Shadow and Betrayal

arm. The long face looked familiar, but it wasn’t until he spoke that the blood rushed from Maati’s face.
    ‘Forgive me,’ the laborer said, taking a pose of apology. ‘I know I’m supposed to wait outside, but I was hoping Liat Chokavi . . .’
    His voice trailed off, made uneasy by what he saw in Maati’s eyes.
    ‘Otah-kvo?’ Maati breathed.
    A moment of shocked silence, and then the laborer clapped a hand over Maati’s mouth and drew him quickly into a side corridor.
    ‘Say nothing,’ Otah said. ‘Nothing.’

6
    Years fell away, the events of Otah’s life taking on a sudden unreality at the sound of his name. The hot, thick days he had worked the seafront of Saraykeht, the grubbing for food and shelter, the nights spent hungry sleeping by the roadside. The life he had built as Itani Noyga. All of it fell away, and he remembered the boy he had been, full of certainty and self-righteous fire, trudging across cold spring fields to the high road. It was like being there again, and the strength of the memory frightened him.
    The young poet went with him quietly, willingly. He seemed as shaken as Otah felt.
    Together, they found an empty room, and Otah shut the door behind them and latched it. The room was a small meeting room, its window looking into a recessed courtyard filled with bamboo and sculpted trees. Even with the rain still falling - drops tapping against the leaves outside the window - the room seemed too bright. Otah sat on the table, his hands pressed to his mouth, and looked at the boy. He was younger by perhaps four summers - older than Otah had been when he’d invented his new name, his new history, and taken indenture with House Wilsin. He had a round, open face and a firm chin and hands that hadn’t known hard labor in many years. But more disturbing than that, there was pleasure in his expression, like someone who’d just found a treasure.
    Otah didn’t know where to start.
    ‘You . . . you were at the school, then?’
    ‘Maati Vaupathai,’ the poet said. ‘I was in one of the youngest cohorts just before you . . . before you left. You took us out to turn the gardens, but we didn’t do very well. My hands were blistered . . .’
    The face became suddenly familiar.
    ‘Gods,’ Otah said. ‘You? That was you?’
    Maati Vaupathai, whom Otah had once forced to eat dirt, took a pose of confirmation that seemed to radiate pleasure at being remembered. Otah leaned back.
    ‘Please. You can’t tell anyone about me. I never took the brand. If my brothers found me . . .’
    ‘They’d try to kill you,’ Maati said. ‘I know. I won’t tell anyone. But . . . Otah-kvo.’
    ‘Itani,’ Otah said. ‘My name’s Itani now.’
    Maati took a pose of acceptance, but still one appropriate for a student to a teacher. Still the sort that Otah had seen presented when he wore the black robes of the school.
    ‘Itani, then. I didn’t think. I mean, to find you here. What are you doing here?’
    ‘I’m indentured to House Wilsin. I’m a laborer.’
    ‘A laborer?’
    Otah took a confirming pose. The poet blinked, as if trying to make sense of a word in a different language. When he spoke again, his voice was troubled. Perhaps disappointed.
    ‘They said that the Dai-kvo accepted you. That you refused him.’
    It was a simple description, Otah thought. A few words that held the shape his life had taken. It had seemed both clearer and more complex at the time - it still seemed that way in his mind.
    ‘That’s true,’ he said.
    ‘What . . . forgive me, Otah-kvo, but what happened?’
    ‘I left. I went south, and found work. I knew that I needed a new name, so I chose one. And . . . and that’s all, I suppose. I’ve taken indenture with House Wilsin. It’s nearly up, and I’m not sure what I’ll do after that.’
    Maati took a pose of understanding, but Otah could see from the furrows in his brow that he didn’t. He sighed and leaned forward, searching for something else to say, some way to explain the life he’d chosen. On top of all the other shocks of the day, he was disturbed to find that words failed him. In the years since he had walked away, he had never tried to explain the decision. There had never been anyone to explain it to.
    ‘And you?’ Otah asked. ‘He took you on, I see.’
    ‘The old Dai-kvo died. After you left, before I even took the black. Tahi-kvo took his place, and a new teacher came to the school. Naani-kvo. He was harder than Tahi-kvo. I think he