Shadow and Betrayal

yourself?’
    ‘Us,’ he said. ‘Both of us. It’s true, you know. The price would be worse than the crime, and innocent people would suffer.’
    Amat considered him. He wanted so badly for it to be true, for her to agree. He was like a child, a boy. It made her feel weighted down.
    ‘I suppose it is,’ she said. ‘So. Where do we go from here?’
    ‘We clean up. We try to limit the damage. Ah, and one thing. The boy Itani? Do you know why the young poet would call him Otah?’
    Amat let herself be distracted. She turned the name over in her mind, searching for some recollection. Nothing came. She put her bowl of tea on the side of the bath and took a pose pleading ignorance.
    ‘It sounds like a northern name,’ she said. ‘When did he use it?’
    ‘I had a man follow them. He overheard them speaking.’
    ‘It doesn’t match anything Liat’s told me of him.’
    ‘Well. Well, we’ll keep a finger on it and see if it moves. Damned strange, but nothing’s come from it yet.’
    ‘What about Maj?’
    ‘Who? Oh, the girl. Yes. We’ll need to keep her close for another week or two. Then I’ll have her taken home. There’s a trading company making a run to the east at about the right time. If the Khai’s men are done with her, I’ll pay her passage with them. Otherwise, it may be longer.’
    ‘But you’ll see her back home safely.’
    ‘It’s what I can do,’ Marchat said.
    They sat in silence for a long minute. Amat’s heart felt like lead in her breast. Marchat was as still as if he’d drunk poison. Poor Wilsin-cha, she thought. He’s trying so hard to make this conscionable, but he’s too wise to believe his own arguments.
    ‘So, then,’ she said, softly. ‘The contracts with the dyers. Where do we stand with them?’
    Marchat’s gaze met hers, a faint smile on his bushy lips. For almost two hands, he brought her up to date on the small doings of House Wilsin. The agreements they’d negotiated with Old Sanya and the dyers, the problems with the shipments from Obar State, the tax statements under review by the utkhaiem. Amat listened, and without meaning to she moved back into the rhythm of her work. The parts of her mind that held the doings of the house slid back into use, and she pictured all the issues Wilsin-cha brought up and how they would affect each other. She asked questions to confirm that she’d understood and to challenge Marchat to think things through with her. And for a while, she could almost pretend that nothing had happened, that she still felt what she had, that the house she had served so long was still what it had been to her. Almost, but not entirely.
    When she left, her fingertips were wrinkled from the baths and her mind was clearer. She had several full days’ work before her just to put things back in order. And after that the work of the autumn: first House Wilsin’s - she felt she owed Marchat that much - and then perhaps also her own.
     
    The poet’s house had been full for two days now, ever since Heshai had taken to his bed. Utkhaiem and servants of the Khai and representatives from the great trading houses came to call. They came at all hours. They brought food and drink and thinly veiled curiosity and tacit recrimination. Maati welcomed them as they came, accepted their gifts, saw them to whatever seats were available. He held poses of gratitude until his shoulders ached. He wanted nothing more than to turn them out - all of them.
    The first night had been the worst. Maati had stood outside the door of Heshai-kvo’s room and pounded and demanded and begged until the night candle was half-burned. And when the door finally scraped open, it was Seedless who had unbarred it.
    Heshai had lain on his cot, his eyes fixed on nothing, his skin pale, his lips slack. The white netting around him reminded Maati of a funeral shroud. He had had to touch the poet’s shoulder before Heshai’s distracted gaze flickered over to him and then away. Maati took a chair beside him, and stayed there until morning.
    Through the night, Seedless had paced the room like a cat looking for a way under a woodpile. Sometimes he laughed to himself. Once, when Maati had drifted into an uneasy sleep, he woke to find the andat on the bed, bent over until his pale lips almost brushed Heshai’s ear - Seedless whispering fast, sharp syllables too quietly for Maati to make sense of them. The poet’s face was contorted as if in pain and flushed bright red. In the long moment before