A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) by Daniel Abraham Read Free Book Online Page B

thanks.
     
    "No," he said. "Now go away. I have to do this."
     
    "Be reasonable! If I choose-"
     
    "First, you will give Maati Vaupathai full access because the Dai-kvo
    and the Khai Machi tell you to. You have nothing to bargain with.
    Second, I'm not the one who gave the orders, nor was I consulted on
    them. If you want barley, you don't negotiate with a silversmith, do
    you? So don't come here asking concessions for something that I'm not
    involved with."
     
    A flash of genuine hurt crossed Baarath's face. Stone-Made-Soft touched
    a white marker, then pulled back its hand and sank into thought again.
    Baarath took a pose of apology, his stance icy with its formality.
     
    "Don't," Cehmai said. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to he a farmer's wife
    about the thing, but you've come at a difficult time."
     
    "Of course. This children's game upon which all our fates depend. No,
    no. Stay. I'll see myself out."
     
    "We can talk later," Cehmai said to the librarian's hack.
     
    The door closed and left Cchmai and his captive, or his ward, or his
    other self, alone together.
     
    "He isn't a very good man," Stone-Made-Soft rumbled.
     
    "No, he's not," Cehmai agreed. "But friendship falls where it falls. And
    may the gods keep us from a world where only the people who deserve love
    get it."
     
    "Well said," the andat replied, and pushed forward the white stone
    Cehmai knew it would.
     
    The game ended quickly after that. Cehmai ate a breakfast of roast lamb
    and boiled eggs while Stone-Made-Soft put away the game pieces and then
    sat, warming its huge hands by the fire. There was a long day before
    them, and after the morning's struggle, Cchmai was dreading it. They
    were promised to go to the potter's works before midday. A load of
    granite had come from the quarries and required his services before it
    could be shaped into the bowls and vases for which Machi was famed.
    After midday, he was needed for a meeting with the engineers to consider
    the plans for House Pirnat's silver mine. The Khai Machi's engi neers
    were concerned, he knew, that using the andat to soften the stone around
    a newfound seam of ore would weaken the structure of the mine. House
    Pirnat's overseer thought it worth the risk. It would be like sitting in
    a child's garden during a mud fight, but it had to be done. Just
    thinking of it made him tired.
     
    "You could tell them I'd nearly won," the andat said. "Say you were too
    shaken to appear."
     
    "Yes, because my life would be so much better if they were all afraid of
    turning into a second Saraykeht."
     
    "I'm only saying that you have options," the andat replied, smiling into
    the fire.
     
    The poet's house was set apart from the palaces of the Khai and the
    compounds of the utkhaiem. It was a broad, low building with thick stone
    walls nestled behind a small and artificial wood of sculpted oaks. The
    snows of winter had been reduced to gray-white mounds and frozen pools
    in the deep shadows where sunlight would not touch them. Cehmai and the
    andat strode west, toward the palaces and the Great "rower, tallest of
    all the inhuman buildings of Machi. It was a relief to walk along
    streets in sunlight rather than the deep network of tunnels to which the
    city resorted when the drifts were too high to allow even the snow doors
    to open. Brief days, and cold profound enough to crack stone, were the
    hallmarks of the Machi winter. The terrible urge to he out in the
    gardens and streets marked her spring. The men and women Cehmai passed
    were all dressed in warm robes, but their faces were bare and their
    heads uncovered. The pair paused by a firekeeper at his kiln. A singing
    slave stood near enough to warm her hands at the fire as she filled the
    air with traditional songs. The palaces of the Khai loomed before
    them-huge and gray with roofs pitched sharp as axe blades-and the city
    and the daylight stood at their backs, tempting as sugar ghosts on
    Candles Night.
     
    "It isn't too late," the andat