Shadow and Betrayal

around the bed, asleep instantly, but troubled by dreams in which she recalled something critical a hand’s breadth too late.
    She woke to a polite scratch at her door. When she called out her permission, Mitat entered bearing a tray. Two thick slices of black bread and a bowl of bitter tea. Amat sat up, pulled the netting aside, and took a pose of gratitude as the red-haired woman put the tray on the bed beside her.
    ‘You’re looking nicely put together this morning,’ Amat said.
    It was true. Mitat wore a formal robe of pale yellow that went nicely with her eyes. She looked well-rested, which Amat supposed also helped.
    ‘We have the payment to make to the watch,’ Mitat said. ‘I was hoping you might let me join you.’
    Amat closed her eyes. The watch monies. Of course. It would have been very poor form to forget that, but she nearly had. The darkness behind her eyelids was comfortable, and she stayed there for a moment, wishing that she might crawl back to sleep.
    ‘Grandmother?’
    ‘Of course,’ Amat said, opening her eyes again and reaching for the bowl of tea. ‘I could do with the company. But you’ll understand if I handle the money.’
    Mitat grinned.
    ‘You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?’
    ‘Likely not. Get me a good robe, will you. There’s a blue with gray trim, I think, that should do for the occasion.’
    The streets of the soft quarter were quiet. Amat, her sleeve weighted by the boxed lengths of silver, leaned on her cane. The night’s rain had washed the air, and sunlight, pale as fresh butter, shone on the pavements and made the banners of the great comfort houses shimmer. The bakers’ kilns filled the air with the scent of bread and smoke. Mitat walked beside her, acting as if the slow pace were the one she’d have chosen if she had been alone, avoiding the puddles of standing water where the street dipped, or where alleyways still disgorged a brown trickle of foul runoff. In the height of summer, the mixture of heat and damp would have been unbearable. Autumn’s forgiving cool made the morning nearly pleasant.
    Mitat filled in Amat Kyaan on the news of the house. Chiyan thought she might be pregnant. Torish-cha’s men resented that they were expected to pay for the use of the girls - other houses in the quarter included such services as part of the compensation. Two weavers were cheating at tiles, but no one had caught them at it as yet.
    ‘When we do, bring them to me,’ Amat said. ‘If they aren’t willing to negotiate compensation with me, we’ll call the watch, but I’d rather have it stay private.’
    ‘Yes, grandmother.’
    ‘And send for Urrat from the street of beads. She’ll know if Chiyan’s carrying by looking at her, and she has some teas that’ll cure it if she is.’
    Mitat took a pose of agreement, but something in her expression - a softness, an amusement - made Amat respond with a query.
    ‘Ovi Niit would have taken her out back and kicked her until she bled,’ Mitat said. ‘He would have said it was cheaper. I don’t think you know how much you’re respected, grandmother. The men, except Torish-cha and his, would still as soon see you hanged as not. But the girls all thank the gods that you came back.’
    ‘I haven’t made the place any better.’
    ‘Yes,’ Mitat said, her voice accepting no denial. ‘You have. You don’t see how the—’
    The man lurched from the mouth of the alley and into Amat before she had time to respond. Her cane slipped as the drunkard staggered against her, and she stumbled. Pain shrieked from her knee to her hip, but her first impulse was to clutch the payment in her sleeve. The man, however, wasn’t a thief. The silver for the watch was still where it had been and the drunk was in a pose of profound apology.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Mitat demanded. Her chin was jutting out; her eyes burned. ‘It’s hardly mid-day. What kind of man is already drunk?’
    The thick man in the stained brown robe shook his head and bowed, his pose elegant and abasing.
    ‘It is my fault,’ he said, his words slurred. ‘Entirely my fault. I’ve made an ass of myself.’
    Amat clutched Mitat’s arm, silencing her, and stepped forward despite the raging ache in her leg. The drunkard bowed lower, shaking his head. Amat almost reached out to touch him - making certain that this wasn’t a dream, that she wasn’t back in her bed still waiting for her bread and tea.
    ‘Heshai-cha?’
    The