Shadow and Betrayal

scents of sandalwood and vanilla.
    ‘Tell me, Maati. What do you think of slaves?’
    The question was an odd one, and his first response - I don’t - seemed too glib for the occasion. Instead, he took a pose requesting clarification as best he could while still walking more quickly than his usual pace.
    ‘Permanent indenture. What’s your opinion of it?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Then think for a moment.’
    They passed through the hall and onto a wide, flower-strewn path that led down and to the south. Gardens rich with exotic flowers and fountains spread out before them. Singing slaves, hidden from view by hedges or cloth screens, filled the air with wordless melodies. The sun blared heat like a trumpet, and the thick air made Maati feel almost as if he were swimming. It seemed they’d hardly started walking before Maati’s inner robe was sticky with sweat. He found himself struggling to keep up.
    As Maati considered the question, servants and utkhaiem passed, pausing to take poses of respect. His teacher took little notice of them or of the heat; where Maati’s robes stuck, his flowed like water over stone and no sweat dampened his temples. Maati cleared his throat.
    ‘People who have entered into permanent indenture have either chosen to do so, in return for the protection of the holders of their contracts, or lost their freedoms as punishment for some crime,’ Maati said, carefully keeping any judgment out of the statement.
    ‘Is that what the Dai-kvo taught you?’
    ‘No. It’s just . . . it’s just the way it is. I’ve always known that.’
    ‘And the third case? The andat?’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    The teacher’s dark eyebrows rose on the perfect skin of his forehead. His lips took the slightest of all possible smiles.
    ‘The andat aren’t criminals. Before they’re bound, they have no thought, no will, no form. They’re only ideas. How can an idea enter into a contract?’
    ‘How can one refuse?’ Maati countered.
    ‘There are names, my boy, for men who take silence as consent.’
    They passed into the middle gardens. The low halls spread before them, and wider paths almost like streets. The temple rose off to their right, wide and high; its sloping lines reminded Maati of a seagull in flight. At one of the low halls, carts had gathered. Laborers milled around, speaking with one another. Maati caught a glimpse of a bale of cotton being carried in. With a thrill of excitement he realized what was happening. For the first time, he was going to see Heshai-kvo wield the power of the andat.
    ‘Ah, well. Never mind,’ his teacher said, as if he had been waiting for some answer. ‘Only Maati? Later on, I’d like you to think about this conversation.’
    Maati took a pose appropriate to a student accepting an assignment. As they drew nearer, the laborers and merchants moved aside to make room for them. Members of the utkhaiem were also there in fine robes and expensive jewelry. Maati caught sight of an older woman in a robe the color of the sky at dawn - the personal attendant of the Khai Saraykeht.
    ‘The Khai is here?’ Maati asked, his voice smaller than he would have liked.
    ‘He attends sometimes. It makes the merchants feel he’s paying attention to them. Silly trick, but it seems to work.’
    Maati swallowed, half at the prospect of seeing the Khai, half at the indifference in his teacher’s voice. They passed through the arches and into the shade of the low hall. Warehouse-large, the hall was filled with bale upon bale of raw cotton stacked to the high ceiling. The only space was a narrow gap at the very top, thinner than a bale, and another of perhaps a hand’s width at the bottom where metal frames held the cotton off the floor. What little space remained was peopled by the representatives of the merchant houses whose laborers waited outside and, on a dais, the Khai Saraykeht - a man in his middle years, his hair shot with gray, his eyes heavy-lidded. His attendants stood around him, following commands so subtle they approached invisibility. Maati felt the weight of the silence as they entered. Then a murmur moved through the hall, voices too low to make out words or even sentiments. The Khai raised an eyebrow and took a pose of query with an almost inhuman grace.
    At his side stood a thick-bodied man, his wide frog-like mouth gaping open in what might have been horror or astonishment. He also wore the robe of a poet. Maati felt his teacher’s hand on his