Shadow and Betrayal

Machi is such that . . .
    Most high Dai-kvo, I am sure that, had you known the turns of event since my last report . . .
    Most high, I must respectfully . . .
    Most high Dai-kvo, what have you ever done for me that I should do anything you say? Why do I agree to be your creature when that agreement has only ever caused me pain and loss, and you still instruct me to turn my back on the people I care for most?
    Most high Dai-kvo, I have fed your last letter to pigs . . .
    ‘Maati-kvo!’
    Maati opened his eyes and turned. Cehmai, who had been running toward him, stopped short. Maati thought he saw fear in the boy’s expression and wondered for a moment what Cehmai had seen in his face to inspire it. Maati took a pose that invited him to speak.
    ‘Otah,’ Cehmai said. ‘They’ve found him.’
    Too late, then, Maati thought. I’ve been too slow and come too late.
    ‘Where?’ he asked.
    ‘In the river. There’s a bend down near one of the low towns. They found his body, and a man in leather armor. One of the men who helped him escape, or that’s what they’ve guessed. The Master of Tides is having them brought to the Khai’s physicians. I told him that you had seen Otah most recently. You would be able to confirm it’s really him.’
    Maati sighed and watched a sparrow try to land on the branch of a cherry tree. The netting confused it, and the bird pecked at the lines that barred it from the fruit just growing sweet. Maati smiled in sympathy.
    ‘Let’s go, then,’ he said.
    There was a crowd in the courtyard outside the physicians’ apartments. Armsmen wearing mourning robes barred most of the onlookers but parted when Maati and Cehmai arrived. The physicians’ workroom was wide as a kitchen, huge slate tables in the center of the room and thick incense billowing from a copper brazier. The bodies were laid out naked on their bellies - one thick and well-muscled with a heaped pile of black leather on the table beside it, the other thinner with what might have been the robes of a prisoner or cleaning rags clinging to its back. The Master of Tides - a thin man named Saani Vaanga - and the Khai’s chief physician were talking passionately, but stopped when they saw the poets.
    The Master of Tides took a pose that offered service.
    ‘I have come on behalf of the Dai-kvo,’ Maati said. ‘I wished to confirm the reports that Otah Machi is dead.’
    ‘Well, he isn’t going dancing,’ the physician said, pointing to the thinner corpse with his chin.
    ‘We’re pleased by the Dai-kvo’s interest,’ the Master of Tides said, ignoring the comment. ‘Cehmai-cha suggested that you might be able to confirm for us that this is indeed the upstart.’
    Maati took a pose of compliance and stepped forward. The reek was terrible - rotting flesh and something deeper, more disturbing. Cehmai hung back as Maati circled the table.
    Maati gestured at the body, his hand moving in a circle to suggest turning it over that he might better see the dead man’s face. The physician sighed, came to Maati’s side, and took a long iron hook. He slid the hook under the body’s shoulder and heaved. There was a wet sound as it lifted and fell. The physician put away the hook and arranged the limbs as Maati considered the bare flesh before him. Clearly the body had spent its journey face down. The features were bloated and fish-eaten - it might have been Otah-kvo. It might have been anyone.
    On the pale, water-swollen flesh of the corpse’s breast, the dark ink was still visible. The tattoo. Maati had his hand halfway out to touch it before he realized what he was doing and pulled his fingers back. The ink was so dark, though, the line where the tattoo began and ended so sharp. A stirring of the air brought the scent fully to his nose, and Maati gagged, but didn’t look away.
    ‘Will this satisfy the Dai-kvo?’ the Master of Tides asked.
    Maati nodded and took a pose of thanks, then turned and gestured to Cehmai that he should follow. The younger poet was stone-faced. Maati wondered if he had seen many dead men before, much less smelled them. Out in the fresh air again, they navigated the crowd, ignoring the questions asked them. Cehmai was silent until they were well away from any curious ear.
    ‘I’m sorry, Maati-kvo. I know you and he were—’
    ‘It’s not him,’ Maati said.
    Cehmai paused, his hands moved up into a pose that spoke of his confusion. Maati stopped, looking around.
    ‘It isn’t him,’ Maati said.