Shadow and Betrayal
would never hear those songs, and a moment later he heard his name being spoken.
‘Itani Noygu’s what he was calling himself,’ one of the merchants said. ‘Played a courier for House Siyanti.’
‘I think I met him,’ a man said whom Otah had never met. ‘I knew there was something odd about the man.’
‘And the poet . . . the one that had his belly opened for him? He’s picking the other Siyanti men apart like they were baked fish. The upstart has to wish that job had been done right the first time.’
‘Sounds as if I’ve missed something,’ Otah said, putting on his most charming smile. ‘What’s this about a poet’s belly?’
The merchant frowned at the interruption until Otah motioned to the keep’s wife and bought bowls of hot wine for the table. After that, the gossip flowed more freely.
Maati Vaupathai had been attacked, and the common wisdom held that Otah had arranged it. The most likely version was that the upstart had been passing as a courier, but others said that he had made his way into the palaces dressed as a servant or a meat seller. There was no question, though, that the Khai had sent out runners to all the winter cities asking for the couriers and overseers of House Siyanti to attend him at court. Amiit Foss, the man who’d been the upstart’s overseer in Udun, was being summoned in particular. It wasn’t clear yet whether Siyanti had knowingly backed Otah Machi, but if they had, it would mean the end of their expansion into the north. Even if they hadn’t, the house would suffer.
‘And they’re sure he was the one who had the poet killed?’ Otah asked, using all the skill the gentleman’s trade had taught him to hide his deepening despair and disgust.
‘It seems they were in Saraykeht together, this poet and the upstart. That was just before Saraykeht fell.’
The implications of that hung over the room. Perhaps Otah Machi had somehow been involved with the death of Heshai, the poet of Saraykeht. Who knew what depravity the sixth son of the Khai Machi might sink to? It was a ghost story for them; a tale to pass a night on the road; a sport to follow.
Otah remembered the old, frog-mouthed poet, remembered his kindness and his weakness and his strength. He remembered the regret and the respect and the horrible complicity he’d felt in killing him, all those years ago. It had been so complicated, then. Now, they said it so simply and spoke as if they understood.
‘There’s rumor of a woman, too. They say he had a lover in Udun.’
‘If he was a courier, he’s likely got a woman in half the cities of the Khaiem. The gods know I would.’
‘No,’ the merchant said, shaking his head. He was more than half drunk. ‘No, they were very clear. All the Siyanti men say he had a lover in Udun and never took another. Loved her like the world, they said. But she left him for another man. I say it’s that turned him evil. Love turns on you like . . . like milk.’
‘Gentlemen,’ the keep’s wife said, her voice powerful enough to cut through any conversation. ‘It’s late, and I’m not sleeping until these rooms are cleaned, so get you all to bed. I’ll have bread and honey for you at sunrise.’
The guests slurped down the last of the wine, ate the last mouthfuls of dried cherries and fresh cheese, and made their various ways toward their various beds. Otah walked down the inner stairs to the stables and the goat yard, then out through a side door and into the darkness. His body felt like he’d just run a race, or else like he was about to.
Kiyan. Kiyan and the wayhouse her father had run. Old Mani. He had set the dogs on them, and that he hadn’t intended to would count for nothing if his brothers found her. Whatever happened, whatever they did, it would be his fault.
He found a tall tree and sat with his back against it, looking out at the stars nearest the horizon. The air had the bite of cold in it. Winter never left this place. It made a little room for summer, but it never left. He thought of writing her a letter, of warning her. It would never reach her in time. It was ten days’ walk back to Machi, six days’ forward to Cetani, and his brothers’ forces would already be on the road south. He could send to Amiit Foss, beg his old overseer to take Kiyan in, to protect her. But there too, word would reach him too late.
Despair settled into his belly, too deep for tears. He was destroying the woman he loved most in the world simply by being
Weitere Kostenlose Bücher