Shadow and Betrayal

sorrow and darkness they could not see were false.
    When she entered the council chambers, her father greeted her with a silent pose of welcome. He looked ill, his skin gray and his mouth pinched by the pain in his belly. The delicate lanterns of worked iron and silver made the wood-sheathed walls glow, and the cushions that lined the floor were thick and soft as pillows. The men who sat on them - yes, men, all of them - made their obeisances to her, but her father motioned her closer. She walked to his side and knelt.
    ‘There is someone I wish you to meet,’ her father said, gesturing to an awkward man in the brown robes of a poet. ‘The Dai-kvo has sent him. Maati Vaupathai has come to study in our library.’
    Fear flushed her mouth with the taste of metal, but she simpered and took a pose of welcome as if the words had meant nothing. Her mind raced, ticking through ways that the Dai-kvo could have discovered her, or Adrah, or the Galts. The poet replied to her gesture with a formal pose of gratitude, and she took the opportunity to look at him more closely. The body was soft as a scholar’s, the lines of his face round as dough, but there was a darkness to his eyes that had nothing to do with color or light. She felt certain he was someone worth fearing.
    ‘The library?’ she said. ‘That’s dull. Surely there are more interesting things in the city than room after room of old scrolls.’
    ‘Scholars have strange enthusiasms,’ the poet said. ‘But it’s true, I’ve never been to any of the winter cities before. I’m hoping that not all my time will be taken in study.’
    There had to be a reason that the Dai-kvo and the Galts wanted the same thing. There had to be a reason that they each wanted to plumb the depths of the library of Machi.
    ‘And how have you found the city, Maati-cha?’ she asked. ‘When you haven’t been studying.’
    ‘It is as beautiful as I had been told,’ the poet said.
    ‘He has been here only a few days,’ her father said. ‘Had he come earlier, I would have had your brothers here to guide him, but perhaps you might introduce him to your friends.’
    ‘I would be honored,’ Idaan said, her mind considering the thousand ways that this might be a trap. ‘Perhaps tomorrow evening you would join me for tea in the winter gardens. I have no doubt there are many people who would be pleased to join us.’
    ‘Not too many, I hope,’ he said. He had an odd voice, she thought. As if he was amused at something. As if he knew how badly he had shaken her. Her fear shifted slightly, and she raised her chin. ‘I already find myself forgetting names I should remember,’ the poet continued. ‘It’s most embarrassing.’
    ‘I will be pleased to remind you of my own, should it be required,’ she said. Her father’s movement was almost too slight to see, but she caught it and cast her gaze down. Perhaps she had gone too far. But when the poet spoke, he seemed to have taken no offense.
    ‘I expect I will remember yours, Idaan-cha. It would be very rude not to. I look forward to meeting your friends and seeing your city. Perhaps even more than closeting myself in your library.’
    He had to know. He had to. Except that she was not being led away under guard. She was not being taken to the quiet chambers and questioned. If he did not know, he must only suspect.
    Let him suspect, then. She would get word to Adrah and the Galts. They would know better than she what to do with this Maati Vaupathai. If he was a threat, he would be added to the list. Biitrah, Danat, Kaiin, Otah, Maati. The men she would have to kill or have killed. She smiled at him gently, and he nodded to her. One more name could make little difference now, and he, at least, was no one she loved.
     
    ‘When are they sending you?’ Kiyan asked as she poured out the bucket. Gray water flowed over the bricks that paved the small garden at the back of the wayhouse. Otah took the longhandled brush and swept the water off to the sides, leaving the walkway deep red and glistening in the sunlight. He felt Kiyan’s gaze on him, felt the question in the air. The gardens smelled of fresh turned earth. Spices for the kitchen grew here. In a few weeks, the place would be thick with growing things: basil and mint and thyme. He imagined scrubbing these bricks week after week over the span of years until they wore smooth or he died, and felt an irrational surge of fondness for the walkway. He smiled to