmai felt his heart jump in his chest, startled as a bird. The andat's expression didn't change; it might have been carved from stone. Idaan wept in his memory, and she laughed, and she curled herself in his bedclothes and asked silently not to be sent away. Love, he discovered, could feel very much like sorrow.
"I suppose you're right," he said, and the andat smiled in what looked like sympathy.
MAATI LAID HIS NOTES OUT ON THE WIDE TABLE AT THE BACK OF THE LIbrary's main chamber. The distant throbbing of trumpet and drum wasn't so distracting here as in his rooms. Three times on the walk here, his sleeves heavy with paper and books, he'd been grabbed by some masked reveler and kissed. Twice, bowls of sweet wine had been forced into his hand. The palaces were a riot of dancing and song, and despite his best intentions, the memory of those three kisses drew his attention. It would be sweet to go out, to lose himself in that crowd, to find some woman willing to dance with him, and to take comfort in her body and her breath. It had been years since he had let himself be so young as that.
He turned himself to his puzzle. Danat, the man destined to be Khai Machi, had seemed the most likely to have engineered the rumors of Otah's return. Certainly he had gained the most. Kahn Machi, whose death had already given Maati three kisses, was the other possibility. Until he dug in. He had asked the servants and the slaves of each household every question he could think of. No, none of them recalled any consultations with a man who matched the assassin's description. No, neither man had sent word or instruction since Maati's own arrival. He'd asked their social enemies what they knew or guessed or speculated on.
Kahn Machi had been a weak-lunged man, pale of face and watery of eye. He'd had a penchant for sleeping with servant girls, but hadn't even gotten a child on one-likely because he was infertile. Danat was a bully and a sneak, a man whose oaths meant nothing to him-and the killing of noble, scholarly Kaiin showed that. Danat's triumph was the best of all possible outcomes or else the worst.
Searching for conspiracy in court gossip was like looking for raindrops in a thunderstorm. Everyone he spoke to seemed to have four or five suggestions of what might have happened, and of those, each half contradicted the other. By far, the most common assumption was that Otah had been the essential villain in all of it.
Nlaati had diagrammed the relationships of Danat and Kaiin with each of the high families-Kamau, Daikani, Radaani and a dozen more. Then with the great trading houses, with mistresses and rumored mistresses and the teahouses they liked best. At one point he'd even listed which horses each preferred to ride. The sad truth was that despite all these facts, all these words scribbled onto papers, referenced and checked, nothing pointed to either man as the author of Biitrah's death, the attempt on Maati's own life, or the slaughter of the assassin. He was either too dimwitted to see the pattern before him, it was too well hidden, or he was looking in the wrong place. Clearly neither man had been present in the city to direct the last two attacks, and there seemed to be no supporters in Machi who had managed the plans for them.
Nor was there any reason to attack him. Nlaati had been on the verge of exposing Otah-kvo. That was in everyone's best interest, barring Otah's. Maati closed his eyes, sighed, then opened them again, gathered up the pages of his notes and laid them out again, as if seeing them in a different pattern might spark something.
Drunken song burst from the side room to his left, and Baarath, li brarian of Machi, stumbled in, grinning. His face was flushed, and he smelled of wine and something stronger. He threw open his arms and strode unevenly to Maati, embracing him like a brother.
"No one has ever loved these books as you and I have, Maati-kya," Baarath said. "The most glorious party of a generation. Wine flowing in the gutters, and food and dancing, and I'll jump off a tower if we don't see a crop of babes next spring that look nothing like their fathers. And where do we go, you and I? Here."
Baarath turned and made a sweeping gesture that took in the books and scrolls and codices, the shelves and alcoves and chests. He shook his head and seemed for a moment on the verge of tears. Maati patted him on the back and led him to a wooden bench at the side of the room. Baarath sat back, his head against the stone, and smiled like a baby.
"I'm not as drunk as I look," Baarath said.
"I'm sure you aren't," Maati agreed.
Baarath pounded the board beside him and gestured for Maati to sit. There was no graceful way to refuse, and at the moment, he could think of no reason. Going back to stand, frustrated, over the table had no appeal. He sat.
"What is bothering you, Maati-kya? You're still searching for some way to keep the upstart alive?"
"Is that an option? I don't see Danat-cha letting him walk free. No, I suppose I'm just hoping to see him killed for the right reasons. Except ... I don't know. I can't find anyone else with reason to do the things that have been done."
"Perhaps there's more than one thing going on then?" Baarath suggested.
Maati took a pose of surrender.
"I can't comprehend one. The gods will have to lead me by the hand if there's two. Can you think of any other reason to kill Biitrah? The man seems to have moved through the world without making an enemy."
"He was the best of us," Baarath agreed and wiped his eyes with the end of his sleeve. "He was a good man."
"So it had to be one of his brothers. Gods, I wish the assassin hadn't been killed. He could have told us if there was a connection between Biitrah and what happened to me. Then at least I'd know if I were solving one puzzle or two."
"Doesn't have to," Baarath said.
Maati took a pose that asked for clarification. Baarath rolled his eyes and took on an expression of superiority that Maati had seen beneath his politeness for weeks now.
"It doesn't have to be one of his brothers," Baarath said. "You say it's not the upstart. Fine, that's what you choose. But then you say you can't find anything that I)anat or Kaiin's done that makes you think they've done it. And why would they hide it, anyway? It's not shameful for them to kill their brother."
"But no one else has a reason," Maati said.
"No one? Or only no one you've found?"
"If it isn't about the succession, I can't find any call to kill Biitrah. If it isn't about my search for Otah, I can't think of any reason to want me dead. The only killing that makes sense at all was poking the assassin full of holes, and that only because he might have answered my questions."
"Why couldn't it have been the succession?"
Maati snorted. It was difficult being friendly with Baarath when he was sober. Now, with him half-maudlin, half-contemptuous, and reeking of wine, it was worse. Maati's frustration peaked, and his voice, when he spoke, was louder and angrier than he'd intended.
"Because Otah didn t, and Kaiin didn't, and Danat didn't, and there's no one else who's looking to sit on the chair. Is there some fifth brother I haven't been told about?"
Baarath raised his hands in a pose of a tutor posing an instructive question to a pupil. The effect was undercut by the slight weaving of his hands.
"What would happen if all three brothers died?"
"Otah would be Khai."
