Shadow and Betrayal

how old are you?’
    ‘This is my sixteenth summer,’ he said.
    The woman took a pose of appreciation that he didn’t entirely understand. It was a simple enough grammar, but he didn’t see what there was to appreciate about being a particular age. And there was something else in the way her eyes met his that made him feel that perhaps she had mistaken him for someone else.
    ‘And you, Nyoa-cha?’
    ‘My eighteenth,’ she said. ‘My family came to Saraykeht from Cetani when I was a girl. Where are your family?’
    ‘I have none,’ Maati said. ‘That is, when I was sent to the school, I . . . They are in Pathai, but I’m not . . . we aren’t family any longer. I’ve become a poet now.’
    A note of sorrow came into her expression, and she leaned forward. Her hand touched his wrist.
    ‘That must be hard for you,’ she said, her gaze now very much locked with his. ‘Being alone like that.’
    ‘Not so bad,’ Maati said, willing his voice not to squeak. There was a scent coming from her robe - something rich and earthy just strong enough to catch through the floral riot of gardens. ‘That is, I’ve managed quite nicely.’
    ‘You’re brave to put such a strong face on it.’
    And like the answer to a prayer, the andat’s perfect form stepped out from a minor hall at the far end of the garden. He wore a black robe shot with crimson and cut in the style of the Old Empire. Maati leaped up, tucked the plum into his sleeve, and took a pose of farewell.
    ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘The andat has come, and I fear I am required.’
    The woman took an answering pose that also held a nuance of regret, but Maati turned away and hurried down the path, white gravel crunching under his feet. He didn’t look back until he’d reached Seedless’ side.
    ‘Well, my dear. That was a hasty retreat.’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
    Seedless raised a single black brow, and Maati felt himself blushing. But the andat took a pose that dismissed the subject and went on.
    ‘Heshai has left for the day. He says you’re to go back to the poet’s house and clean the bookshelves.’
    ‘I don’t believe you.’
    ‘You’re getting better then,’ the andat said with a grin. ‘He’s just coming. The audience with the Khai ran long, but all the afternoon’s plans are still very much in place.’
    Maati felt himself smile in return. Whatever else could be said of the andat, his advice about Heshai-kvo had been true. Maati had risen in the morning, ready to follow Heshai-kvo on whatever errands the Khai had set him that day. At first, the old poet had seemed uncomfortable, but by the middle of that first day, Maati found him more and more explaining what it was that the andat was called upon to do, how it fit with the high etiquette of the utkhaiem and the lesser courts; how, in fact, to conduct the business of the city. And in the days that followed, Seedless, watching, had taken a tone that was still sly, still shockingly irreverent, still too clever to trust, but not at all like the malefic prankster that Maati had first feared.
    ‘You should really leave the old man behind. I’m a much better teacher,’ Seedless said. ‘That girl, for example, I could teach you how to—’
    ‘Thank you, Seedless-cha, but I’ll take my lessons from Heshai-kvo.’
    ‘Not on that subject, you won’t. Not unless it’s learning how to strike a bargain with a soft-quarter whore.’
    Maati took a dismissive pose, and Heshai-kvo stepped through an archway. His brows were furrowed and angry. His lips moved, continuing some conversation with himself or some imagined listener. When he looked up, meeting Maati’s pose of welcome, his smile seemed forced and brief.
    ‘I’ve a meeting with House Tiyan,’ the poet said. ‘Idiots have petitioned the Khai for a private session. Something about a Westlands contract. I don’t know.’
    ‘I would like to attend, if I may,’ Maati said. It had become something of a stock phrase over the last few days, and Heshai-kvo accepted it with the same distracted acquiescence that seemed to be his custom. The old poet turned to the south and began the walk downhill to the low palaces. Maati and Seedless walked behind. The city stretched below them. The gray and red roofs, the streets leading down to converge on the seafront, and beyond that the masts of the ships, and the sea, and the great expanse of sky dwarfing it all. It was like something from the imagination of a painter, too