Shadow and Betrayal

Otah-kvo had left had taken on a rhythm. He would rise in the morning, and go and speak with Heshai-kvo. Some days, the poet would manage three or four exchanges. Others, they would only sit there under the baleful black stare of the andat, silent in his torture box. Maati coaxed his master to eat whatever meal the servants had brought from the palace kitchens: fruit pastries sticky with sugar, or rich, soupy bread puddings, or simple cheese and cut apple. And every morning, Heshai-kvo deigned to eat a mouthful or two, sip a bowl of tea. And then with a grunt, he would turn away, leaving only his wide back as company. Seedless never spoke, but Maati felt the weight of his attention like a hand on the back of his neck.
    In the afternoon, he would walk in the gardens or read. And as sunset came, he would repeat the breakfast ritual with an evening meal that excited no more interest in the poet. Then, leaving the night candle lit, Maati would go to his own room, his own cot, light his candle, fasten his netting, and will himself to sleep. It was like a fever dream, repeated again and again, with small variations that seemed only to point out that nothing of substance changed.
    He closed the shutters, took a clean robe, washed his face and shaved. There was little enough on his cheek for the razor to take, but it was a ritual. And it comforted him. He would have given anything he had to have Otah-kvo there to talk with.
    He went down the stairs to the table where the breakfast had been left for him: honey bread and black tea. He took the tray and went back up and along the corridor to Heshai-kvo’s room. It was unbarred, and swung open at the touch of his burdened wrist.
    The bed was empty. Netting fine as mist was thrown aside, the bedclothes in knots and bundles that didn’t hide the depression where the poet’s body had lain for days. Maati, trembling, put down the tray and walked to the abandoned bed. There was no note, no unfamiliar object, nothing to say what had happened, why his teacher was gone. Sickening images of the poet floating dead in the pond tugged at him, and he turned slowly, dreading to see the torture box empty. Seedless’s black eyes met his, and Maati let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding.
    The andat laughed.
    ‘No such luck, my dear,’ he said, his voice amused and calm. ‘The great poet is, to the best of my knowledge, still alive and in something near enough to his right mind not to have set me free.’
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘I don’t know. It isn’t as if he asked my permission. You know, Maati-kya, it’s odd. We never seem to chat anymore.’
    ‘Where did he go? What did he say?’
    Seedless sighed.
    ‘He didn’t say anything. He was just his own pathetic self - all the grace and will of a soiled washcloth - and then just after the last mark of the night candle, he got up like he’d remembered an appointment, pulled on his robes and left.’
    Maati paced, fighting to slow his breath, to order his thoughts. There had to be something. Some sign that would tell him where Heshai had gone, what he would do.
    ‘Call out the guards,’ Seedless said, laughter in his voice. ‘The great poet has slipped his leash.’
    ‘Be quiet!’ Maati snapped. ‘I have to think.’
    ‘Or you’ll do what? Punish me? Gods, Maati, look what they’re doing to me already. I can’t move. I can’t stretch. If I were a man, I’d be covered in my own shit, and nothing to do but try to push it out with my toes. What more were you planning to do?’
    ‘Don’t. Just . . . don’t talk to me.’
    ‘Why not, my dear? What did I do to upset you?’
    ‘You killed a baby!’ Maati shouted, shocked at his own anger.
    In the shadows of his prison, the andat smiled sadly. The pale fingers wrapped the slats, and the pale flesh shifted an inch.
    ‘The baby doesn’t mind,’ Seedless said. ‘Ask it, see if it holds a grudge. What I did, I did to the woman. And to Heshai. And you know why I’ve done it.’
    ‘You’re evil,’ Maati said.
    ‘I’m a prisoner and a slave held against my will. I’m forced to work for my captor when what I want is to be free. Free of this box, of this flesh, of this consciousness. It’s no more a moral impulse than you wanting to breathe. You’d sacrifice anyone, Maati, if you were drowning. ’
    Maati turned his back, running his hands down the empty sheets, looking for something - anything. It was only cloth. He had to go. He had to alert the Khai.