the blame on Otah-kvo. And Otah-kvo had not done the thing.
Still, there had to be someone backing Otah-kvo. Someone who had freed
him and staged his false death. He ran through his conversation with
Radaani again, seeing if perhaps the man's lack of ambition masked
support for Otah-kvo, but there was nothing.
He gave back the waterseller's cup and let his steps wander through the
streets, his hands tucked inside his sleeves, until his hip and knee
started to complain. The sun was shifting down toward the western
mountains. Winter days here would be brief and hitter, the swift winter
sun ducking behind stone before it even reached the horizon. It hardly
seemed fair.
By the time he regained the palaces, the prospect of walking all the way
to the Vaunyogi failed to appeal. They would be busy with preparations
for the wedding anyway. There was no point intruding now. Better to
speak to Daaya Vaunyogi afterwards, when things had calmed. Though, of
course, by then the utkhaiem would be in council, and the gods only knew
whether he'd be able to get through then, or if he'd be in time.
He might only find who'd done the thing by seeing who became the next Khai.
There was still the one other thing to do. He wasn't sure how he would
accomplish it either, but it had to be tried. And at least the poet's
house was nearer than the Vaunyogi. He angled down the path through the
oaks, the gravel of the pathway scraping under his weight. The mourning
cloth had already been taken from the tree branches and the lamp posts
and benches, but no bright banners or flowers had taken their places.
When he stepped out from the trees, he saw Stone-Made-Soft sitting on
the steps before the open doorway, its wide face considering him with a
calm half-smile. Maati had the impression that had he been a sparrow or
an assassin with a flaming sword, the andat's reaction would have been
the same. He saw the large form lean back, turning to face into the
house, and heard the deep, rough voice if not the words them selves.
Cehmai was at the door in an instant, his eyes wide and bright, and then
bleak with disappointment before becoming merely polite.
With an almost physical sensation, it fit together-Cehmai's rage at
holding back news of Otah's survival, the lack of wedding decoration,
and the disappointment that Maati was only himself and not some other,
more desired guest. The poor bastard was in love with Idaan Machi.
Well, that was one secret discovered. It wasn't much, but the gods all
knew he'd take anything these days. He took a pose of greeting and
Cehmai returned it.
"I was wondering if you had a moment," Maati said.
"Of course, Maati-kvo. Come in."
The house was in a neat sort of disarray. Tables hadn't been overturned
or scrolls set in the brazier, but things were out of place, and the air
seemed close and stifling. Memories rose in his mind. He recalled the
moments in his own life when a woman had left him. The scent was very
much the same. He suppressed the impulse to put his hand on the boy's
shoulder and say something comforting. Better to pretend he hadn't
guessed. At least he could spare Cehmai that indignity. He lowered
himself into a chair, groaning with relief as the weight left his legs