Shadow and Betrayal

there’s word to be had.’
    ‘As you say,’ Lamara said.
    Otah moved his hands into a pose of thanks, then stood.
    ‘Unless there’s more to be said, I’m going to sleep now. I’m not sure when I’ll have the chance again. Any of you who aren’t involved in preparations for the move might consider doing the same.’
    They murmured their agreement, and the meeting ended, but when later Otah lay in the cot, one arm thrown over his eyes to blot out the light, he was certain he could no more sleep than fly. He was wrong. Sleep came easily, and he didn’t hear the old leather hinges creak when Kiyan entered the room. It was her voice that pulled him into awareness.
    ‘ It’s a mistake I’m making? That’s quite the way to lead men.’
    He stretched. His ribs still hurt, and worse, they’d stiffened.
    ‘Was it too harsh, do you think?’
    Kiyan pushed the netting aside and sat next to him, her hand seeking his.
    ‘If Sinja-cha’s that delicate, he’s in the wrong line of work,’ she said. ‘He may think you’re wrong, but if you’d turned back because he told you to, you’d have lost part of his respect. You did fine, love. Better than fine. I think you’ve made Amiit a very happy man.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘You’ve become the Khai Machi. Oh, I know, it’s not done yet, but out there just then? You weren’t speaking like a junior courier or an east islands fisherman.’
    Otah sighed. Her face was calm and smooth. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her wrist.
    ‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want this, you know. The wayhouse would have been enough.’
    ‘I’m sure the gods will take that into consideration,’ she said. ‘They’re usually so good about giving us the lives we expect.’
    Otah chuckled. Kiyan let herself be pulled down slowly, until she lay beside him, her body against his own. Otah’s hand strayed to her belly, caressing the tiny life growing inside her. Kiyan raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.
    ‘You look sad,’ she said. ‘Are you sad, ’Tani?’
    ‘No, love,’ Otah said. ‘Not sad. Only frightened.’
    ‘About going back to the city?’
    ‘About being discovered,’ he said. And a moment later, ‘About what I’m going to have to say to Maati.’

12
    C ehmai sat back on a cushion, his back aching and his mind askew. Stone-Made-Soft sat beside him, its stillness unbroken even by breath. At the front of the temple, on a dais where the witnesses could see her, sat Idaan. Her eyes were cast down, her robe the vibrant rose and blue of a new bride. The distance between them seemed longer than the space within the walls, as if a year’s journey had been fit into the empty air.
    The crowd was not as great as the occasion deserved: women and the second sons of the utkhaiem. Elsewhere, the council was meeting, and those who had a place in it were there. Given the choice of spectacle, many others would choose the men, their speeches and arguments, the debates and politics and subtle drama, to the simple marrying off of an orphan girl of the best lineage and the least influence to the son of a good, solid family.
    Cehmai stared at her, willing the kohl-dark eyes to look up, the painted lips to smile at him. Cymbals chimed, and the priests dressed in gold and silver robes with the symbols of order and chaos embroidered in black began their chanting procession. Their voices blended and rose until the temple walls themselves seemed to ring with the melody. Cehmai plucked at the cushion. He couldn’t watch, and he couldn’t look away. One priest - an old man with a bare head and a thin white beard - stopped behind Idaan in the place that her father or brother should have taken. The high priest stood at the back of the dais, lifted his hands slowly, palms out to the temple, and, with an embracing gesture, seemed to encompass them all. When he spoke, it was in the language of the Old Empire, syllables known to no one on the cushions besides himself.
    Eyan ta nyot baa, dan salaa khai dan umsalaa .
    The will of the gods has always been that woman shall act as servant to man.
    An old tongue for an old thought. Cehmai let the words that followed it - the ancient ritual known more by its rhythm than its significance - wash over him. He closed his eyes and told himself he was not drowning. He focused on his breath, smoothing its ragged edges until he regained the appearance of calm. He watched the sorrow and the anger and the jealousy writhe inside him as