Shadow and Betrayal

efficiency of ants, and the utkhaiem, in robes as gaudy as the sunset, stood in lit courtyards, posing to each other as the politics of the court played out. Vying, Otah guessed, for which would have the honor of killing a son of the Khai Udun.
    Pretending that he bore a message, he took directions from one of the servants, and soon he’d left even the palaces behind. The path was dark, curving through stands of trees. He could still see the palaces behind him if he turned, but the emptiness made the poet’s house seem remote from them. He crossed a long wooden bridge over a pond. And there the simple, elegant house stood. Its upper story was lit. Its lower had the front wall pulled open like shutters or a stage set for a play. And sitting on a velvet chair was the boy. Maati Vaupathai.
    ‘Well,’ a soft voice said. ‘Here’s an oddity. It’s a strange day we see toughs reeking of the seafront dropping by for tea. Or perhaps you’ve got some other errand.’
    The andat Seedless sat on the grass. Otah fell into a pose that asked forgiveness.
    ‘I . . . I’ve come to see Maati-cha,’ Otah stumbled. ‘We were . . . that is . . .’
    ‘Hai! Who’s down there?’ another voice called. ‘Who’re you?’
    Seedless glanced up at the house, eyes narrowed. A fat man in the brown robe of a poet was trundling down the steps. Maati was following.
    ‘Itani of House Wilsin,’ Otah called out. ‘I’ve come to see Maati-cha. ’
    The poet walked more slowly as they approached. His expression was a strange mix - concern, disapproval, and a curious delight.
    ‘You’ve come for him ?’ Heshai-kvo said, gesturing over his shoulder. Otah took a pose of affirmation.
    ‘Itani and I met at the grand audience,’ Maati said. ‘He offered to show me the seafront.’
    ‘Did he?’ Heshai-kvo asked, and the disapproval lost ground, Otah thought, to the pleasure. ‘Well. You. Itani’s your name? You know who you’re with, eh? This boy is one of the most important men in Saraykeht. Keep him out of trouble.’
    ‘Yes, Heshai-cha,’ Otah said. ‘I will.’
    The poet’s face softened, and he rooted in the sleeve of his robe for a moment, then reached out to Otah. Otah, unsure, stepped closer and put his hand out to the poet’s.
    ‘I was young once too,’ Heshai-kvo said with a broad wink. ‘Don’t keep him out of too much trouble.’
    Otah felt the small lengths of metal against his palm, and took a pose of gratitude.
    ‘Who’d have thought it,’ Seedless said, his voice low and considering. ‘Our perfect student’s developing a life.’
    ‘Please, Itani-cha,’ Maati said, stepping forward and taking Otah’s sleeve. ‘You’ve gone out of your way already. We should go. Your friends are waiting.’
    ‘Yes,’ Otah said. ‘Of course.’
    He took a pose of farewell that the poet responded to eagerly, the andat more slowly and with a thoughtful attitude. Maati led the way back across the bridge.
    ‘You were expecting me?’ Otah asked once they were out of earshot. Poet and andat were still watching them go.
    ‘Hoping,’ Maati allowed.
    ‘You weren’t the only one. The poet seemed delighted to see me.’
    ‘He doesn’t like my staying at the house. He thinks I should see more of the city. It’s really that he hates it there and can’t imagine that I like it.’
    ‘Ah. I see.’
    ‘You see part, at least,’ Maati said. ‘It’s complex. And what of you, Otah-kvo? It’s been days. I was afraid that you wouldn’t come.’
    ‘I had to,’ Otah said, surprised by his own candor even as he said it. ‘I’ve no one else to talk with. Gods! He gave me three lengths of silver!’
    ‘Is that bad?’
    ‘It means I should stop working the seafront and just take you to tea. The pay’s better.’
     
    He had changed. That was clear. The voice was much the same, the face older, more adult, but Maati could still see the boy who had worn the black robes in the garden all those years ago. And something else. It wasn’t confidence that had gone - he still had that in the way he held himself and his voice when he spoke - but perhaps it was certainty. It was in the way he held his cup and in the way he drank. Something was bothering his old teacher, but Maati could not yet put a name to it.
    ‘A laborer,’ Maati said. ‘It isn’t what the Dai-kvo would have expected.’
    ‘Or anyone else,’ Otah said, smiling at his cup of wine.
    The private patio of the teahouse overlooked the street below it, and