Shadow and Betrayal

of an old friend. Someone had dredged it, she saw, for the copper lengths thrown in for luck. House Wilsin wasn’t leaving anything behind.
    Epani returned and without a word led her back through the corridors she knew to the private meeting rooms. The room was as dark as she remembered it. Marchat Wilsin himself sat at the table, lit by the diffuse cool light from the small window, the warm, orange flame of a lantern. With one color on either cheek, he might almost have been two different men. Amat took a pose of greeting and gratitude. Moving as if unsure of himself, Marchat responded with one of welcome.
    ‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ he said, and his voice was careful.
    ‘And yet, here I am. I see House Wilsin is fleeing, just as everyone said it was. Bad for business, Marchat-cha. It looks like a failure of nerve.’
    ‘It is,’ he said. There was no apology in his voice. They might have been discussing dye prices. ‘Being in Saraykeht’s too risky now. My uncle’s calling me back home. I think he must have been possessed by some passing moment of sanity, and what he saw scared him. What we can’t ship out by spring, we’re selling at a loss. It’ll take years for the house to recover. And, of course, I’m scheduled on the last boat out. So. Have you come to tell me you’re ready to bring your suit to the Khai?’
    Amat took a pose, more casual than she’d intended, that requested clarification. It was an irony, and Marchat’s sheepish grin showed that he knew it.
    ‘My position isn’t as strong as it was before the victim best placed to stir the heart of the utkhaiem killed the poet and destroyed the city. I lost a certain credibility.’
    ‘Was it really her, then?’
    ‘I don’t know for certain. It appears it was.’
    ‘I’d say I was sorry, but . . .’
    Amat didn’t count the years she’d spent talking to this man across tables like this, or in the cool waters of the bathhouse, or walking together in the streets. She felt them, habits worn into her joints. She sat with a heavy sigh and shook her head.
    ‘I did what I could,’ she said. ‘Now . . . now who would believe me, and what would it matter?’
    ‘Someone might still. One of the other Khaiem.’
    ‘If you thought that was true, you’d have me killed.’
    Wilsin’s face clouded, something like pain in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Something like sorrow.
    ‘I wouldn’t enjoy it,’ he said at last.
    Despite the truth of it, Amat laughed. Or perhaps because of it.
    ‘Is Liat Chokavi still with you?’ Marchat asked, then took a pose that offered reassurance. ‘It’s just that I have a box of her things. Mostly her things. Some others may have found their way into it. I won’t call it apology, but . . .’
    ‘Unfortunately, no,’ Amat said. ‘I offered her a place. The gods all know I could use competent help keeping my books. But she’s left with the poet boy. It seems they’re heartmates.’
    Marchat chuckled.
    ‘Oh, that’ll end well,’ he said with surprisingly gentle sarcasm.
    ‘Tell Epani to bring us a pot of tea,’ Amat said. ‘He can at least do something useful. Then there’s business we need to talk through.’
    Marchat did as she asked, and minutes later, she cupped a small, lovely tea bowl in her hands, blowing across the steaming surface. Marchat poured a bowl for himself, but didn’t drink it. Instead, he folded his hands together and rested his great, whiskered chin in them. The silence wasn’t a ploy on his part; she could see that. He didn’t know what to say. It made the game hers to start.
    ‘There’s something I want of you,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said.
    ‘The warehouses on the Nantan. I want to rent them from House Wilsin.’
    He leaned back now, his head tilted like a dog hearing an unfamiliar sound. He took an interrogatory pose. Amat sipped her tea, but it was still too hot. She put the bowl on the table.
    ‘With the andat lost, I’m gathering investment in a combers’ hall. I’ve found ten men who worked as combers when Petals-Falling-Open was still the andat in Saraykeht. They’re willing to act as foremen. The initial outlay and the first contracts are difficult. I have people who might be willing to invest if I can find space. They’re worried that my relationship with my last employer ended poorly. Rent me the space, and I can address both issues at once.’
    ‘But, Amat . . .’
    ‘I lost,’ she said. ‘I know it.