Shadow and Betrayal

the library so that it wouldn’t be clear to everyone over three summers old what I was really here for. He might also mention that the questions I’ve been asking have been bad enough without lying to the utkhaiem while I’m at it.’
    ‘You haven’t lied,’ Cehmai said, and then a moment later, ‘Well, actually, I suppose you have. You aren’t really doing what you believe the Dai-kvo would want.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘And you want my complicity?’
    ‘Yes. Or, that is, I have to ask it of you. And I have to persuade you if I can, though in truth I’d be as happy if you could talk me out of it.’
    ‘I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? And don’t only say that you want to sleep well after you’ve seen another twenty summers. You’ve done more than anyone could have asked of you. What is it about Otah Machi that’s driving you to this?’
    Oh, Maati thought, you shouldn’t have asked that question, my boy. Because that one I know how to answer, and it’ll sting you as much as me.
    He steepled his fingers and spoke.
    ‘He and I loved the same woman once, when we were younger men. If I do him harm or let him come to harm that I could have avoided, I couldn’t look at her again and say it wasn’t my anger that drove me. My anger at her love for him. I haven’t seen her in years, but I will someday. And when I do, I need it to be with a clear conscience. The Dai-kvo may not need it. The poets may not. But despite our reputations, we’re men under these robes, and as a man . . . As a man to a man, it’s something I would ask of you. Another week. Just until we can see who’s likely to be the new Khai.’
    There was a shifting sound behind him. The andat had come in silently at some point and was standing at the doorway with the same simple, placid smile. Cehmai leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair three times in fast succession, as if he were washing himself without water.
    ‘Another week,’ Cehmai said. ‘I’ll keep quiet another week.’
    Maati blinked. He had expected at least an appeal to the danger he was putting Idaan in by keeping silent. Some form of at least let me warn her . . . Maati frowned, and then understood.
    He’d already done it. Cehmai had already told Idaan Machi that Otah was alive. Annoyance and anger flared brief as a firefly, and then faded, replaced by something deeper and more humane. Amusement, pleasure, and even a kind of pride in the young poet. We are men beneath these robes, he thought, and we do what we must.
     
    Sinja spun, the thick wooden cudgel hissing through the air. Otah stepped inside the blow, striking at the man’s wrist. He missed, his own rough wooden stick hitting Sinja’s with a clack and a shock that ran up his arm. Sinja snarled, pushed him back, and then ruefully considered his weapon.
    ‘That was decent,’ Sinja said. ‘Amateur, granted, but not hopeless.’
    Otah set his stick down, then sat - head between his knees - as he fought to get his breath back. His ribs felt as though he’d rolled down a rocky hill, and his fingers were half numb from the shocks they’d absorbed. And he felt good - exhausted, bruised, dirty, and profoundly back in control of his own body again, free in the open air. His eyes stung with sweat, his spit tasted of blood, and when he looked up at Sinja, they were both grinning. Otah held out his hand and Sinja hefted him to his feet.
    ‘Again?’ Sinja said.
    ‘I wouldn’t . . . want to . . . take advantage . . . when you’re . . . so tired.’
    Sinja’s face folded into a caricature of helplessness as he took a pose of gratitude. They turned back toward the farmhouse. The high summer afternoon was thick with gnats and the scent of pine resin. The thick gray walls of the farmhouse, the wide low trees around it, looked like a painting of modest tranquility. Nothing about it suggested court intrigue or violence or death. That, Otah supposed, was why Amiit had chosen it.
    They had gone out after a late breakfast. Otah had felt well enough, he thought, to spar a bit. And there was the chance that this would all come to blades before it was over, whether he chose it or not. He’d never been trained as a fighter, and Sinja was happy to offer a day’s instruction. There was an easy camaraderie that Otah had enjoyed on the way out. The work itself reminded him that Sinja had slaughtered his last comrades, and the walk back was somehow much longer than the one out had been.
    ‘A little practice,