Shadow and Betrayal

you’re right,’ Cehmai said. ‘I hadn’t seen it from that angle.’
    Stone-Made-Soft’s calm, constant near-smile widened slightly.
    ‘You should have, though. That’s my point. Grammars and translations and the subtleties of thought are your trade. That I know more about it than you and that Maati person is a bad sign for the world. Note this, Cehmai-kya, write down that I said it. It’s that kind of ignorance that will destroy the Khaiem.’
    ‘I’ll write down that you said it,’ Cehmai said. ‘In fact, I’ll go back to my apartments right now and do that. And afterwards, I’ll crawl into bed, I think.’
    ‘So soon?’
    ‘The night candle’s past its center mark,’ Cehmai said.
    ‘Fine. Go. When I was your age, I would stay up nights in a row for the sake of a good conversation like this, but I suppose the generations weaken, don’t they?’
    Cehmai took a pose of farewell, and Baarath returned it.
    ‘Come by tomorrow, though,’ Baarath said as they left. ‘There’s some old imperial poetry I’ve translated that might interest you.’
    Outside, the night had grown colder, and few lanterns lit the paths and streets. Cehmai pulled his arms in from their sleeves and held his fingers against his sides for warmth. His breath plumed blue-white in the faint moonlight, and even the distant scent of pine resin made the air seem colder.
    ‘He doesn’t think much of our guest,’ Cehmai said. ‘I would have thought he’d be pleased that Maati took little interest in the books, after all the noise he made.’
    When Stone-Made-Soft spoke, its breath did not fog. ‘He’s like a girl bent on protecting her virginity until she finds no one wants it.’
    Cehmai laughed.
    ‘That is entirely too apt,’ he said, and the andat took a pose accepting the compliment.
    ‘You’re going to do something,’ it said.
    ‘I’m going to pay attention,’ Cehmai said. ‘If something needs doing, I’ll try to be on hand.’
    They turned down the cobbled path that led to the poet’s house. The sculpted oaks that lined it rustled in the faint breeze, rubbing new leaves together like a thousand tiny hands. Cehmai wished that he’d thought to bring a candle from Baarath’s. He imagined Maati Vaupathai standing in the shadows with his appraising gaze and mysterious agenda.
    ‘You’re frightened of him,’ the andat said, but Cehmai didn’t answer.
    There was someone there among the trees - a shape shifting in the darkness. He stopped and slid his arms back into their sleeves. The andat stopped as well. They weren’t far from the house - Cehmai could see the glow of the lantern left out before his doorway. The story of a poet slaughtered in a distant city raced in his mind until the figure came out between him and his doorway, silhouetted in the dim light. Cehmai’s heart didn’t slow, but it did change contents.
    She still wore the half-mask she’d had at the gathering. Her black and white robes shifted, the cloth so rich and soft, and he could hear it even over the murmur of the trees. He stepped toward her, taking a pose of welcome.
    ‘Idaan,’ he said. ‘Is there something . . . I didn’t expect to find you here. I mean . . . I’m doing this rather badly, aren’t I?’
    ‘Start again,’ she said.
    ‘Idaan.’
    ‘Cehmai.’
    She took a step toward him. He could see the flush in her cheek and smell the faint, nutty traces of distilled wine on her breath. When she spoke, her words were sharp and precise.
    ‘I saw what you did to Adrah,’ she said. ‘He left a heel mark in the stone.’
    ‘Have I given offense?’ he asked.
    ‘Not to me. He didn’t see it, and I didn’t say.’
    In the back of his mind, or in some quarter of his flesh, Cehmai felt Stone-Made-Soft receding as if in answer to his own wish. They were alone on the dark path.
    ‘It’s difficult for you, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Being a part of the court and yet not. Being among the most honored men in the city, and yet not of Machi.’
    ‘I bear it. You’ve been drinking.’
    ‘I have. But I know who I am and where I am. I know what I’m doing.’
    ‘What are you doing, Idaan-kya?’
    ‘Poets can’t take wives, can they?’
    ‘We don’t, no. There’s not often room in our lives for a family.’
    ‘And lovers?’
    Cehmai felt his breath coming faster and willed it to slow. An echo of amusement in the back of his mind was not his own thought. He ignored it.
    ‘Poets take lovers,’ he said.
    She stepped