Shadow and Betrayal

bindings may someday become possible with greater understanding of the world and our place within it. For this reason they are of no interest to me. The second type is made up of those thoughts by their nature impossible to bind, and no greater knowledge shall ever permit them. Examples of this are Imprecision and Freedom-From-Bondage. Holding Time or Mind would be like holding a mountain in your hands. Holding Imprecision would be like holding the backs of your hands in your palms. One of these images may inspire awe, it is true, but the other is interesting .
    ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Maati-cha?’ the librarian asked again.
    ‘Thank you, Baarath-cha, but no. I’m quite well.’
    The librarian took a step forward all the same. His hands seemed to twitch towards the books and scrolls that Maati had gathered to look over. The man’s smile was fixed, his eyes glassy. In his worst moments, Maati had considered pretending to catch one of the ancient scrolls on fire, if only to see whether Baarath’s knees would buckle.
    ‘Because, if there was anything . . .’
    ‘Maati-cha?’ The familiar voice of the young poet rang from the front of the library. Maati turned to see Cehmai stride into the chamber with a casual pose of welcome to Baarath. He dropped into a chair across from Maati’s own. The librarian was trapped for a moment between the careful formality he had with Maati and the easy companionship he appeared to enjoy with Cehmai. He hesitated for a moment, then, frowning, retreated.
    ‘I’m sorry about him,’ Cehmai said. ‘He’s an ass sometimes, but he is good at heart.’
    ‘If you say so. And what brings you? I thought there was another celebration of the Khai’s daughter making a match.’
    ‘A messenger’s come from the Dai-kvo,’ Cehmai said, lowering his voice so that Baarath, no doubt just behind the corner and listening, might not make out the words. ‘He says it’s important.’
    Maati sat up, his belly twingeing a bit. His messages couldn’t have reached the Dai-kvo’s village and returned so soon. This had to be something that had been sent before word of his injury had gone out, which meant the Dai-kvo had found something, or wished something done, or . . . He noticed Cehmai’s expression and paused.
    ‘Is the seal not right?’
    ‘There is no seal,’ Cehmai said. ‘There is no letter. The messenger says he was instructed to only speak the message to you, in private. It was too important, he said, to be written.’
    ‘That seems unlikely,’ Maati said.
    ‘Doesn’t it?’
    ‘Where is he now?’
    ‘They brought him to the poet’s house when they heard who had sent him. I’ve had him put in a courtyard in the Fourth Palace. A walled one, with armsmen to keep him there. If this is a fresh assassin . . .’
    ‘Then he’ll answer more questions than the last one can,’ Maati said. ‘Take me there.’
    As they left, Maati saw Baarath swoop down on the books and scrolls like a mother reunited with her babe. Maati knew that they would all be hidden in obscure drawers and shelves by the time he came back. Some, he would likely never see again.
    The sun was moving toward the mountain peaks in the west, early evening descending on the valley. They walked together down the white gravel path that led to the Fourth Palace, looking, Maati was sure, like nothing so much as a teacher and his student in their matching brown poet’s robes. Except that Cehmai was the man who held the andat, and Maati was only a scholar. They didn’t speak, but Maati felt a knot of excitement and apprehension tightening in him.
    At the palace’s great hall, a servant met them with a pose of formal welcome that couldn’t hide the brightness in her eyes. At a gesture, she led them down a wide corridor and then up a flight of stairs to a gallery that looked down into the courtyard. Maati forced himself to breathe deeply as he stepped to the edge and looked down, Cehmai at his side.
    The space was modest, but lush. Thin vines rose along one wall and part of another. Two small, sculpted maple trees stood, one at either end of a long, low stone bench. It looked like a painting - the perfectly balanced garden, with the laborer in his ill-cut robes the only thing out of place. A breeze stirred the branches of the trees with a sound equal parts flowing water and dry pages turning. Maati stepped back. His throat was tight, but his head felt perfectly clear. So this was how it would happen. Very