"Why?"
Otah sat with the question. His mind had been consumed for days with a
thousand different things that all nipped and shrieked and robbed him of
his rest. To reach out to Maati had seemed natural and obvious, and even
though when he looked at it coldly it was true that each had in some way
betrayed the other, his heart had never been in doubt. He could feel the
heaviness in the air, and he knew that I don't know wouldn't be answer
enough. He looked for words to give his feelings shape.
"Because," he said at last, "in all the time I knew you, you never once
did the wrong thing. Even when what you did hurt inc, it was never wrong."
To his surprise, there were tears on Maati's cheeks.
"Thank you, Otah-kvo," he said.
A shout went up in the tunnels outside the storehouse and the sound of
running feet. Maati wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robes, and
Otah stood, his heart beating fast. The murmur of voices grew, but there
were no sounds of blade against blade. It sounded like a busy corner
more than a battle. Otah walked to the door and, Maati close behind him,
stepped out into the main space. A knot of men were talking and
gesturing one to the other by the mouth of the stairs. Otah caught a
glimpse of Kiyan in their midst, frowning deeply and speaking fast.
Amiit detached himself from the throng and strode to Otah.
"What's happened?"
"Bad news, Otah-cha. Daaya Vaunyogi has called for a decision, and
enough of the families have hacked the call to push it through."
Otah felt his heart sink.
"They're hound to decide by morning," Amilt went on, "and if all the
houses that hacked him for the call side with him in the decision, Adrah
Vaunyogi will be the Khai Machi by the time the sun comes up."
"And then what?" NIaati asked.
"And then we run," Otah said, "as far and fast and quiet as we can, and
we hope he never finds us."
THE SUN HAD PASSED ITS HIGHEST POINT AND STARTED THE LONG, SLOW slide
toward darkness. Idaan had chosen robes the blue-gray of twilight and
bound her hair hack with clasps of silver and moonstone. Around her, the
gallery was nearly full, the air thick with heat and the mingled scents
of bodies and perfumes. She stood at the rail, looking down into the
press of bodies below her. The parquet of the floor was scuffed with the
marks of hoots. There were no empty places at the tables or against the
stone walls, no quiet negotiations going on in hallways or teahouses.
That time had passed, and in its wake, they were all brought here.
Voices washed together like the hushing of wind, and she could feel the
weight of the eyes upon her-the men below her sneaking glances up, the
representatives of the merchant houses at her side considering her, and
the lower orders in the gallery above staring down at her and the men
over whom she loomed. She was a woman, and not welcome to speak or sit
at the tables below. But still, she would make her presence felt.
"How is it that we accept the word of these men that they are the
wisest?" Ghiah Vaunani pounded the speaker's pulpit before him with each
word, a dry, shallow sound. Idaan almost thought she could see flecks of