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 who he was, by
doing what he'd done. He thought of the boy he had been, marching away
from the school across the western snows. He remembered his fear and the
warmth of his rage at the poets and his parents and all in the world
that treated boys so unfairly. What a pompous little ass he'd been,
young and certain and alone. He should have taken the Dal-kvo's offer
and become a poet. He might have tried to bind an andat, and maybe
failed and paid the price, dying in the attempt. And then Kiyan would