Maati let himself be coaxed back in. With Heshaikvo recovered, the house was slipping back into the mess it had been when he'd first come. Books and scrolls lay open on the tables and the floor beside the couches. An inkblock hollowed with use stained the desk where it sat directly on the wood. Maati squatted by the fire, looking into the flames as he had the darkness, and to much the same effect.
Behind him, Heshai moved through the house, and soon the rich scent of wine and mulling spices began to fill the place. Maati's belly rumbled, and he forced himself up, walking over to the table where the remains of the evening meal waited for him. He pulled a greasy drumstick from the chicken carcass and considered it. Heshai sat across from him and handed him a thick slice of black bread. Maati sketched a pose of gratitude. Heshai filled a thick earthenware cup with wine and passed it to him. The wine, when he drank it, was clean and rich and warmed his throat.
"Full week coming," Heshaikvo said. "There's a dinner with the envoys of Cetani and Udun tomorrow I thought we should attend. And then a religious scholar's talking down at the temple the day after that. If you wanted to . . ."
"If you'd like, Heshaikvo," Maati said.
"I wouldn't really," the poet said. "I've always thought religious scholars were idiots."
The old poet's face was touched by mischief, a little bit delighted with his own irreverence. Maati could see just a hint of what Heshaikvo had looked like as a young man, and he couldn't help smiling back, if only slightly. Heshaikvo clapped a hand on the table.
"There!" he said. "I knew you weren't beyond reach."
Maati shook his head, taking a pose of thanks more intimate and sincere than he'd used to accept the offered food. Heshaikvo replied with one that an uncle might offer to a nephew. Maati stirred himself. This was as good a time as any, and likely better than most.
"Is Seedless here?" Maati asked.
"What? No. No, I suppose he's out somewhere showing everyone how clever he is," Heshaikvo said bitterly. "I know I ought to keep him closer, but that torture box . . ."
"No, that's good. There was something I needed to speak with you about, but I didn't want him nearby."
The poet frowned, but nodded Maati on.
"It's about the island girl and what happened to her. I think . . . Heshai, that wasn't only what it seemed. Marchat Wilsin knew about it. He arranged it because the Galtic High Council told him to. And Amat Kyaan—the one Liat's gone to stay with—she's getting the proof of it together to take before the Khai."
The poet's face went white and then flushed red. The wide frog-lips pursed, and he shook his wide head. He seemed both angry and resigned.
"That's what she says?" he asked. "This overseer?"
"Not only her," Maati said.
"Well, she's wrong," the poet said. "That isn't how it happened."
"Heshaikvo, I think it is."
"It's not," the poet said and stood. His expression was closed. He walked to the fire, warming his hands with his back to Maati. The burning wood crackled and spat. Maati, putting down the still-uneaten bread, turned to him.
"Amat Kyaan isn't the only—"
"They're all wrong, then. Think about it for a moment, Maati. Just think. If it had been the High Council of Galt behind the blasted thing, what would happen? If the Khai saw it proved? He'd punish them. And how'd you think he'd do it?"
"The Khai would use you and Seedless against them," Maati said.
"Yes, and what good would come of that?"
Maati took a pose of query, but Heshai didn't turn to see it. After a moment, he let his hands fall. The firelight danced and flickered, making the poet seem almost as if he were part of the flame. Maati walked toward him.
"It's the truth," he said.
"Doesn't matter if it is," Heshaikvo said. "There are punishments worse than the crimes. What happened, happened. There's nothing to be gotten by holding onto it now."
"You don't believe that," Maati said, and his voice was harder than he'd expected it to be. Heshaikvo shifted, turned. His eyes were dry and calm.
"There's nothing that will put life back into that child," Heshaikvo said. "What could possibly be gained by trying?"
"There's justice," Maati said, and Heshai laughed. It was a disturbing sound, more anger than mirth. Heshaikvo stood and moved toward him. Without thinking Maati stepped back.
"Justice? Gods, boy, you want justice? We have larger problems than that, you and I. Getting through another year without one of these small gods flooding a city or setting the world on fire. That's important. Keeping the city safe. Playing court politics so that the Khaiem never decide to take each other's toys and women by force. And you want to add justice to all that? I've sacrificed my life to a world that wouldn't care less about me as a man if you paid it. You and I, both of us were cut off from our brothers and sisters. That boy from Udun who we saw in the court was slaughtered by his own brother and we all applauded him for doing it. Am I supposed to punish him too?"