Maati felt himself smile in return. Whatever else could be said of the andat, his advice about Heshai-kvo had been true. Maati had risen in the morning, ready to follow Heshai-kvo on whatever errands the Khai had set him that day. At first, the old poet had seemed uncomfortable, but by the middle of that first day, Maati found him more and more explaining what it was that the andat was called upon to do, how it fit with the high etiquette of the utkhaiem and the lesser courts; how, in fact, to conduct the business of the city. And in the days that followed, Seedless, watching, had taken a tone that was still sly, still shockingly irreverent, still too clever to trust, but not at all like the malefic prankster that Maati had first feared.
‘You should really leave the old man behind. I’m a much better teacher,’ Seedless said. ‘That girl, for example, I could teach you how to—’
‘Thank you, Seedless-cha, but I’ll take my lessons from Heshai-kvo.’
‘Not on that subject, you won’t. Not unless it’s learning how to strike a bargain with a soft-quarter whore.’
Maati took a dismissive pose, and Heshai-kvo stepped through an archway. His brows were furrowed and angry. His lips moved, continuing some conversation with himself or some imagined listener. When he looked up, meeting Maati’s pose of welcome, his smile seemed forced and brief.
‘I’ve a meeting with House Tiyan,’ the poet said. ‘Idiots have petitioned the Khai for a private session. Something about a Westlands contract. I don’t know.’
‘I would like to attend, if I may,’ Maati said. It had become something of a stock phrase over the last few days, and Heshai-kvo accepted it with the same distracted acquiescence that seemed to be his custom. The old poet turned to the south and began the walk downhill to the low palaces. Maati and Seedless walked behind. The city stretched below them. The gray and red roofs, the streets leading down to converge on the seafront, and beyond that the masts of the ships, and the sea, and the great expanse of sky dwarfing it all. It was like something from the imagination of a painter, too gaudy and perfect to be real. And almost inaudible over their footsteps on the gravel paths and the distant songs of garden slaves, Heshai-kvo muttered to himself, his hands twitching toward half-formed poses.
‘He was with the Khai,’ Seedless said, his voice very low. ‘It didn’t go well.’
‘What was the matter?’
It was Heshai-kvo who answered the question.
‘The Khai Saraykeht is a greedy, vain little shit,’ he said. ‘If you had to choose the essence of the problem, you could do worse than start there.’
Maati missed his step, and a shocked sound, half cough, half laugh, escaped him. When the poet turned to him, he tried to adopt a pose - any pose - but his hands couldn’t agree on where they should go.
‘What?’ the poet demanded.
‘The Khai . . . You just . . .’ Maati said.
‘He’s just a man,’ the poet said. ‘He eats and shits and talks in his sleep the same as anyone.’
‘But he’s the
Khai
.’
Heshai-kvo took a dismissive pose and turned his back to Maati and the andat. Seedless plucked Maati’s robe and motioned him to lean nearer. Keeping his eyes on the path and the poet before them, Maati did.
‘He asked the Khai to refuse a contract,’ Seedless whispered. ‘The Khai laughed at him and told him not to be such a child. Heshai had been planning his petition for days, and he wasn’t even allowed to present the whole argument. I wish you’d been there. It was really a lovely moment. But I suppose that’s why the old cow didn’t tell you about it. He doesn’t seem to enjoy having his student present when he’s humiliated. I imagine he’ll be getting quite drunk tonight.’
‘What contract?’
‘House Wilsin is acting as agent for the sad trade.’
‘Sad trade?’
‘Using us to pluck a child out of a womb,’ Seedless said. ‘It’s safer than teas, and it can be done nearer to the end of the woman’s term. And, to the Khai Saraykeht’s great pleasure, it’s expensive.’
‘Gods. And we do that?’
Seedless took a pose that implied the appreciation of a joke or irony. ‘We do what we are told, my dear. You and I are the puppets of puppets. ’
‘If the two of you could be put upon not to talk behind my back quite so loudly,’ Heshai snapped, ‘I would very much appreciate it.’
Maati fell instantly to a pose of apology, but the poet didn’t turn to see it. After a few steps, Maati let his hands fall to his sides. Seedless said nothing, but raised a hand to his mouth and took a bite of something dark. A plum. Maati checked his sleeve, and indeed, it was empty. He took a pose that was both query and accusation -
How?
The andat smiled; his perfect, pale face lit with mischief and perhaps something else.
‘I’m clever,’ the andat said, and tossed the bitten fruit to him.
At the low palaces, a young man in the yellow and silver robes of House Tiyan greeted them and allowed himself to be led to a meeting room. They sat at a black-stained wooden table drinking cool water and eating fresh dates, the stones removed for them by the andat. Maati followed the negotiations with half his attention, his mind turning instead upon the dreadful anger and pain shallowly buried in his teacher’s voice and the echo of tacit pleasure in the andat’s. It seemed to him that the two emotions were balanced; that Heshai-kvo would never smile without some pang of discontent in Seedless’s heart, that the andat could only shine ecstatic if the poet were in despair. He imagined himself taking control of the andat, entering into that lifelong intimate struggle, and unease picked at him.
The only reason Ovi Niit’s house had survived the gross incompetence of its bookkeepers was the scale of the money that came through the place. It was a constant stream of copper, silver, and gold that had shocked her. Would still have shocked her now if she hadn’t been so damned tired. She had never known anyone except for her sister who gave themselves into sexual indenture, and by then they hadn’t been speaking to each other. The cost of a whore was higher than she’d expected, and the compensation for the employee was a pittance. And that, she came to see, was only the beginning.
Overall, gamblers lost at the tables, and in addition, they paid a fee for the privilege. The wine was cheap, and the drugs added to it only slightly more expensive. The price the house charged for the combination was exorbitant. Amat suspected that if the sex were given away for free, the house would still turn a profit. It was amazing.
She took her cane from where it leaned against the desk and pulled herself up. Once she was sure of herself, she took the sheet with her estimates, folded it, and tucked it in her sleeve. There was no call, she thought, leaving it about until she’d spoken with Ovi Niit. And, for all that she thought it useless, it would suffice to answer the question she expected from him. She walked to the door and out to the common room.
The place was filthy. Children and dogs rolled together on a floor that apparently hadn’t been swept in living memory. Off-shift whores sat at the tables smoking and gossiping and picking ticks out of each other’s flesh. On the east wall was a long alcove where women disfigured by illness or violence or age fashioned obscene implements from leather and cloth. Kirath couldn’t have known how bad this house was. Or else he had been more desperate to be rid of her than she’d guessed. Or cared less for her than she’d imagined.
One of Niit-cha’s thugs sat on the stairs that led up to the private quarters where the owner of the house kept himself. All eyes shifted to her as she limped over to him. The fat girl sitting nearest the ironbound door to the front house said something to the man beside her and giggled. A red-haired woman - Westlands blood, or Galtic - raised her pale eyebrows and looked away. A boy of five or six summers - another whore - looked up at her and smiled. The smile was enough. She roughed the boy’s hair and walked with what dignity she could muster to the guard.
‘Is Niit-cha up there?’ she asked.
‘Gone. He’s down to the low market for beef and pork,’ the guard said. He had an odd accent; long vowels and the ends of his words clipped off. Eastern, she thought.
‘When he comes in . . .’ She had almost said
send him to me.
The habit of years. ‘When he comes in, tell him I’ve done what he asked. I’ll be sleeping, but I am at his disposal should he wish to discuss it.’
‘Tell him yourself, grandmother,’ the fat girl shouted, but the guard nodded.
The bed chamber had no windows. At night, a single tallow candle lit the bunks that lined the walls, five beds to a stack like the worst sort of ship’s cabin. Cheap linen was tied over the mouth of each coffin-sized bed in lieu of real netting, and the planks were barely covered by thin, stained mats. The darkness, while not so hot as the kiln of an attic she had hidden in, was still and hot and muggy. Amat found one of the lower bunks unoccupied and crawled into it, her hip scraping in its joint as she did. She pulled her cane in with her for fear someone might take it and didn’t bother tying the linen closed.
Three days she’d spent in an impossible task, and when she closed her eyes, the crabbed scripts and half-legible papers still danced before her. She willed the visions away, but she might as well have been pushing the tide back with her hands. The bunk above her creaked as the sleeper shifted. Amat wondered whether she could get a cup of the spiked wine, just to take her to sleep. She was bone weary, but restless. She had put Marchat Wilsin and Oshai and the island girl Maj out of her mind while she bent to Ovi Niit’s books. Now that she had paused, they returned and mixed with the work she had finished and that which still lay before her. She shifted on the thin mat, her cane resting uncomfortably beside her. The smell of bodies and perfume and years of cheap tallow disturbed her.
She would have said that she had not slept so much as fallen to an anxious doze except that the boy had such trouble waking her. His little hands pressed her shoulder, and she was distantly aware that he had done so before - had been doing so for some time.
‘Grandmother,’ he said. Again? Yes, said again. She’d been hearing the voice, folding it into her dream. ‘Wake up.’
‘I am.’
‘Are you well?’
All the world’s ill, why should I be any different?
she thought.
‘I’m fine. What’s happened?’
‘He’s back. He wants to see you.’
Amat took a pose of thanks that the boy understood even in the cave-dark room and her lying on her side. Amat pulled herself out and up. Curiously, the rest seemed to have helped. Her head felt clearer and her body less protesting. In the main room, she saw how much the light from the high windows had shifted. She’d been asleep for the better part of the afternoon. The whores had shifted their positions or left entirely. The red-haired woman was still at her seat near the stairs; the fat girl was gone. A guard - not the same man as before, but of the same breed - caught her eye and nodded toward her workroom at the back. She took a pose of thanks, squared her shoulders and went in.
Ovi Niit sat at her table. His hooded eyes made him look torpid, or perhaps he had been drinking his own wines. His robes were of expensive silks and well-cut, but he still managed to look like an unmade bed. He glanced up as she came in, falling into a pose of welcome so formal as to be a mockery. Still, she replied with respect.
‘I heard what was being offered for you,’ Ovi Niit said. ‘They’ve spread the word all through the seafront. You’re an expensive piece of flesh.’
The sound of his voice made her mouth dry with fear and shame at the fear. She was Amat Kyaan. She had been hiding fear and loneliness and weakness since before the thug seated at her desk had been born. It was one of her first skills.
‘How much?’ she asked, keeping her tone light and disinterested.
‘Sixty lengths of silver for where you’re sleeping. Five lengths of gold if someone takes you to Oshai’s men. Five lengths of gold is a lot of money.’
‘You’re tempted,’ Amat said.
The young man smiled slowly and put down the paper he’d been reading.
‘As one merchant to another, I only suggest that you make your presence in my house worth more than the market rate,’ he said. ‘I have to wonder what you did to become so valuable.’
She only smiled, and wondered what ideas were shifting behind those half-dead eyes. How he could trade her, no doubt. He was weighing where his greatest profit might come.
‘You have my report?’ Ovi Niit asked. She nodded and pulled the papers from her sleeve.
‘It’s only a rough estimate. I’ll need to confer with you more next time, to be sure I’ve understood the mechanisms of your trade. But it’s enough for your purposes, I think.’
‘And what would a half-dead bitch like you know about my purposes? ’ he asked. His voice held no rancor, but Amat still felt her throat close. She forced a confidence into her tone that she didn’t feel.
‘From those numbers? I know what you must have suspected. Or else why would you have gone through the trouble to have me here? Someone in your organization is stealing from you.’ Ovi Niit frowned as he looked at her numbers, but he didn’t deny her. ‘And it would be worth more than five lengths of gold, I think, to have me find out who.’