Shadow and Betrayal

his knees. The waves gathered and washed the sand, each receding into the rush of the next. Gulls wheeled and screamed to the east and a huge Galtic ship floated at anchor on the horizon. They were the only signs of the city. He stirred the pile of dry leaves below them with his heel, exposing the dark soil beneath them.
    ‘Did you know?’
    ‘She didn’t tell me,’ Liat said, and her voice was calm and blasted and empty. ‘She just went. Her apartments were empty except for a box of house papers and a letter to Wilsin-cha.’
    ‘So it wasn’t only you, at least. She hadn’t told anyone. Do you know why she left?’
    ‘No,’ Liat said. ‘I blame myself for it. If I had done better, if I hadn’t embarrassed the house . . .’
    ‘You did what Wilsin-cha asked you to do. If the trade had been what it seemed, they’d be calling your praises for it.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ Liat said. ‘It hardly matters. She’s gone. Wilsin-cha doesn’t have any faith in me. I’m an apprentice without a master.’
    ‘Well. We’re both that, at least.’
    She coughed out a single laugh.
    ‘I suppose we are,’ she said, and scooped up his hand, holding it in her own. Maati’s heart raced, and something like panic made his mouth taste like copper. Something like panic, only glorious. He didn’t move, didn’t do anything that might make Liat untwine her fingers from his.
    ‘Where do you think he is?’ Maati asked, calling up the spirit of their friend - his master, her heartmate - to show that he understood that this moment, her hand in his, wasn’t something inappropriate. It was only friendship.
    ‘He’ll have reached Yalakeht. He might even be there by now,’ Liat said. ‘Or at least close, if he’s not.’
    ‘He’ll be back soon, then.’
    ‘Not for weeks,’ Liat said.
    ‘It’s a long time.’
    ‘Heshai-kvo. He’s not better?’
    ‘He’s not better. He’s not worse. He sleeps too much. He eats too little. His beard . . .’
    ‘It’s not improving?’
    ‘Longer. Not better. He really ought to shave it off.’
    Liat shrugged, and Maati felt as if the motion shifted her nearer. So this was friendship with a woman, he told himself. It was pleasant, he told himself, this simple intimacy.
    ‘He seemed better when I came to see him,’ Liat said.
    ‘He makes an effort I think, when you’re there. I don’t know why.’
    ‘Because I’m a girl.’
    ‘Perhaps that, yes,’ Maati said.
    Liat, releasing his hand, stretched and stood. Maati sighed, feeling that a moment had passed - some invisible, exquisite moment in his life. He had heard old epics telling of moments in a man’s youth that never truly left the heart - that stayed fresh and sweet and present through all the years and waited on the deathbed to carry him safely into his last sleep. Maati thought that those moments must be like this one. The scent of the sea, the perfect sky, the leaves, the roar of waves, and his hand, cooling where she had touched him.
    ‘I should come by more often, then,’ Liat said. ‘If it helps.’
    ‘I wouldn’t want to impose,’ he said, rising to stand beside her. ‘But if you have the time.’
    ‘I don’t foresee being given any new projects of note. Besides, I like the poet’s house. It’s a beautiful place.’
    ‘It’s better when you’re there,’ Maati said.
    Liat grinned. Maati took a pose of self-congratulation to which Liat replied with one of query.
    ‘I’ve made you feel better,’ he said.
    Liat weighed it, looking out to the horizon with her eyes narrowed. She nodded, as if he’d pointed out a street she’d never seen, or a pattern in the ways a tree branched. Her smile, when it came again, was softer.
    ‘I suppose you have,’ she said. ‘I mean, everything’s still a terrible mess.’
    ‘I’ll try fixing the world later. After dinner. Do you want to go back?’
    ‘I suppose I’d best. There’s no call to earn a reputation of being unreliable, incompetent, and sulky.’
    They walked back to the city. It had seemed a longer path when he’d been on it alone, worried for Liat. Now, though they were hardly moving faster than a stroll, the walls of the city seemed to surround them almost immediately. They walked up the street of beads, paused at a stand where a boy of no more then eight summers was selling, with a ferocious seriousness, cakes smothered in fine-powdered sugar, and listened to an old beggar singing in a rough, melodious voice that spoke of long sorrow and moved