Shadow and Betrayal

head wearily. ‘I’m sorry to have done that to him. But I suppose there’s little enough I can do about it now. There does always seem to be a price people pay for knowing me.’
    Maati looked at his hands. For a moment he considered holding his tongue. It would be worse, he thought, holding out hope if there was none. But it was all that he had left to offer.
    ‘I’ve sent to the Dai-kvo. I may have a way that you can survive this,’ he said. ‘There’s no precedent for someone refusing the offer to become a poet. It’s possible that . . .’
    Otah sipped the water and put down the flask. His brow was furrowed.
    ‘You’ve asked him to make me a poet?’ Otah asked.
    ‘I didn’t say it would work,’ Maati said. ‘Only that I’d done it.’
    ‘Well, thank you for that much.’
    Otah reached out, took another bit of bread, and leaned back. The effort seemed to exhaust him. Maati rose and paced the room. The view from the window was lovely and inhuman. No one had ever been meant to see so far at once. A thought occurred, and he looked in the corners of the room.
    ‘Have they . . . there’s no night bucket,’ he said.
    Otah raised one arm in a wide gesture toward the world outside.
    ‘I’ve been using the window,’ he said. Maati smiled, and Otah smiled with him. Then for a moment they were laughing together.
    ‘Well, that must confuse people in the streets,’ Maati said.
    ‘Very large pigeons,’ Otah said. ‘They blame very large pigeons.’
    Maati grinned, and then felt the smile fade.
    ‘They’re going to kill you, Otah-kvo. The Khai and Danat. They can’t let you live. You’re too well known, and they think you’ll act against them.’
    ‘They won’t make do with blinding me and casting me into the wilderness, eh?’
    ‘I’ll make the suggestion, if you like.’
    Otah’s laugh was thinner now. He took up the cheese, digging into its pale flesh with his fingers. He held a sliver out to Maati, offering to share it. Maati hesitated, and then accepted it. It was smooth as cream and salty. It would go well with the nut bread, he guessed.
    ‘I knew this was likely to happen when I chose to come back,’ Otah said. ‘I’m not pleased by it, but it will spare Kiyan, won’t it? They won’t keep pressing her?’
    ‘I can’t see why they would,’ Maati said.
    ‘Dying isn’t so bad, then,’ Otah said. ‘At least it does something for her.’
    ‘Do you mean that?’
    ‘I might as well, Maati-kya. Unless you plan to sneak me out in your sleeve, I think I’m going to be spared the rigors of a northern winter. I don’t see there’s anything to be done about that.’
    Maati sighed and nodded. He rose and took a pose of farewell. Even just the little food and the short time seemed to have made Otah stronger. He didn’t rise, but he took a pose that answered the farewell. Maati walked to the door and pounded to be let out. He heard the scrape of the bar being raised. Otah spoke.
    ‘Thank you for all this. It’s kind.’
    ‘I’m not doing it for you, Otah-kvo.’
    ‘All the same. Thank you.’
    Maati didn’t reply. The door opened, and he stepped out. The captain of the armsmen started to speak, but something in Maati’s expression stopped him. Maati strode to the sky doors and out to the platform as if he were walking into a hallway and not an abyss of air. He clasped his hands behind him and looked out over the roofs of Machi. What had been vertiginous only recently failed to move him now. His mind and heart were too full. When he reached the ground again, he walked briskly to his apartments. The wound in his belly itched badly, but he kept himself from worrying it. He only gathered his papers, sat on a deck of oiled wood that looked out over gardens of summer trees and ornate flowers a brighter red than blood, and planned out the remainder of his day.
    There were still two armsmen from the cages with whom he hadn’t spoken. If he knew who had killed the assassin, it would likely lead him nearer the truth. And the slaves and servants of the Third Palace might be persuaded to speak more of Danat Machi, now that he was coming back covered in the glory of his brother’s blood. If he had used the story of Otah the Upstart to distract his remaining brother from his schemes . . .
    A servant boy interrupted, announcing Cehmai. Maati took a pose of acknowledgment and had the young poet brought to him. He looked unwell, Maati thought. His skin was too pale, his eyes troubled. He