"When we do, bring them to me," Amat said. "If they aren't willing to negotiate compensation with me, we'll call the watch, but I'd rather have it stay private."
"Yes, grandmother."
"And send for Urrat from the street of beads. She'll know if Chiyan's carrying by looking at her, and she has some teas that'll cure it if she is."
Mitat took a pose of agreement, but something in her expression—a softness, an amusement—made Amat respond with a query.
"Ovi Niit would have taken her out back and kicked her until she bled," Mitat said. "He would have said it was cheaper. I don't think you know how much you're respected, grandmother. The men, except Torish-cha and his, would still as soon see you hanged as not. But the girls all thank the gods that you came back."
"I haven't made the place any better."
"Yes," Mitat said, her voice accepting no denial. "You have. You don't see how the—"
The man lurched from the mouth of the alley and into Amat before she had time to respond. Her cane slipped as the drunkard staggered against her, and she stumbled. Pain shrieked from her knee to her hip, but her first impulse was to clutch the payment in her sleeve. The man, however, wasn't a thief. The silver for the watch was still where it had been and the drunk was in a pose of profound apology.
"What do you think you're doing?" Mitat demanded. Her chin was jutting out; her eyes burned. "It's hardly mid-day. What kind of man is already drunk?"
The thick man in the stained brown robe shook his head and bowed, his pose elegant and abasing.
"It is my fault," he said, his words slurred. "Entirely my fault. I've made an ass of myself."
Amat clutched Mitat's arm, silencing her, and stepped forward despite the raging ache in her leg. The drunkard bowed lower, shaking his head. Amat almost reached out to touch him—making certain that this wasn't a dream, that she wasn't back in her bed still waiting for her bread and tea.
"Heshai-cha?"
The poet looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and weary. The whites were yellow. He stank of wine and something worse. He seemed slowly to focus on her, and then, a heartbeat later, to recognize her face. He went gray.
"I'm fine, Heshai-cha. No damage done. But what brings—"
"I know you. You work for House Wilsin. You . . . you knew that girl?"
"Maj," Amat said. "Her name is Maj. She's being well taken care of, but you and I need to speak. What happened wasn't all it seemed. The andat had other parties who—"
"No! No, I was entirely to blame! It was my failing!"
The shutters of a window across the street opened with a clack and a curious face appeared. Heshai took a pose of regret spoiled only by his slight wavering, like a willow in a breeze. His lips hardened, and his eyes, when he opened them, were black. He looked at her as if she'd insulted him, and in that moment, Amat could see that the andat Seedless with his beautiful face and perfect voice had indeed been drawn from this man.
"I am making an ass of myself," he said. He bowed stiffly to her and to Mitat, turned, and strode unsteadily away.
"Gods!" Mitat said, looking after the wide, retreating back. "What was that?"
"The poet of Saraykeht," Amat said. She turned to consider the alley from which he'd emerged. It was thin—hardly more than a slit between buildings—unpaved, muddy and stinking of garbage.
"What's down there?" Amat asked.
"I don't know."
Amat hesitated, dreading what she knew she had to do next. If the mud was as foul as it smelled, the hems of her robe would be unsavable.
"Come," she said.
The apartment wasn't hard to find. The poet's unsteady footsteps had left fresh, sliding marks. The doorway was fitted with an iron lock, the shutters over the thin window beside it were barred from the inside. Amat, her curiosity too roused to stop now, rapped on the closed door and called, but no one came.
"Sometimes, if they don't want to be seen in the houses, men take rooms," Mitat said.
"Like this?"
"Better, usually," Mitat allowed. "None of the girls I know would want to follow a man down an alley like this one. If the payment was high enough, perhaps . . ."
Amat pressed her hand against the door. The wood was solid, sound. The lock, she imagined, could be forced, if she could find the right tools. If there was something in this sad secret place that was worth knowing. Something like dread touched her throat.
"Grandmother. We should go."
Amat took a pose of agreement, turning back toward the street. Curiosity balanced relief at being away from the private room of the poet of Saraykeht. She found herself wondering, as they walked to the offices of the watch, what lay behind that door, how it might relate to her quiet war, and whether she wanted to discover it.