"You're supposed to do what's right," Maati said.
Heshaikvo took a dismissive pose.
"What we do is bigger than right and wrong," he said. "If the Dai-kvo didn't make that clear to you, consider it your best lesson from me."
"I can't think that," Maati said. "If we don't push for justice . . ."
Heshaikvo's expression darkened. He took a pose appropriate to asking guidance from the holy, his stance a sarcasm. Maati swallowed, but held his ground.
"You love justice?" Heshai asked. "It's harder than stone, boy. Love it if you want. It won't love you."
"I can't think that—"
"Tell me you're never transgressed," Heshai interrupted, his voice harsh. "Never stolen food from the kitchens, never lied to a teacher. Tell me you've never bedded another man's woman."
Maati felt something shift in him, profound as a bone breaking, but painless. His ears hummed with something like bees. He took the corner of the table and lifted. Food, wine, papers, books all spilled together to the ground. He took a chair and tossed it aside, scooped up the winebowl with a puddle of redness still swirling in its curve and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a loud, satisfying pop. The poet looked at him, mouth gaping as if Maati had just grown wings.
And then, quickly as it had come, the rage was gone, and Maati sank to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. Sobs wracked him, as violent as being sick. Maati was only half-aware of the poet's footsteps as he came near, as he bent down. The thick arms cradled him, and Maati held Heshaikvo's wide frame and cried into the brown folds of his cloak while the poet rocked him and whispered I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
It felt like it would go on forever, like the river of pain could run and run and run and never go dry. It wasn't true—in time exhaustion as much as anything else stilled him. Maati sat beside his master, the overturned table beside them. The fire had burned low while he wasn't watching it—embers glowed red and gold among ashes still standing in the shapes of the wood they'd once been.
"Well," Maati said at last, his voice thick, "I've just made an ass of myself, haven't I?"
Heshaikvo chuckled, recognizing the words. Maati, despite himself, smiled.
"A decent first effort, at least," Heshaikvo said. "You'll get better with time. I didn't mean to do that to you, you know. It was unfair bringing Liat-kya into it. It's only that . . . the island girl . . . if I'd done better work when I first fashioned Seedless, it wouldn't have happened. I just don't want things getting worse. I want it over with."
"I know," Maati said.
They were silent for a time. The embers cooled a shade, the ashes crumbled.
"They say there's two women you don't get past," Heshaikvo said. "Your first love and your first sex. And then, if it turns out to be the same girl . . ."
"It is," Maati said.
"Yes," Heshai said. "It was the same for me. Her name was Ariat Miu. She had the most beautiful voice I've ever heard. I don't know where she is now."
Maati leaned over and put his arm around Heshai as if they were drinking companions. Heshai nodded as if Maati had spoken. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Well, we'd best get this cleaned up before the servants see it. Stoke the fire, would you? I'll get some candles burning. Night's coming on too early these days."
"Yes, Heshaikvo," Maati said.
"And Maati? You know I won't tell anyone about this, don't you?"
Maati took a pose of acknowledgment. In the dim light he couldn't be sure that Heshai had seen it, so he let his hands fall and spoke.
"Thank you," he said into the dark.
THEY WALKED slowly, hampered by Liat's wounds. The two mercenaries walked one before and one behind, and Otah walked at her side. At first, near the palaces, he had put his arm around her waist, thinking that it would be a comfort. Her body told him, though, that it wasn't. Her shoulder, her arm, her ribs—they were too tender to be touched and Otah found himself oddly glad. It freed him to watch the doorways and alleys, rooftops and food carts and firekeepers' kilns more closely.
The air smelled of wood smoke from a hundred hearths. A cool, thick mist too dense to be fog, too insubstantial to be rain, slicked the stones of the road and the walls of the houses. In her oversized woolen cloak, Liat might have been anyone. Otah found himself half-consciously flexing his hands, as if preparing for an attack that never came.
When they reached the edge of the soft quarter, passing by the door of Amat Kyaan's now-empty apartments, Liat motioned to stop. The two men looked to Otah and then each other, their expressions professional and impatient, but they paused.