Read Shadow and Betrayal Online
Authors: Daniel Abraham
Shadow and Betrayal (26 page)
At the bathhouse, the guards looked at her curiously as they took their poses. She didn’t even respond, only walked forward into the tiled rooms with their echoes and the scent of cedar and fresh water. She shrugged off her robes and went past the public baths to Marchat Wilsin’s little room at the back, just as she always had.
He looked terrible.
‘Too hot,’ he said as she lowered herself into the water. The lacquer tray danced a little on the waves she stirred, but didn’t spill the tea.
‘You always say that,’ Amat Kyaan said. Marchat sighed and looked away. There were bags under his eyes, dark as bruises. His face, scowl-set, held a grayish cast. Amat leaned forward and pulled the tea closer.
‘So,’ she said. ‘I take it things went well.’
‘Don’t.’
Amat sipped tea from her bowl and considered him. Her employer, her friend.
‘Then what is there left for us to say?’ she asked.
‘There’s business,’ Marchat said. ‘The same as always.’
‘Business, then. I take it that things went well.’
He shot an annoyed glance at her, then looked away.
‘Couldn’t we start with the contracts with the dyers?’
‘If you’d like,’ Amat said. ‘Was there something pressing with them?’
Her voice carried the whole load of sarcasm to cover the outrage and anger. And fear. Marchat took a clumsy pose of surrender and acquiescence before reaching over and taking his own bowl of tea from the tray.
‘I’m going to a meeting with the Khai and several of the higher utkhaiem. Spend the whole damn time falling on my sword over the sad trade. I’ve promised a full investigation.’
‘And what are you going to find?’
‘The truth, I imagine. That’s the secret of a good lie, you know. Coming to a place where you believe it yourself. I expect our investigation - or anyone else’s - will show it was Oshai, the translator. He and his men plotted the whole thing under the direction of the andat Seedless. They found the girl, they brought her to us under false pretenses. I have letters of introduction that I’ll turn over to the Khai’s men. They’ll discover that the letters are forged. House Wilsin will be looked upon as a collection of dupes. At best, it will take us years to recover our reputation.’
‘It’s a small price,’ Amat said. ‘What if they find Oshai?’
‘They won’t.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Yes,’ Wilsin said with a great sigh. ‘I’m sure.’
‘And Liat?’
‘Still being questioned,’ Marchat said. ‘I imagine she’ll be out by the end of the day. We’ll need to do something for her. To make this right. She’s not going to come out of this with a reputation for competence intact. They’ve already spoken with the island girl. She didn’t have anything very coherent to say, I’m afraid. But it’s over, Amat. That’s really the only bright thing I can say of the whole stinking business. The worst that was going to happen has happened, and now we can get to cleaning up after it and moving on.’
‘And what’s the truth?’
‘What I told you,’ he said. ‘That’s the truth. It’s the only truth that matters.’
‘No. The real truth. Who sent those pearls? And don’t tell me the spirit conjured them out of the sea.’
‘Who knows?’ Marchat said. ‘Oshai told us they were from Nippu, from the girl’s family. We had no reason to think otherwise.’
Amat slapped the water. She felt the rage pulling her brow together. Marchat met her anger with his. His pale face flushed red, his chin slid forward belligerently like a boy in a play yard.
‘I am saving you,’ he said. ‘And I am saving the house. I am doing everything I can to kill this thing and bury it, and by all the gods, Amat, I know as well as you that it was rotten, but what do you want me to do about it? Trot up to the Khai and apologize? Where did the pearls come from? Galt, Amat. They came from Acton and Lanniston and Cole. Who arranged the thing? Galts. And who will pay for this if that story is proved instead of mine? I’ll be killed. You’ll be exiled if you’re lucky. The house will be destroyed. And do you think it’ll stop there, Amat? Do you? Because I don’t.’
‘It was evil, Marchat.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was evil. Yes, it was wrong,’ he said, motioning so violently that his tea splashed, the red tint of if diffusing quickly in the bath. ‘But it was decided before anyone consulted us. By the time you or I or any of us were told, it was already too late. It needed doing, and so we’ve done it.
‘Tell me, Amat, what happens if you’re the Khai Saraykeht and you find out your pet god’s been conspiring with your trade rivals? Do you stop with the tools, because that’s all we are. Tools. Or do you teach a lesson to the Galts that they won’t soon forget? We haven’t got any andat of our own, so there’s nothing to restrain you. We can’t hit back. Do our crops fail? Do all the women with child in Galt lose their children over this? They’re as innocent as that island girl, Amat. They’ve done as little to deserve that as she has.’
‘Lower your voice,’ Amat said. ‘Someone will hear you.’
Marchat leaned back, glancing nervously at the windows, the door. Amat shook her head.
‘That was a pretty speech,’ she said. ‘Did you practice it?’
‘Some, yes.’
‘And who were you hoping to convince with it? Me, or 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 Maati shouted and pushed the andat away, their gazes locked, and Maati saw Seedless smile even as he murmured his poison.
When the morning came, and the first pounding of visitors, Heshai roused himself enough to order Maati down to greet them. The bar had slid home behind him, and the stream of people had hardly slackened since. They stayed until the first quarter of the night candle had burned, and a new wave arrived before dawn.
‘I bring greetings from Annan Tiyan of House Tiyan,’ an older man said loudly as he stood on the threshold. He had to speak up for his words to carry over the conversation behind Maati. ‘We had heard of the poet’s ill health and wished . . .’
Maati took a brief pose of welcome and gratitude that he didn’t begin to mean and ushered the man in. The flock of carrion crows gabbled and talked and waited, Maati knew, for news of Heshai. Maati only took the food they’d brought and laid it out for them to eat, poured their gift wine into bowls as hospitality. And upstairs, Heshai . . . It didn’t bear thinking about. A regal man in fine silk robes motioned Maati over and asked him gently what he could do to help the poet in his time of need.
The first sign Maati had that something had changed was the sudden silence. All conversations stopped, and Maati rushed to the front of the house to find himself looking into the dark, angry eyes of the Khai Saraykeht.
‘Where is your master?’ the Khai demanded, and the lack of an accompanying pose made the words seem stark and terrible.
Maati took a pose of welcome and looked away.
‘He is resting, most high,’ he said.
The Khai looked slowly around the room, a single vertical line appearing between his brows. The visitors all took appropriate poses - Maati could hear the shuffle of their robes. The Khai took a pose of query that was directed to Maati, though his gaze remained on the assembled men.
‘Who are these?’ the Khai asked.
‘Well-wishers,’ Maati said.
The Khai said nothing, and the silence grew more and more excruciatingly uncomfortable. At last, he moved forward, his hand taking Maati by the shoulder and turning him to the stairs. Maati walked before the Khai.
‘When I come down,’ the Khai said in a calm, almost conversational tone, ‘any man still here forfeits half his wealth.’
At the top of the stairs, Maati turned and led the Khai down the short hall to Heshai’s door. He tried it, but it was barred. Maati turned with a pose of apology, but the Khai moved him aside without seeming to notice it.
‘Heshai,’ the Khai said, his voice loud and low. ‘Open the door.’
There was a moment’s pause, and then soft footsteps. The bar scraped, and the door swung open. Seedless stepped aside as the Khai entered. Maati followed. The andat leaned the bar against the wall, caught Maati’s gaze, and took a pose of greeting appropriate to old friends. Maati felt a surge of anger in his chest, but did nothing more than turn away.
The Khai stood at the foot of Heshai’s bed. The poet was sitting up, now. Sometime in the last day, he had changed from his brown ceremonial robes to robes of pale mourning cloth. The wide mouth turned down at the corners and his hair was a wild tangle. The Khai reached up and swept the netting aside. It occurred to Maati how much Khai and andat were similar - the grace, the beauty, the presence. The greatest difference was that the Khai Saraykeht showed tiny lines of age at the corners of his eyes and was not so lovely.
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