It was no more or less than any of the other thousand scandals and occasions of gossip that stirred the slow blood of the city. Even when he came across people he knew, faces he recognized, Otah kept his own counsel. It was coming soon enough, he thought.
The sun was falling in the west, vanishing into the low hills and cane fields, when Otah took himself up the wide streets toward the palaces of the Khai and through those high gardens to the poet's house. Set off from the grandeur of the halls of the Khai and the utkhaiem, the poet's house seemed small and close and curiously genuine in the failing light. Otah left the bare trees behind and walked over the wooden bridge, koi popping sluggishly at the water as he passed. Nothing ever froze here.
Before he'd reached the doors, Maati opened them. The waft of air that came with him was warm and scented with smoke and mulled wine. Maati took a pose of greeting appropriate for a student to an honored teacher, and Otah laughed and pushed his hands aside. It was only when Maati didn't laugh in return that he saw the pose had been sincere. He took one of apology, but Maati only shook his head and gestured him inside.
The rooms were more cluttered than usual—books, papers, a pair of old boots, half the morning's breakfast still uneaten. A small fire burned, and Maati sat down in one of the two chairs that faced it. Otah took the other.
"You stayed with her last night?" Maati asked.
"Most of it," Otah said, leaning forward. "I rented a bunk by the seafront. I didn't want to stay in the comfort house. You heard that Amat Kyaan . . ."
"Yes. I think they brought word to Heshaikvo before they told the Khai."
"How did he take it?"
"He's gone off to the soft quarter. I doubt he'll come back soon."
"He's going to Amat Kyaan?"
"I doubt it. He seemed less like someone solving a problem than participating in it."
"Does he know? I mean, did you tell him what she was going to say?"
Maati made a sound half laugh, half groan.
"Yes. He didn't believe it. Or he did, but he wouldn't admit to it. He said that justice wasn't worth the price."
"I can't think that's true," Otah said. Then, "But maybe there's no justice to be had."
There was a long pause. There was a deep cup of wine, Otah saw, near the fire. A deep cup, but very little wine in it.
"And how did you take the news?" he asked.
Maati shrugged. He looked tired, unwell. His skin had a gray cast to it, and the bags under his eyes might have been from too much sleep or too little. Now that he thought to look for it, Maati's head was shifting slightly, back and forth with the beating of his heart. He was drunk.
"What's the matter, Maati?" he asked.
"You should stay here," the boy said. "You shouldn't sleep at the seafront or the comfort house. You're welcome here."
"Thank you, but I think people would find it a little odd that—"
"People," Maati said angrily, then became quiet. Otah stood, found the pot of wine warming over a small brazier, and pushed away the papers that lay too close to the glowing coals before he poured himself a bowl. Maati was looking up at him, sheepish, when he returned to the chair.
"I should have gotten that."
"It hardly matters. I've got it now. Are you well, Maati? You seem . . . bothered?"
"I was thinking the same thing about you. Ever since you got back from the Dai-kvo, it's seemed . . . difficult between us. Don't you think?"
"I suppose so," Otah said and sipped the wine. It was hot enough to blow across before he drank it, but it hadn't been cooking so long that the spirit had been burned out of it. The warmth of it in his throat was comfortable. "It's my fault. There are things I've been trying not to look at too closely. Orai said that sea travel changes you. Changes who you are."
"It may not be only that," Maati said softly.
"No?"
Maati sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked into the fire as he spoke. His voice was hard as slate.
"There's something I promised not to speak of. And I'm going to break that promise. I've done something terrible, Otahkvo. I didn't mean to, and if I could undo it, I swear by all the gods I would. While you were away, Liat and I . . . there was no one else for us to speak with. We were the only two who knew all the truth. And so we spent time in each other's company . . ."
I need you to stay, Liat had said before he'd left for the Dai-kvo. I need someone by my side.
And Seedless when he'd returned: Heshai fell in love and lost her, and he's been chewed by guilt ever since. Maati will do the same.
Otah sat back, his chair creaking under his shifting weight. With a rush like water poured from a spout, he knew what he was seeing, what had happened. He put down his bowl of wine. Maati was silent, shaking his head back and forth slowly. His face was flushed and although there was no thickness in his voice, no hidden sob in his breath, still a single tear hung from the tip of his nose. It would have been comical if it had been someone else.