Shadow and Betrayal

by Daniel Abraham

  ‘There’s justice,’ Maati said, and Heshai laughed. It was a disturbing sound, more anger than mirth. Heshai-kvo stood and moved toward him. Without thinking Maati stepped back.

  ‘Justice? Gods, boy, you want justice? We have larger problems than that, you and I. Getting through another year without one of these small gods flooding a city or setting the world on fire. That’s important. Keeping the city safe. Playing court politics so that the Khaiem never decide to take each other’s toys and women by force. And you want to add justice to all that? I’ve sacrificed my life to a world that wouldn’t care less about me as a man if you paid it. You and I, both of us were cut off from our brothers and sisters. That boy from Udun who we saw in the court was slaughtered by his own brother and we all applauded him for doing it. Am I supposed to punish him too?’

  ‘You’re supposed to do what’s right,’ Maati said.

  Heshai-kvo took a dismissive pose.

  ‘What we do is bigger than right and wrong,’ he said. ‘If the Dai-kvo didn’t make that clear to you, consider it your best lesson from me.’

  ‘I can’t think that,’ Maati said. ‘If we don’t push for justice . . .’

  Heshai-kvo’s expression darkened. He took a pose appropriate to asking guidance from the holy, his stance a sarcasm. Maati swallowed, but held his ground.

  ‘You love justice?’ Heshai asked. ‘It’s harder than stone, boy. Love it if you want. It won’t love you.’

  ‘I can’t think that—’

  ‘Tell me you’re never transgressed,’ Heshai interrupted, his voice harsh. ‘Never stolen food from the kitchens, never lied to a teacher. Tell me you’ve never bedded another man’s woman.’

  Maati felt something shift in him, profound as a bone breaking, but painless. His ears hummed with something like bees. He took the corner of the table and lifted. Food, wine, papers, books all spilled together to the ground. He took a chair and tossed it aside, scooped up the winebowl with a puddle of redness still swirling in its curve and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a loud, satisfying pop. The poet looked at him, mouth gaping as if Maati had just grown wings.

  And then, quickly as it had come, the rage was gone, and Maati sank to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. Sobs wracked him, as violent as being sick. Maati was only half-aware of the poet’s footsteps as he came near, as he bent down. The thick arms cradled him, and Maati held Heshai-kvo’s wide frame and cried into the brown folds of his cloak while the poet rocked him and whispered I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  It felt like it would go on forever, like the river of pain could run and run and run and never go dry. It wasn’t true - in time exhaustion as much as anything else stilled him. Maati sat beside his master, the overturned table beside them. The fire had burned low while he wasn’t watching it - embers glowed red and gold among ashes still standing in the shapes of the wood they’d once been.

  ‘Well,’ Maati said at last, his voice thick, ‘I’ve just made an ass of myself, haven’t I?’

  Heshai-kvo chuckled, recognizing the words. Maati, despite himself, smiled.

  ‘A decent first effort, at least,’ Heshai-kvo said. ‘You’ll get better with time. I didn’t mean to do that to you, you know. It was unfair bringing Liat-kya into it. It’s only that . . . the island girl . . . if I’d done better work when I first fashioned Seedless, it wouldn’t have happened. I just don’t want things getting worse. I want it over with.’

  ‘I know,’ Maati said.

  They were silent for a time. The embers cooled a shade, the ashes crumbled.

  ‘They say there’s two women you don’t get past,’ Heshai-kvo said. ‘Your first love and your first sex. And then, if it turns out to be the same girl . . .’

  ‘It is,’ Maati said.

  ‘Yes,’ Heshai said. ‘It was the same for me. Her name was Ariat Miu. She had the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. I don’t know where she is now.’

  Maati leaned over and put his arm around Heshai as if they were drinking companions. Heshai nodded as if Maati had spoken. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘Well, we’d best get this cleaned up before the servants see it. Stoke the fire, would you? I’ll get some candles burning. Night’s coming on too early these days.’

  ‘Yes, Heshai-kvo,’ Maati said.

  ‘And Maati? You know I won’t tell anyone about this, don’t you?’

  Maati took a pose of acknowledgment. In the dim light he couldn’t be sure that Heshai had seen it, so he let his hands fall and spoke.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said into the dark.

  They walked slowly, hampered by Liat’s wounds. The two mercenaries walked one before and one behind, and Otah walked at her side. At first, near the palaces, he had put his arm around her waist, thinking that it would be a comfort. Her body told him, though, that it wasn’t. Her shoulder, her arm, her ribs - they were too tender to be touched and Otah found himself oddly glad. It freed him to watch the doorways and alleys, rooftops and food carts and firekeepers’ kilns more closely.

  The air smelled of wood smoke from a hundred hearths. A cool, thick mist too dense to be fog, too insubstantial to be rain, slicked the stones of the road and the walls of the houses. In her oversized woolen cloak, Liat might have been anyone. Otah found himself half-consciously flexing his hands, as if preparing for an attack that never came.

  When they reached the edge of the soft quarter, passing by the door of Amat Kyaan’s now-empty apartments, Liat motioned to stop. The two men looked to Otah and then each other, their expressions professional and impatient, but they paused.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Otah asked, his head bent close to the deep cowl of Liat’s cloak. ‘I could get you water . . .’

  ‘No,’ she said. Then, a moment later, ‘ ’Tani, I don’t want to go there.’

  ‘Where?’ he asked, his fingertips touching her bound arm.

  ‘To Amat Kyaan. I’ve done everything so badly. And I can’t think she really wants me there. And . . .’

  ‘Sweet,’ Otah said. ‘She’ll keep you safe. Until we know what’s . . .’

  Liat looked at him directly. Her shadowed face showed her impatience and her fear.

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Only that I don’t want it.’

  Otah leaned close, kissing her gently on the lips. Her good hand held him close.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she said, hardly more than a whisper.

  ‘Where would I go,’ he said, his tone gentle to hide that his answer was also a question. She smiled, slight and brave, and nodded. Liat held his hand in hers for the rest of the way.

  The soft quarter never knew a truly quiet night. The lanterns lit the streets with the dancing shadows of a permanent fire. Music came from the opened doors of the houses: drums and flutes, horns and voices. Twice they passed houses with balconies that overlooked the street with small groups of underdressed, chilly whores leaning over the rails like carcasses at a butcher’s. The wealth of Saraykeht, richest and most powerful of the southern cities, eddied and swirled around them. Otah found himself neither aroused nor disturbed, though he thought perhaps he should be.

  They reached the comfort house, going through an ironbound doorway in a tall stone wall, through a sad little garden that separated the kitchens from the main house, and then into the common room. It was alive with activity. The red-haired woman, Mitat, and Amat had covered the long common tables with papers and scrolls. The island girl, Maj, paced behind them, gnawing impatiently at a thumbnail. As the two guards who’d accompanied them moved deeper into the house greeting other men similarly armed and armored, Otah noticed two young boys, one in the colors of House Yanaani, the other wearing the badge of the seafront’s custom house, waiting impatiently. Messengers. Something had happened.

  Amat’s closer than she knows. There isn’t much time.

  ‘Liat-kya,’ Amat said, raising one hand in a casual greeting. ‘Come here. I’ve something I want to ask
you.’

  Liat walked forward, and Otah followed her. There was a light in Amat’s eyes - something like triumph. Amat embraced Liat gently, and Otah saw the tears in Liat’s eyes as she held her old master with one uninjured arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Amat said. ‘I though you’d be safe. And there was so much that needed doing, that . . . I didn’t understand the situation deeply enough. I should have warned you.’

  ‘Honored teacher,’ Liat said, and then had no more words. Amat’s smile was warm as summer sunlight.

  ‘You know Maj, of course. This is Mitat, and that brute against that wall is Torish Wite, my master of guard.’

  When Maj spoke, she spoke the Khaiate tongue. Her accent was thick but not so much that Otah couldn’t catch her words.

  ‘I didn’t think I was to be seeing you again.’

  Liat’s smile went thin.

  ‘You speak very well, Maj-cha.’

  ‘I am waiting for weeks here,’ Maj said, coolly. ‘What else do I do?’

  Amat looked over. Otah saw the woman called Mitat glance up at her, then at the island girl, then away. Tension quieted the room, and for a moment, even the messengers stopped fidgeting and stared.

  ‘She’s come to help,’ Amat said.

  ‘She is come because you called her,’ Maj said. ‘Because she needs you.’

  ‘We need each other,’ Amat said, command in her voice. She drew herself to her full height, and even leaning on her cane, she seemed to fill the room. ‘She’s come because I wanted her to come. We have almost everything we need. Without her, we aren’t ready.’

  Maj stared at Amat, then slowly turned and took a pose of greeting as awkward as a child’s. Otah saw the flush in the pale cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, and understood. Maj was drunk. Amat gathered Liat close to the table, peppering her with questions about dates and shipping orders, and what exactly Oshai and Wilsin-cha had said and when. Otah sat at the table, near enough to hear, near enough to watch, but not a part of the interrogation.

  For a moment, he felt invisible. The intensity and excitement, desperation and controlled violence around him became like an epic on a stage. He saw it all from outside. When, unconsciously, he met the island girl’s gaze, she smiled at him and nodded - a wordless, informal, unmistakable gesture; a recognition between strangers. She, with her imperfect knowledge of language and custom, couldn’t truly be a part of the conspiracy now coming near to full bloom before them. He, by contrast, could not because he still heard Seedless laying the consequences of Amat’s success before him - Liat may be killed, innocent blood will wash Galt, Maati will suffer to the end of his days, I will betray you to your family - and that private knowledge was like an infection. Every step that Amat made brought them one step nearer that end.

  And to his unease, Otah found that his refusal of the andat was not so certain a thing as he had thought it.

  For nearly a quarter-candle, Amat and Mitat, Liat and sometimes even Torish Wite chewed and argued. The messengers were questioned, the letters they bore added to the growing stacks, and they were sent away with Amat’s replies tucked in their sleeves. Otah listened and watched as the arguments to be presented before the Khai Saraykeht became clearer. Proofs of billing, testimonies, collisions of dates and letters from Galt, and Maj - witness and centerpiece - to stand as the symbol of it all. And then the whole web of coincidence repeated a year earlier with some other girl who had taken fright, the story said, and escaped. There was no proof - no evidence which in itself showed anything. But like tile chips in a mosaic, the facts related to one another in a way that demanded a grim interpretation.

  And only so much proof, of course, was required. Amat’s evidence need only capture the imagination of the court, and the avalanche would begin. What she said was true, and once the full powers of the court were involved, Heshai-kvo would be brought before it, and Seedless. And the andat, when forced, would have to speak the truth. He might even be pleased to, bringing in another wave of disaster as a second-best to his own release.

  As the night passed - the moon moving unseen overhead - Liat began to flag. Amat noticed it and met Otah’s gaze.

  ‘Liat-kya, I’m being terrible,’ Amat said, taking a pose of apology. ‘You’re hurt and tired and I’ve been keeping you awake.’

  Liat made some small protest, but its weakness was enough to show Amat’s argument valid. Otah moved to her and helped her to her feet, and Liat, sighing, leaned into him.

  ‘There’s a cot made up upstairs,’ Mitat said. ‘In Amat-cha’s rooms.’

  ‘But where will ’Tani sleep?’

  ‘I’m fine, love,’ he said before Amat - clearly surprised by the question - could think to offer hospitality. ‘I’ve a place with some of my old cohort. If I didn’t come back, they’d worry.’

  It wasn’t true, but that hardly mattered. The prospect of staying at the comfort house while Amat’s plans reached fruition held no appeal. Only the sleepy distress in Liat’s eyes made him wish to stay, and then for her more than himself.

  ‘I’ll stay until you’re asleep,’ he said. It seemed to comfort her. They gave their goodnights and walked up the thick wooden stairs, moving slowly for Liat’s benefit. Otah heard the conversation begin again behind him, the plan moving forward.

  He closed the door of Amat’s rooms behind him. The shutters were fast but the dull orange of torchlight from the street glowed at their seams. The night candle on Amat’s desk was past its half-mark. Its flame guttered as they passed. The cot was thick canvas stretched over wood with a mattress three fingers thick and netting strung over it even though there were few insects flying so late in the winter. With his arm still around Liat’s thin frame, their single shadow flickered against the wall.

  ‘She hates me, I think,’ Liat said, her voice low and calm.

  ‘What are you talking about. Amat-cha was perfectly . . .’

  ‘Not her. Maj.’

  Otah was silent. He wanted to deny that too - to tell Liat that no one thought ill of her, that everything would be fine if only she’d let it. But he didn’t know it was true, or even if it would be wise to think it. They had thought no particular ill of Wilsin-cha, and Liat could have died for that. He felt his silence spread like cold. Liat shrugged him away and pulled at the ties of her cloak.

  ‘Let me,’ Otah said. Liat held still as he undid her cloak, folded it on the floor under her cot.

  ‘My robe too?’ she asked. In the near darkness, Otah felt her gaze as much as saw it. An illusion, perhaps. It might only have been something in the tone of her voice, an inflection recognized after months of being her lover, sharing her bed and her body. Otah hesitated for more reasons than one.

  ‘Please,’ Liat said.

  ‘You’re hurt, love. It was hard enough even walking upstairs . . .’

  ‘Itani.’

  ‘It’s Amat-cha’s room. She could come up.’

  ‘She won’t be up for hours. Help me with my robe. Please.’

  Objections pushed for position, but Otah moved forward, drawn by her need and his own. Carefully, he untied the stays of her robes and drew them from her until she stood naked but for her straps and bandages. Even in the dim light, he could see where the bruises marked her skin. She took his hand and kissed it, then reached for the stays of his own robe. He did not stop her. It would have been cruel, and even if it hadn’t, he did not want to.

  They made love slowly, carefully, and he thought as much in sorrow as in lust. Her skin was the color of dark honey in the candlelight, her hair black as crows. When they were both spent, Otah lay with his back to the chill wall, giving Liat as much room on the cot as she needed to be comfortable. Her eyes were only half-open, the corners of her mouth turned down. When she shivered, he half rose and pulled her blanket over her. He did not climb beneath it himself, though the warmth would have been welcome.

  ‘You were gone for so long,’ Liat said. ‘There were days I wondered if you were coming back.’

  ‘He
re I am.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Here you are. What was it like? Tell me everything.’

  And so he told her about the ship and the feeling of wood swaying underfoot, the creaking of rope and the constant noise of water. He told her about the courier with his jokes and stories of travelling, and the way Orai had known at once that he’d left a woman behind. About Yalakeht with its tall gray buildings and the thin lanes with iron gates at the mouth that could lock whole streets up for the night like a single apartment.

  And he could have gone on - the road to the Dai-kvo’s village, the mountain, the town of only men, the Dai-kvo himself, the odd half-offer to take him back. He might even have gone as far as Seedless’ threats, and the realization he was still struggling with - that Itani Noyga would be exposed as the son of the Khai Machi. That if Seedless lived, Itani Noyga would have to die. But Liat’s breath was heavy, deep, and regular. When he lifted himself over her, she murmured something and curled herself deeper into the bedding. Otah pulled on his robes. The night candle was past the three-quarter mark, the darkness moving closer and closer to dawn. For the first time, he noticed the fatigue in his limbs. He would need to find someplace to sleep. A room, perhaps, or one of the sailor’s bunks down by the seafront where he’d be sharing a brazier with nine men who’d drunk themselves asleep the night before.