The thug, the murderer, the captain of her personal guard shook his head. His expression was grim.
‘With all respect, grandmother,’ he said. ‘But you’ve sung that song before. The island girl’s trouble. Another stern talking-to isn’t going to do more than the last one did.’
Amat drew herself up, anger filling her chest partly because she knew what he said was true. She took a pose of query.
‘I had not known this was your house to run,’ she said.
Torish shook his wide, bear-like head again, his eyes cast down in something like regret or shame.
‘It’s your house,’ he said. ‘But they’re my men. If you’re going to be putting them on the wrong side of the watch, there isn’t enough silver in the soft quarter to keep them here. I’m sorry.’
‘You’d break contracts?’
‘No. But I won’t renew. Not on those terms. This is one of the best contracts we’ve had, but I won’t take a fight I know we can’t win. You put that girl on a leash, or we can’t stay with you. And - truly, with all respect - you need us.’
‘She lost a child last summer,’ Amat said.
‘Bad things happen,’ Torish Wite said, his voice surprisingly gentle. ‘You move past them.’
He was right, of course, and that was the galling thing. In his position, she would have done the same. Amat took a pose of acceptance.
‘I understand your position, Torish-cha. I’ll see to it that Maj doesn’t endanger your men or your contract with me. Give me a day or so, and I’ll see it done.’
He nodded, turned, left her rooms. He had the grace not to ask what it was she intended. She wouldn’t have been able to say. Amat rose, took her cane, and walked out the doors to her deck. The rain had stopped, the whole great bowl of the sky white as bleached cotton. Seagulls screamed to one another, wheeling over the rooftops. She took a deep breath and let herself weep. The tears were as much about exhaustion as anything else, and they brought her no relief.
Between the late hour of the morning and the rain that had fallen all the last day and through the night, the streets of the soft quarter were near deserted. The two boys, then, who came around the corner together caught her attention. The older was broad across the shoulders - a sailor or a laborer - with a long, northern face and a robe of formal cut. The younger boy at his side - smaller, softer - wore the brown robes of a poet. Amat knew as they stepped into the street that there would even now be no rest for her. She watched them until they came too near the comfort house to see without leaning over into the street, then went inside and composed herself. It took longer than she’d expected for the guard to come and announce them. Perhaps Torish-cha had seen how tired she felt.
The older boy proved to be Itani Noyga, Liat’s vanished lover. The younger, of course, was the young poet Maati. Amat, seated at her desk, took a pose of welcome and gestured to chairs she’d had brought in for them. Both boys sat. It was an interesting contrast, the pair or them. Both were clearly in earnest, both wore expressions of perfect seriousness, but Itani’s eyes reminded her more of her own - focused out, on her, on the room, searching, it seemed, for something. The poet boy was like his master - brooding, turned inward. Like his master, or like Marchat Wilsin. Amat put her hands on her knees and leaned a degree forward.
‘And what business brings you young gentlemen?’ she asked. Her tone was light and pleasant and gave nothing away. Her subtlety was lost on them, though. The older boy, Itani, clearly wasn’t looking to finesse an advantage.
‘Amat-cha,’ he said. ‘I’m told you hope to prove that the High Council of Galt conspired with the andat Seedless when he killed the child out of the island girl last summer.’
‘I’m investigating the matter,’ Amat said, ‘and I’ve broken with House Wilsin, but I don’t know that it’s fair to say the Galtic Council must therefore be . . .’
‘Amat-cha,’ the poet boy, Maati, broke in. ‘Someone tried to kill Liat Chokavi. Marchat Wilsin is keeping it quiet, but I was there. And . . . Itani thinks it was something to do with you and House Wilsin.’
Amat felt her breath catch. Marchat, the old idiot, was panicking. Liat Chokavi was his best defense, if he could trust her to say the right things before the Khai. Except that he couldn’t. She was too young, and too unskilled at these games. It was why he had used her in the first place. Something like nausea swept through her.
‘It may have been,’ Amat said. ‘How is she?’
‘Recovering in the Khai’s palaces,’ Itani said. ‘But she’s doing well. She’ll be able to go back to her house tomorrow. Wilsin-cha will expect her.’
‘No,’ Amat said. ‘She can’t go back there.’
‘It’s true, then,’ Itani said, his voice somber. Perhaps he had a talent for finesse after all. Amat took a pose of acknowledgment.
‘I wasn’t able to stop the crime against Maj from happening, but yes. House Wilsin knew of the deceit. I believe that the Galtic Council did as well, though I can’t prove that as yet. That I think it is hardly a great secret, though. Anyone might guess as much. That I’m right in thinking it . . . is more difficult.’
‘Protect Liat,’ Maati said, ‘and whatever we can do for you, we will.’
‘Itani-cha? Are those your terms as well?’
‘Yes,’ the boy said.
‘It may mean speaking before the Khai. Telling him where you went the night you acted as Wilsin-cha’s bodyguard.’
Itani hesitated, then took a pose of acceptance.
Amat sat back, one hand up, requesting a moment to herself. This wasn’t something she’d foreseen, but it might be what she’d needed. If the young poet could influence Heshai or find some scrap of memory from the negotiations that showed Marchat Wilsin knew that all wasn’t what it seemed . . . But there was something more in this - she could feel it as sure as the tide. One piece here didn’t fit.
‘Itani-cha’s presence I understand,’ Amat said. ‘What is the poet’s interest in Liat Chokavi.’
‘She’s my friend,’ Maati said, his chin lifted a fraction higher than before. His eyes seemed to defy her.
Ah! she thought. So that’s how it is. She wondered how far that had gone and whether Itani knew. Not that it made any difference to her or to what was called for next.
Liat. It had always been a mess, of course, what to do with Liat. On the one hand, she might have been able to help Amat’s case, add some telling detail that would show Marchat had known of the translator Oshai’s duplicity. On the other hand, pulling the girl into it was doing her no favors. Amat had thought about it since she’d come to the house, but without coming to any conclusions. Now the decision was forced on her.
Liat could room with Maj, Amat supposed, except that the arrangement had the ring of disaster. But she couldn’t put her out with the whores. Perhaps a cot in her own rooms, or an apartment in one of the low towns. With a guard, of course . . .
Later. That could all come later. Amat rose. The boys stood.
‘Bring her here,’ she said. ‘Tonight. Don’t let Wilsin-cha know what you’re doing. Don’t tell her until you have to. I’ll see her safe from there. You can trust me to do it.’
‘Thank you, Amat-cha,’ Itani said. ‘But if this business is going to continue . . . I don’t want to burden you with this if it’s something you don’t want to carry forever. This investigation might go on for years, no?’
‘Gods, I hope not,’ Amat said. ‘But I promise you, even if it does, I’ll see it finished. Whatever it costs, I will bring this to light.’
‘I believe you,’ Itani said.
Amat paused; there was a weight to the boy’s tone that made her think he’d expected to hear that. She had confirmed something he already suspected, and she wondered what precisely it had been. She had no way to know.
She called in Torish-cha, introduced the boys and let them speak until the plans had been made clear. The girl would come that night, just after sundown, to the rear of the house. Two of Torish’s men
would meet them at the edge of the palace grounds to be sure nothing odd happened along the way. Itani would go along as well, and explain the situation. Amat sent them away just before midday, easing herself into bed after they left, and letting her eyes close at last. Any fear she had that the day’s troubles would keep her awake was unfounded - sleep rolled over her like a wave. She woke hours later, the falling sun shining into her eyes through a gap where one of her tapestries had slipped.
She called Mitat up for the briefing that opened the day. The red-haired woman came bearing a bowl of stewed beef and rice and a flask of good red wine. Amat sat at her desk and ate while Mitat spoke - the tiles man thought he knew how the table was being cheated and should know for certain by the end of the night, Little Namya had a rash on his back that needed to be looked at by a physician but Chiyan was recovering well from her visit to the street of beads and would be back to work within a few more days. Two of the girls had apparently run off, and Mitat was preparing to hire on replacements. Amat listened to each piece, fitting it into the vast complexity that her life had become.
‘Torish-cha sent his men out to recover the girl you discussed with him this morning,’ Mitat went on. ‘They should be back soon.’
‘I’ll need a cot for her,’ Amat said. ‘You can put it in my rooms, against the wall there.’
Mitat took a pose of acknowledgment. There was something else in it, though, a nuance that Amat caught as much from a hint of a smile as the pose itself. And then she saw Mitat realize that she’d noticed something, and the red-haired woman broke into a grin.
‘What?’ Amat asked.
‘The other business,’ Mitat said. ‘About Maj and the Galts? I had a man come by from a hired laborers’ house asking if you were only paying for information about this island girl, or if you wanted to know about the other one too.’
Amat stopped chewing.
‘The other one?’ Amat asked.
‘The one Oshai brought in last year.’
Amat took a moment, sitting back, as the words took time to make sense. In the darkness of her exhaustion, hope flickered. Hope and relief.
‘There was another one?’
‘I thought you might find that interesting,’ Mitat said.
Maati sat on the wooden steps of the poet’s house, staring out at trees black and bare as sticks, at the dark water of the pond, at the ornate palaces of the Khai with lanterns glittering like fireflies. Night had fallen, but the last rays of sunlight still lingered in the west. His face and hands were cold, his body hunched forward, pulled into itself. But he didn’t go into the warmth of the house behind him. He had no use for comfort.
Otah and Liat had left just before sunset. They might, he supposed, be in the soft quarter by now. He imagined them walking briskly through the narrow streets, Otah’s arm across her shoulder protectively. Otah-kvo would be able to keep her safe. Maati’s own presence would have been redundant, unneeded.
Behind him, the small door scraped open. Maati didn’t turn. The slow, lumbering footsteps were enough for him to know it was his teacher and not Seedless.
‘There’s chicken left,’ Heshai-kvo said. ‘And the bread’s good.’
‘Thank you. Perhaps later,’ Maati said.
Grunting with the effort, the poet lowered himself onto the step beside Maati, looking out with him over the bare landscape as it fell into darkness. Maati could hear the old poet’s wheezing breath over the calling of crows.
‘Is she doing well?’ Heshai asked.
‘I suppose so.’
‘She’ll be going back to her house soon. Wilsin-cha . . .’
‘She’s not going back to him,’ Maati said. ‘The old overseer - Amat Kyaan - is taking her up.’
‘So House Wilsin loses another good woman. He won’t like that,’ Heshai said, then shrugged. ‘Serves the old bastard right for not treating them better, I’d guess.’
‘I suppose.’
‘I see your friend the laborer’s back.’
Maati didn’t answer. He was only cold, inside and out. Heshai glanced over at him and sighed. His thick-fingered hand patted Maati’s knee the way his father’s might have had the world been something other than it was. Maati felt tears welling unbidden in his eyes.
‘Come inside, my boy,’ the poet said. ‘I’ll warm us up a little wine.’
Maati let himself be coaxed back in. With Heshai-kvo recovered, the house was slipping back into the mess it had been when he’d first come. Books and scrolls lay open on the tables and the floor beside the couches. An inkblock hollowed with use stained the desk where it sat directly on the wood. Maati squatted by the fire, looking into the flames as he had the darkness, and to much the same effect.
Behind him, Heshai moved through the house, and soon the rich scent of wine and mulling spices began to fill the place. Maati’s belly rumbled, and he forced himself up, walking over to the table where the remains of the evening meal waited for him. He pulled a greasy drumstick from the chicken carcass and considered it. Heshai sat across from him and handed him a thick slice of black bread. Maati sketched a pose of gratitude. Heshai filled a thick earthenware cup with wine and passed it to him. The wine, when he drank it, was clean and rich and warmed his throat.
‘Full week coming,’ Heshai-kvo said. ‘There’s a dinner with the envoys of Cetani and Udun tomorrow I thought we should attend. And then a religious scholar’s talking down at the temple the day after that. If you wanted to . . .’
‘If you’d like, Heshai-kvo,’ Maati said.
‘I wouldn’t really,’ the poet said. ‘I’ve always thought religious scholars were idiots.’
The old poet’s face was touched by mischief, a little bit delighted with his own irreverence. Maati could see just a hint of what Heshai-kvo had looked like as a young man, and he couldn’t help smiling back, if only slightly. Heshai-kvo clapped a hand on the table.
‘There!’ he said. ‘I knew you weren’t beyond reach.’
Maati shook his head, taking a pose of thanks more intimate and sincere than he’d used to accept the offered food. Heshai-kvo replied with one that an uncle might offer to a nephew. Maati stirred himself. This was as good a time as any, and likely better than most.
‘Is Seedless here?’ Maati asked.
‘What? No. No, I suppose he’s out somewhere showing everyone how clever he is,’ Heshai-kvo said bitterly. ‘I know I ought to keep him closer, but that torture box . . .’
‘No, that’s good. There was something I needed to speak with you about, but I didn’t want him nearby.’
The poet frowned, but nodded Maati on.
‘It’s about the island girl and what happened to her. I think . . . Heshai, that wasn’t only what it seemed. Marchat Wilsin knew about it. He arranged it because the Galtic High Council told him to. And Amat Kyaan - the one Liat’s gone to stay with - she’s getting the proof of it together to take before the Khai.’
The poet’s face went white and then flushed red. The wide frog-lips pursed, and he shook his wide head. He seemed both angry and resigned.
‘That’s what she says?’ he asked. ‘This overseer?’
‘Not only her,’ Maati said.
‘Well, she’s wrong,’ the poet said. ‘That isn’t how it happened.’
‘Heshai-kvo, I think it is.’
‘It’s not,’ the poet said and stood. His expression was closed. He walked to the fire, warming his hands with his back to Maati. The burning wood crackled and spat. Maati, putting down the still-uneaten bread, turned to him.
‘Amat Kyaan isn’t the only—’
‘They’re all wrong, then. Think about it for a moment, Maati. Just think. If it had been the High Council of Galt behind the blasted thing, what would happen? If the Khai saw it proved? He’d punish them. And how’d you think he’d do it?’
‘The Khai would use you and Seedless against them,’ Maati said.
‘Yes, and what good would come of that?’
Maati took a pose of query
, but Heshai didn’t turn to see it. After a moment, he let his hands fall. The firelight danced and flickered, making the poet seem almost as if he were part of the flame. Maati walked toward him.
‘It’s the truth,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t matter if it is,’ Heshai-kvo said. ‘There are punishments worse than the crimes. What happened, happened. There’s nothing to be gotten by holding onto it now.’
‘You don’t believe that,’ Maati said, and his voice was harder than he’d expected it to be. Heshai-kvo shifted, turned. His eyes were dry and calm.
‘There’s nothing that will put life back into that child,’ Heshai-kvo said. ‘What could possibly be gained by trying?’
Shadow and Betrayal Page 33