Shadow and Betrayal

said, ‘I want her to be happy.’
    Those are two different answers , Marchat thought, but didn’t say. He’d been that age once, and he remembered it well enough to know there was no point in pressing. They were in the low town proper now, anyway.
    The streets here were muddy and smelled more of shit than moonrose. The buildings with their rotting thatch roofs and rough stone walls stood off at angles from the road. Two streets in, and so almost halfway though the town, a long, low house stood at the opening to a rough square. A lantern hung from a hook beside its door. Marchat motioned to Itani.
    ‘Wait for me here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
    Itani nodded his understanding. There was no hesitation or objection in his stance so far as Marchat could tell. It was more than he would have expected of himself if someone had told him to stand in this pesthole street in the black of night for some unknown stretch of time. Gods go with you, you poor bastard , Marchat thought. And with me, too, for that.
    Inside, the house was dim. The ceiling was low, and though the walls were wide apart, the house had the feel of being too close. Like a cave. Part of that was the smell of mold and stale water, part the dim doorways and black arches that led to the inner rooms. A squat table ran the length of one wall, and two men stood against it. The larger, a thick-necked tough with a long knife hanging from his belt, eyed Marchat. The other, moon-faced and pleasant-looking, nodded welcome.
    ‘Oshai,’ Marchat said by way of greeting.
    ‘Welcome to our humble quarters,’ the moon-faced man said and smiled. Marchat disliked that smile, polite though it was. It was too much like the smile of someone helping you onto a sinking boat.
    ‘Is it here?’ Marchat asked.
    Oshai nodded to a door set deeper in the gloom. A glimmer of candlelight showed its outline. Bad craftsmanship.
    ‘He’s been waiting,’ Oshai said.
    Marchat grunted before walking deeper into the darkness. The wood of the door was water-rotted, the leather hinge loose and ungainly. Marchat had to lift the door by its handle to close it behind him. The meeting room was smaller, better lit, quiet. A night candle stood in a wall niche, burned past half. Several other candles burned on a small table. And sitting at the table itself was the andat. Seedless. Marchat’s skin crawled as the thing considered him, black eyes shifting silently. The andat were unnerving under the best circumstances.
    Marchat took a pose of greeting that the andat returned, then Seedless pushed out a stool and motioned to it. Marchat sat.
    ‘You were able to come here without the poet’s knowing?’ Marchat asked.
    ‘The great poet of Saraykeht is spending his evening drunk. As usual,’ Seedless replied, his voice conversational and smooth as cream. ‘He’s beyond caring where I am or what I’m doing.’
    ‘And I hear the woman arrived?’
    ‘Yes. Oshai says she’s everything we need. Sweet-tempered, tractable, and profoundly credulous. She’s unlikely to spook and run away like the last one. And she’s from Nippu.’
    ‘Nippu?’ Marchat said and curled his lip. ‘That’s a backwater little island. Don’t you think it might raise suspicion? I mean why would some farm bitch from a half-savage island come to Saraykeht just to drop her baby?’
    ‘You’ll think of something plausible,’ Seedless said, waving the objection away. ‘The point is she only speaks east island tongues. If she were from someplace with a real port, she might know a civilized language. Instead, you’ll be using Oshai as her translator. It should be easy.’
    ‘My overseer may know the language.’
    ‘And you can’t delegate this to someone who doesn’t?’ Seedless said. ‘Or are all of your employees brilliant translators?’
    ‘Any idea who the father is?’ Marchat said, shifting the subject.
    Seedless made a gesture that wasn’t a formal pose, but indicated the whole world and everything in it with a sweep of his delicate fingers.
    ‘Who knows? Some passing fisherman. A tradesman. Someone who passed though her town and got her legs apart. No one who’ll notice or care much if he does. He isn’t important. And your part of the plan is progressing?’
    ‘We’re prepared. We have the payment ready. Pearls, mostly, and a hundred lengths of silver. It’s the sort of thing an east islander might pay with,’ Marchat said. ‘And there’s no reason the Khai should