Shadow and Betrayal

Idaan Machi and Adrah Vaunyogi, the backing of the Galts, the murder of Biitrah Machi. He told it like a tale, and found it was easier than he’d expected. Radaani chuckled when he reached the night of Otah’s escape and grew somber when he drew the connection between the murder of Danat Machi and the hunting party that had gone with him. It was all true, but it was not all of the truth. In the long conversations that had followed Baarath’s delivery of Cehmai’s letter, Otah and Maati, Kiyan and Amiit had all agreed that the Galts’ interest in the library was something that could be safely neglected. It added nothing to their story, and knowing more than they seemed to might yet prove an advantage. Watching Porsha Radaani’s eyes, Maati thought it had been the right decision.
    He outlined what he wanted of the Radaani - the timing of the proposal to disband, the manner in which it would be best approached, the support they would need on the council. Radaani listened like a cat watching a pigeon until the whole proposal was laid out before him. He coughed and loosened the belt of his robe.
    ‘It’s a pretty story,’ Radaani said. ‘It’ll play well to a crowd. But you’ll need more than this to convince the utkhaiem that your friend’s hem isn’t red. We’re all quite pleased to have a Khai who’s walked through his brothers’ blood, but fathers are a different thing.’
    ‘I’m not the only one to tell it,’ Maati said. ‘I have one of the hunting party who watched Danat die to swear there was no sign of an ambush. I have the commander who collected Otah from the tower to say what he was bought to do and by whom. I have Cehmai Tyan and Stone-Made-Soft. And I have them in the next room if you’d like to speak with them.’
    ‘Really?’ Radaani leaned forward. The chair groaned under his weight.
    ‘And if it’s needed, I have a list of all the houses and families who’ve supported Vaunyogi. If it’s a question what their relationships are with Galt, all we have to do is open those contracts and judge the terms. Though there may be some of them who would rather that didn’t happen. So perhaps it won’t be necessary.’
    Radaani chuckled again, a deep, wet sound. He rubbed his fingers against his thumbs, pinching the air.
    ‘You’ve been busy since last we spoke,’ he said.
    ‘It isn’t hard finding confirmation once you know what the truth is. Would you like to speak to the men? You can ask them whatever you like. They’ll back what I’ve said.’
    ‘Is he here himself?’
    ‘Otah thought it might be better not to attend. Until he knew whether you intended to help him or have him killed.’
    ‘He’s wise. Just the poet, then,’ Radaani said. ‘The others don’t matter.’
    Maati nodded and left the room. The teahouse proper was a wide, low room with fires burning low in two corners. Radaani’s servants were drinking something that Maati doubted was only tea and talking with one of the couriers of House Siyanti. There would be more information from that, he guessed, than from the more formal meeting. At the door to the back room, Sinja leaned back in a chair looking bored but commanding a view of every approach.
    ‘Well?’ Sinja asked.
    ‘He’d like to speak with Cehmai-cha.’
    ‘But not the others?’
    ‘Apparently not.’
    ‘He doesn’t care if it’s true, then. Just whether the poets are backing our man,’ Sinja let his chair down and stood, stretching. ‘The forms of power are fascinating stuff. Reminds me why I started fighting for a living.’
    Maati opened the door. The back room was quieter, though the rush of rain was everywhere. Cehmai and the andat were sitting by the fire. The huntsman Sinja-cha had tracked down was at a small table, half drunk. It was best, perhaps, that Radaani hadn’t wanted him. And three armsmen in the colors of House Siyanti also lounged about. Cehmai looked up, meeting Maati’s gaze. Maati nodded.
    Radaani’s expression when Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft entered the room was profoundly satisfied. It was as if the young poet’s presence answered all the questions that were important to ask. Still, Maati watched Cehmai take a pose of greeting and Radaani return it.
    ‘You wished to speak with me?’ Cehmai asked. His voice was low and tired. Maati could see how much this moment was costing him.
    ‘Your fellow poet here’s told me quite a tale,’ Radaani said. ‘He says that Otah Machi’s not dead, and that Idaan Machi’s