Shadow and Betrayal

the Khai, Seedless - was confused by his anger and a deepening dread.
    ‘I think this was your doing. Am I wrong?’ the Khai asked, and Seedless smiled and bowed.
    ‘Of course not, most high,’ he said.
    ‘And you did this to torment the poet.’
    ‘I did.’
    Andat and Khai were glaring at each other, so only Maati saw Heshai’s face. The shock of surprise and then a bleak calm more distressing than rage or weeping. Maati’s stomach twisted. This was part of it, he realized. Seedless had planned this to hurt Heshai, and this meeting now, this humiliation, was also part of his intention.
    ‘Where may we find the translator Oshai?’ the Khai said.
    ‘I don’t know. Careless of me, I know. I’ve always been bad about keeping track of my toys.’
    ‘That will do,’ the Khai said, and strode to the window. Looking down to the grass at the front of the house, the Khai made a gesture. In the distance, Maati heard a man call out, barking an order.
    ‘Heshai,’ the Khai Saraykeht said, turning back. ‘I want you to know that I understand the struggles a poet faces. I’ve read the old romances. But you . . . you must understand that these little shadow plays of yours hurt innocent people. And they hurt my city. In the last day, I have heard six audiences asking that I lower tariffs to compensate for the risk that the andat will find some way to act against you that might hurt the cotton crop. I have had two of the largest trading houses in the city ask me what I plan to do if the andat escapes. How will I maintain trade then? And what was I to tell them? Eh?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ the poet said, his voice low and rough.
    ‘Nor do I,’ the Khai said.
    Men were tramping up the stairway now. Maati could hear them, and the temptation to go and see what they were doing was almost more than his desire to hear when the Khai said next.
    ‘This stops now,’ the Khai said. ‘And if I must be the one to stop it, I will.’
    The footsteps reached the door and two men in workmen’s trousers pushed in, a thick, heavy box between them. Maati saw it was fashioned of wood bound with black iron - small enough that a man might fit inside it but too short to stand, too narrow to sit, too shallow to turn around. He had seen drawings of it in books with the Dai-kvo. They had been books about the excesses of the imperial courts, about their punishments. The men placed the box against Heshai-kvo’s wall, took poses of abject obeisance to the Khai, and left quickly.
    ‘Most high,’ Maati said, his voice thick. ‘You . . . this is . . .’
    ‘Rest yourself, boy,’ the Khai said as he stepped to the thing and pulled the bar that opened the iron grate. ‘It isn’t for my old friend Heshai. It’s only to keep his things in when he isn’t using them.’
    With a clank, the black iron swung open. Maati saw Seedless’ eyes widen for a moment, then an amused smile plucked the perfect lips. Heshai looked on in silence.
    ‘But most high,’ Maati said, his voice growing stronger. ‘A poet and his work are connected. If you lock a part of Heshai-kvo into a torture box . . .’
    The Khai took a sharp pose that required silence, and Maati’s words died. The man’s gaze held him until Seedless laughed and stepped between them. For a fleeting moment, Maati almost felt that the andat had moved to protect him from the anger in the Khai’s expression.
    ‘You forget, my dear,’ the andat said, ‘the most high killed two of his brothers to sit in his chair. He knows more of sacrifice than any of us. Or so the story goes.’
    ‘Now, Heshai,’ the Khai said, but Maati saw no effort in Heshai-kvo as Seedless stepped backward into the box, crouching down, knees bent. The Khai shut the grate, barred it, and slid a spike in to hold the bar in place. The pale face of the andat was crossed with shadows and metal. The Khai turned to the bed, standing still until Heshai adopted a pose that accepted the judgment.
    ‘It doesn’t roam free,’ the Khai said. ‘When it isn’t needed, it goes in its place. This is my order.’
    ‘Yes, most high,’ Heshai said, then lay down and turned away, pulling his sheet over him. The Khai snorted with disgust and turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused.
    ‘Boy,’ he said, taking a pose of command. Maati answered with an appropriate obeisance. ‘When your turn comes, do better.’
    After the Khai and his men were gone, Maati stood, shaking. Heshai didn’t move or speak. Seedless in his