Shadow and Betrayal

that normal men can easily conceive.’
    ‘I suppose not,’ Maati said, trotting to keep up. ‘Forgive me, Oshai-cha, but are we near House Nan?’
    ‘We won’t be going much further,’ his guide said. ‘Just around this next turning.’
    But when they made the turn, Maati found not a trading house’s compound, but a small courtyard covered in flagstone, a dry cistern at its center. The few windows that opened onto the yard were shuttered or empty. Maati stepped forward, confused.
    ‘Is this . . .’ he began, and Oshai punched him hard in the belly. Maati stepped back, surprised by the attack, and astounded at the man’s strength. Then he saw the blade in the guide’s hand, and the blood on it. Maati tried to back away, but his feet caught the hem of his robe. Oshai’s face was a grimace of delight and hatred. He seemed to jump forward, then stumbled and fell.
    When his hands - out before him to catch his fall - touched the ground, the flagstone splashed. Oshai’s hands vanished to the wrist. For a moment that seemed to last for days, Maati and his attacker both stared at the ground. Oshai began to struggle, pulling with his shoulders to no effect. Maati could hear the fear in the muttered curses. The pain in his belly was lessening, and a warmth taking its place. He tried to gather himself, but the effort was such that he didn’t notice the dark-robed figures until they were almost upon him. The larger one had thrown back its hood and the wide, calm face of the andat considered him. The other form - smaller, and more agitated - knelt and spoke in Cehmai’s voice.
    ‘Maati-kvo! You’re hurt.’
    ‘Be careful!’ Maati said. ‘He’s got a knife.’
    Cehmai glanced at the assassin struggling in the stone and shook his head. The poet looked very young, and yet familiar in a way that Maati hadn’t noticed before. Intelligent, sure of himself. Maati was struck by an irrational envy of the boy, and then noticed the blood on his own hand. He looked down, and saw the wetness blackening his robes. There was so much of it.
    ‘Can you walk?’ Cehmai said, and Maati realized it wasn’t the first time the question had been asked. He nodded.
    ‘Only help me up,’ he said.
    The younger poet took one arm and the andat the other and gently lifted him. The warmth in Maati’s belly was developing a profound ache in its center. He pushed it aside, walked two steps, then three, and the world seemed to narrow. He found himself on the ground again, the poet leaning over him.
    ‘I’m going for help,’ Cehmai said. ‘Don’t move. Don’t try to move. And don’t die while I’m gone.’
    Maati tried to raise his hands in a pose of agreement, but the poet was already gone, pelting down the street, shouting at the top of his lungs. Maati rolled his head to one side to see the assassin struggling in vain and allowed himself a smile. A thought rolled through his mind, elusive and dim, and he shook himself, willing a lucidity he didn’t possess. It was important. Whatever it was bore the weight of terrible significance. If he could only bring himself to think it. It had something to do with Otah-kvo and all the thousand times Maati had imagined their meeting. The andat sat beside him, watching him with the impassive distance of a statue, and Maati didn’t know that he intended to speak to it until he heard his own words.
    ‘It isn’t Otah-kvo,’ he said. The andat shifted to consider the captive trapped by stone, then turned back.
    ‘No,’ it agreed. ‘Too old.’
    ‘No,’ Maati said, struggling. ‘I don’t mean that. I mean he wouldn’t do this. Not to me. Not without speaking to me. It isn’t him.’
    The andat frowned and shook its massive head.
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘If I die,’ Maati said, forcing himself to speak above a whisper, ‘you have to tell Cehmai. It isn’t Otah-kvo that did this. There’s someone else.’

5
    T he chamber was laid out like a temple or a theater. On the long, sloping floor, representatives of all the high families sat on low stools or cushions. Beyond them sat the emissaries of the trading houses, the people of the city, and past them rank after rank of servants and slaves. The air was rich with the smells of incense and living bodies. Idaan looked out over the throng, though she knew proper form called for her gaze to remain downcast. Across the dais from her, Adrah knelt, his posture mirroring hers, except that his head was held high. He was, after all,