Shadow and Betrayal

thick fists and fierce concentration furrowed his brow. Maati heard Seedless fall even before he turned to look. The andat was prone, his hands splayed before him in a pose of abject apology so profound that Maati knew the andat would never take it of his own will. Heshai’s lips quivered.
    ‘It’s something that . . . I’ve done before,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘It isn’t something anyone wishes for. Not the woman, not anyone. The sad trade earns its name every time it’s made.’
    ‘Heshai-cha?’ a woman’s voice said.
    She stood beside the prostrate andat, her haughty demeanor shaken by the odd scene. Maati stood, falling into a pose of welcome. Heshai released his hold on Seedless, allowing the andat to rise. Seedless shook imagined dust off his robes, fixing the poet with a look of arch reproach, before turning to the woman.
    ‘Liat Chokavi,’ the andat said, his perfect hands touching her wrist, intimate as old friends. ‘We’re so pleased to see you. Aren’t we, Heshai?’
    ‘Delighted,’ the poet snapped. ‘Nothing quite like being handed to a half-tutored apprentice to keep me in my place.’
    The shock in the girl’s face was subtle, there only for an instant. Her self-assured mask slipped, her eyes widening a fraction, her mouth hardening. And then she was as she had been before. But Maati knew, or thought he knew, how hard Heshai’s blow had struck, and against someone who had done nothing but be an opportune target.
    Heshai rose and took a pose appropriate to opening a negotiation, but with a stony formality that continued the insult. Maati found himself suddenly ashamed of his teacher.
    ‘The meeting room’s this way,’ Heshai said, then turned and trundled off. Seedless strode behind him, leaving Liat Chokavi and Maati to follow as they could.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Maati said quietly. ‘The sad trade bothers him. You didn’t do anything wrong.’
    Liat shot a glance at him that began with distrust, then as she saw distress on his face, softened. She took a pose of gratitude, small and informal.
    The meeting room was spare and uncomfortably warm. A single small window stood shuttered until Heshai pushed it open. He sat at the low stone table and motioned Liat to sit across from him. She moved awkwardly, but took her place, plucking a packet of papers from her sleeve. Seedless stood at the window, looking down at the poet with a predatory smirk as Heshai drew the papers to him and looked them over.
    ‘May I be of service, Heshai-kvo?’ Maati asked.
    ‘Get us some tea,’ the poet said, looking at the papers. Maati looked first to the girl, and then back to Heshai. Seedless, seeing his reluctance, frowned. Then comprehension bloomed in the andat’s black eyes. The perfect hands took a pose that asked permission for something - though Maati didn’t know what, and Seedless dropped the pose before leave could be given.
    ‘Heshai, my dear, you have a better student than you deserve. I think he doesn’t want to leave you alone,’ Seedless smirked. ‘He thinks you’ll go on bullying this fine young lady. If it were me, you understand, I’d be quite pleased to watch you make an ass of yourself, but . . .’
    Heshai shifted, and the andat shuddered in pain or something like it. Seedless’ hands shifted again into a pose of apology. Maati saw, however, the scowl on the poet’s face. Seedless had shamed his master into behaving kindly to the girl. At least for a time.
    ‘Some tea, Maati. And for our guest as well,’ Heshai said, gesturing to Liat.
    Maati took a pose of acceptance. He caught Seedless’ dark eyes as he left and nodded thanks. The andat answered with the smallest of all possible smiles.
    The corridors of the hall were full of men and women: traders, utkhaiem, servants, slaves, and guards. Maati strode out, looking for a palace servant. He followed the path he knew to the main hall, impatient to return to the negotiation. The main hall was as full as the corridors, or worse. Conversations filled the space as thick as smoke. He caught a glimpse of the pale yellow robe of a palace servant moving toward the main door and made for it as quickly as he could.
    Halfway to the main door, he brushed against a young man. He wore the same green and bronze colors that Liat Chokavi and Marchat Wilsin had, but his hands were stained and callused, his shoulders those of a laborer. Thinking that he could pass his errand off to this man, Maati stopped and grabbed the man’s