Shadow and Betrayal

I’m the only man in the city with the courage to say it to your face. Arrogant and selfish and small-souled.’
    ‘Well, perhaps it’s not too much to go over to the library. It isn’t as if it was that long a walk.’
    Baraath’s face brightened for a moment, then, as the insincerity of the comment came clear, squeezed as if he’d taken a bite of fresh lemon. With a sound like an angry duck, he rose up and stalked from the baths and into the fog.
    ‘He’s a terrible person,’ the andat said.
    ‘I know. But he’s a friend of mine.’
    ‘And terrible people need friends as much as good ones do,’ the andat said, its tone an agreement. ‘More, perhaps.’
    ‘Which of us are you thinking of?’
    Stone-Made-Soft didn’t speak. Cehmai let the warmth of the water slip into his flesh for a moment longer. Then he too rose, the water sluicing from him, and walked to the dressing rooms. He dried himself with a fresh cloth and found his robes, newly cleaned and dry. The other men in the room spoke among themselves, joked, laughed. Cehmai was more aware than usual of the formal poses with which they greeted him. In this quiet season, there was little work for him, and the days were filled with music and singing, gatherings organized by the young men and women of the utkhaiem. But all the cakes tasted slightly of ashes, and the brightest songs seemed tinny and false. Somewhere in the city, under her brother’s watchful eye, the woman he’d sworn to protect was locked away. He adjusted his robes in the mirror, smiled as if trying the expression like a party mask, and for the thousandth time noticed the weight of his decision.
    He left the bathhouse, following a broad, low tunnel to the east where it would join a larger passage, one of the midwinter roads, which in turn ran beneath the trees outside the poet’s house before it broke into a thousand maze-like corridors running under the old city. Along the length of the passage, men and women stood or sat, some talking, some singing. An old man, his dog lying at his feet, sold bread and sausages from a hand cart. The girls he’d seen in the bathhouse had been joined by young men, joking and posing in the timeless rituals of courtship. Stone-Made-Soft was kneeling by the wall, looking out over all of it, silently judging what it would take to bring the roof down and bury them all. Cehmai reached out with his will and tugged at the andat. Still smiling, Stone-Made-Soft rose and ambled over.
    ‘I think the one on the far left was hoping to meet you,’ it said, gesturing to the knot of young men and women as it drew near. ‘She was watching you all the time we were in the baths.’
    ‘Perhaps it was Baraath she was looking at,’ Cehmai said.
    ‘You think so?’ the andat said. ‘I suppose he’s a decent-looking man. And many women are overcome by the romance of the librarian. No doubt you’re right.’
    ‘Don’t,’ Cehmai said. ‘I don’t want to play that game again.’
    Something like real sympathy showed in the andat’s wide face. The struggle at the back of Cehmai’s mind neither worsened nor diminished as Stone-Made-Soft’s broad hand reached out to rest on his shoulder.
    ‘Enough,’ it said. ‘You did what you had to do, and whipping yourself now won’t help you or her. Let’s go meet that girl. Talk to her. We can find someone selling sweetcakes. Otherwise we’ll only go back to the rooms and sulk away another night.’
    Cehmai looked over, and indeed, the girl farthest to the left - her long, dark hair unbound, her robes well cut and the green of jade - caught his eyes, and blushing, looked away. He had seen her before, he realized. She was beautiful, and he did not know her name.
    ‘Perhaps another day,’ he said.
    ‘There are only so many other days,’ the andat said, its voice low and gentle. ‘I may go on for generations, but you little men rise and fall with the seasons. Stop biting yourself. It’s been months.’
    ‘One more day. I’ll bite myself for one more day at least,’ Cehmai said. ‘Come on.’
    The andat sighed and dropped its hand to its side. Cehmai turned east, walking into the dim tunnels. He felt the temptation to look back, to see whether the girl was watching his departure and if she was, what expression she wore. He kept his eyes on the path before him and the moment passed.
     
    The Khai Machi had no other name now that he had taken his father’s office. It had been stripped from him in formal