When she opened her eyes again, the woman had taken a pose of concern. Amat answered with one of reassurance.
"You seem tired, grandmother."
"It's nothing."
Mitat hesitated visibly, then handed back the papers. Before Amat could ask what was troubling her, steps came up the stairs and a polite knock interrupted them. Torish Wite stepped in, his expression guarded.
"There's someone here to see you," he said to Amat.
"Who?"
"Marchat Wilsin."
Her belly went tight, but she only took in a deep breath.
"Is anyone with him?"
"No. He stinks a little of wine, but he's unarmed and he's come alone."
"Where's Maj?" she asked.
"Asleep. We've made your old cell a sleeping chamber for her."
"Set a guard on her room. No one's to go in, and she's not to come out. I don't want him knowing that we have her here."
"You're going to see him?" Mitat asked, her voice incredulous.
"He was my employer for decades," Amat said, as if it were an answer to the question. "Torish-cha. I'll want a man outside the door. If I call out, I want him in here immediately. If I don't, I want privacy. We'll finish our conversation later, Mitat."
The pair retreated, closing the door behind them. Amat rose, taking up her cane and walking to the doors that opened onto the private deck. It had rained in the night, and the air was still thick with it. It was that, Amat told herself, that made it hard to breathe. The door opened behind her, then closed again. She didn't turn at once. Across the deck, the soft quarter flowed street upon street, alley upon alley. Banners flew and beggars sang. It was a lovely city, even this part. This was why she was doing what she'd done. For this and for the girl Maj and the babe she'd lost. She steeled herself.
Marchat Wilsin stood at the doorway in a robe of green so deep and rich it seemed shot with black. His face was grayish, his eyes bloodshot. He looked frightened and lost, like a mouse surrounded by cats. He broke her heart.
"Hello, old friend," she said. "Who'd have thought we'd end here, eh?"
"Why are you doing this, Amat?"
The pain in his voice almost cracked it. She felt the urge to go to him, comfort him. She wanted badly to touch his hand and tell him that everything would end well, in part because she knew that it wouldn't. It occurred to her distantly that if she had let him profess love for her, she might not have been able to leave House Wilsin.
"What happened to the poet. To the girl. It was an attack," she said. "You know it, and I do. You attacked Saraykeht."
He walked forward, his hands out, palms up before him.
"I didn't," he said. "Amat, you have to see that this wasn't my doing."
"Can I offer you tea?" she asked.
Bewildered, he sank onto a divan and ran his hands through his hair in wordless distress. She remembered the man she'd first met—his dark hair, his foreign manners. He'd had an easy laugh back then, and power in his gaze. She poured a bowl of tea for him. When he didn't take it from her hand, she left it on the low table at his knee and went back to her own desk.
"It didn't work, Amat. It failed. The poet's alive, the andat's still held. They see that it can't work, and so it won't happen again, if you'll only let this go."
"I can't," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because of what you did to Maj. She wanted that child. And because Saraykeht is my home. And because you betrayed me."
Marchat flushed red and took a pose so sloppy it might have meant anything.
"Betrayed you? How did I betray you? I did everything to keep you clear of this. I warned you that Oshai was waiting for you. And when you came back I was the one who argued for keeping you alive. I risked my life for yours."
"You made me part of this," Amat said, surprised to hear the anger in her own voice, to feel the warmth in her face. "You did this and you put me in a position where I have to sacrifice everything—everything—in order to redeem myself. If I had known in time, I would have stopped it. You knew that when you asked me to find you a bodyguard. You hoped I'd find a way out."
"I wasn't thinking clearly then. I am now."
"Are you? How can I do anything besides this, Marchatkya? If I keep silent, it's as much as saying I approve of the crime. And I don't."
His eyes shifted, his gaze going hard. Slowly, he lifted the bowl of tea to his lips and drank it down in one long draw. When he put the bowl down—ceramic clicking against the wooden table—he was once again the man she'd known. He had put his heart aside, she knew, and entered the negotiation that might save his life, his house. Might, if he could convince her, even save her from the path she'd chosen. She felt a half-smile touch her lips. A part of her hoped he might win.