A Shadow in Summer (The Long Price Quartet Book 1)

by Daniel Abraham

  “I had a bad day,” the andat said. “I found something I’d lost, and it turned out not to have been worth finding. And you? Feeling ready for the grand ceremony tomorrow?”

  Maati took a pose of affirmation. The andat grinned, and then like a candle melting, his expression turned to something else, something conflicted that Maati couldn’t entirely read. The cicadas in their trees went silent suddenly as if they were a single voice. A moment later, they began again.

  “Is there . . .” the andat said, and trailed off, taking a pose that asked for silence while Seedless reconsidered his words. Then, “Maati-kya. If there was something you wanted of me. Some favor you would ask of me, even now. Something that I might do or . . . or forbear. Ask, and I’ll do it. Whatever it is. For you, I’ll do it.”

  Maati looked at the pale face, the skin that seemed to glow like porcelain in the failing light.

  “Why?” Maati asked. “Why would you offer that to me?”

  Seedless smiled and shifted with the sound of fine cloth against grass.

  “To see what you’d ask,” Seedless said.

  “What if I asked for something you didn’t want to give me?”

  “It would be worth it,” Seedless said. “It would tell me something about your heart, and knowing that would be justify some very high prices. Anything you want to have started, or anything you want to stop.”

  Maati felt the beginning of a blush and shifted forward, considering the surface of the pond and the fish—pale and golden—beneath it. When he spoke, his voice was low.

  “Tomorrow, when the time comes for the . . . when Heshai-kvo is set to finish the sad trade, don’t fight him. I saw the two of you with the cotton when I first came, and I’ve seen you since. You always make him force you. You always make him struggle to accomplish the thing. Don’t do that to him tomorrow.”

  Seedless nodded, a sad smile on his perfect, soft lips.

  “You’re a sweet boy. You deserve better than us,” the andat said. “I’ll do as you ask.”

  They sat in silence as the sunlight faded—the stars glimmering first a few, then a handful, then thousands upon thousands. The palaces glowed with lanterns, and sometimes Maati caught a thread of distant music.

  “I should light the night candle,” Maati said.

  “If you wish,” Seedless said, but Maati found he wasn’t rising or returning to the house. Instead, he was staring at the figure before him, a thought turning restlessly in his mind. The subtle weight of the leather book in his sleeve and Seedless’ strange, quiet expression mixed and shifted and moved him.

  “Seedless-cha. I was wondering if I might ask you a question. Now, while we’re still friends.”

  “Now you’re playing on my sentiments,” the andat said, amused. Maati took a pose of cheerful agreement and Seedless replied with acceptance. “Ask.”

  “You and Heshai-kvo are in a sense one thing, true?”

  “Sometimes the hand pulls the puppet, sometimes the puppet pulls the hand, but the string runs both ways. Yes.”

  “And you hate him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mustn’t you also hate yourself, then?”

  The andat shifted to a crouch and with the air of a man considering a painting, looked up at the poet’s house, dark now in the starlight. He was silent for so long that Maati began to wonder if he would answer at all. When he did speak, his voice was little above a whisper.

  “Yes,” he said. “Always.”

  Maati waited, but the andat said nothing more. At last, Maati gathered his things and rose to go inside. He paused beside the unmoving andat and touched Seedless’ sleeve. The andat didn’t move, didn’t speak, accepted no more comfort than a stone would. Maati went to the house and lit the night candle and lemon candles to drive away the insects, and prepared himself for sleep.

  Heshai returned just before dawn, his robes stained and reeking of cheap wine. Maati helped him prepare for the audience, the sad trade, the ceremony. Fresh robes, washed hair, fresh-shaved chin. The redness of his eyes, Maati could do nothing for. Throughout, Seedless haunted the corners of the room, unusually silent. Heshai drank little, ate less, and as the sun topped the trees, lumbered out and down the path with Maati and Seedless following.

  It was a lovely day, clouds building over the sea and to the east, towering white as cotton and taller than mountains. The palaces were alive with servants and slaves and the utkhaiem moving gracefully about their business. And the poets, Maati supposed, moving about theirs.

  The party from House Wilsin was at the low hall before them. The pregnant girl stood outside, attended by servants, fidgeting with the skirts that were designed for the day, cut to protect her modesty but not catch the child as it left her. Maati felt the first real qualm pass over him. Heshai-kvo marched past woman and servants and slaves, his bloodshot eyes looking, Maati guessed, for Liat Chokavi who was, after all, overseeing the trade.

  They found her inside the hall, pacing and muttering to herself under her breath. She was dressed in white robes shot with blue: mourning colors. Her hair was pulled back to show the softness of her cheek, the curve of her neck. She was beautiful—the sort of woman that Otah-kvo would love and that would love him in return. Her gaze rose as they entered, the three of them, and she took a pose of greeting.

  “Can we do this thing?” Heshai-kvo snapped, only now that Maati had known the man longer, he heard the pain underneath the gruffness. The dread.

  “The physician will be here shortly,” Liat said.

  “He’s late?”

  “We’re early, Heshai-kvo,” Maati said gently.

  The poet glared at him, then shrugged and moved to the far end of the hall to stare sullenly out the window. Seedless, meeting Maati’s gaze, pursed his lips, shrugged and walked out into the sunlight. Maati, left alone before the woman, took a pose of formal greeting which she returned.

  “Forgive Heshai-kvo,” Maati said softly enough to keep his voice from carrying. “He hates the sad trade. It . . . it would be a very long story, and likely not worth the telling. Only don’t judge him too harshly from this.”

  “I won’t,” Liat said. Her manner was softer, less formal. She seemed, in fact, on the verge of grinning. “Itani told me about it. He mentioned you as well.”

  “He has been very kind in . . . showing me the city,” Maati said, taken by surprise. “I knew very little about Saraykeht before I came here.”

  Liat smiled and touched his sleeve.

  “I should thank you,” she said. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know when he would have gotten the courage to tell me about . . . about his family.”

  “Oh,” Maati said. “Then he . . . you know?”

  She took a pose of confirmation that implied a complicity Maati found both thrilling and uneasing. The secret was now shared among three. And that was as many as could ever know. In a way, it bound them, he and Liat. Two people who shared some kind of love for Otah-kvo.

  “Perhaps we will be able to know each other better, once the trade is completed,” Maati said. “The three of us, I mean.”

  “I would like that,” Liat said. She grinned, and Maati found himself grinning back. He wondered what they would look like to someone else—the student poet and the trade house overseer beaming at each other just before the sad trade. He forced himself into a more sober demeanor.

  “The woman, Maj,” he said. “All went well with her, I hope?”

  Liat shrugged and leaned closer to him. She smelled of an expensive perfume, earthy and rich more than floral, like fresh turned soil.

  “Keep it between us, but she’s been a nightmare,” Liat said. “She means well, I suppose, but she’s flighty as a child and doesn’t seem to remember what I’ve told her from one day to the next.”

  “Is she . . . simple?”

  “I don’t think so. Only . . . unconcerned, I suppose. They have different ways of looking at things on Nippu. Her translator told me about it. They don’t think the child’s a
person until it draws its first breath, so she didn’t even want to wear mourning colors.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that. I thought the Eastern Islands were . . . stricter, I suppose. If that’s the way to say it.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Is he here? The translator?”

  “No,” Liat said, taking a pose that expressed her impatience. “No, something came up and he had to leave. Wilsin-cha had him teach me all the phrases I need to know for the ceremony. I’ve been practicing. I can’t tell you how pleased I’ll be to have this over.”

  Maati looked over to his teacher. Heshai-kvo stood at the window, still as a statue, his expression bleak. Seedless leaned against the wall near the wide double doors of the entrance, his arms folded, staring at the poet’s back. The perfect attention reminded Maati of a feral dog tracking its prey.

  The physician arrived at the appointed hour with his retinue. Maj, blushing and pulling at her skirts, was brought inside, and Liat took her post beside her as Maati took his with Heshai-kvo and Seedless. The servants and slaves retreated a respectful distance, and the wide doors were closed. Heshai-kvo seemed bent as if he were carrying a load. He gestured to Liat, and she stepped forward and adopted a pose appropriate to the opening of a formal occasion.

  “Heshai-cha,” she said. “I come before you as the representative of House Wilsin in this matter. My client has paid the Khai’s fee and the accountancy has weighed her payment and found it in accordance with our arrangement. We now ask that you complete your part of the contract.”

  “Have you asked her if she’s sure?” Heshai-kvo asked. His words were not formal, and he took no pose with them. His lips were pressed thin and his face grayish. “Is she certain?”

  Liat blinked, startled, Maati thought, by the despair in his teacher’s voice. He wished now that he had explained to Liat why this was so hard for Heshai. Or perhaps it didn’t matter. Really, it only needed to be finished and behind them.

  “Yes,” Liat said, also breaking with the formality of the ceremony.

  “Ask her again,” Heshai said, half demanding, half pleading. “Ask if there isn’t another way.”

  A glimmer of stark terror lit Liat’s eyes and vanished. Maati understood. It was not one of the phrases she’d been taught. She had no way to comply. She raised her chin, her eyes narrowing in a way that made her look haughty and condescending, but Maati thought he could see the panic in her.

  “Heshai-kvo,” he said, softly. “Please, may we finish this thing.”

  His teacher looked over, first annoyed, then sadly resigned. He took a pose that retracted the request. Liat’s eyes shifted to Maati’s with a look of gratitude. The physician took his cue and stepped forward, certifying that the woman was in good health, and that the removal of the child posed no great risk to her well-being. Heshai took a pose that thanked him. The physician led Maj to the split-seated stool and sat her in it, then silently placed the silver bowl beneath her.

  “I hate this,” Heshai murmured, his voice so low that no one could hear him besides Maati and Seedless. Then he took a formal pose and declaimed. “In the name of the Khai Saraykeht and the Dai-kvo, I put myself at your service.”

  Liat turned to the girl and spoke in liquid syllables. Maj frowned and her wide, pale lips pursed. Then she nodded and said something in return. Liat shifted back to the poet and took a pose of acceptance.

  “You’re ready?” Heshai asked, his eyes on Maj’s. The island girl tilted her head, as if hearing a sound she almost recognized. Heshai raised his eyebrows and sighed. Without any visible bidding, Seedless stepped forward, graceful as a dancer. There was a light in his eyes, something like joy. Maati felt an inexplicable twist in his belly.

  “No need to struggle, old friend,” Seedless said. “I promised your apprentice that I wouldn’t make you fight me for this one. And you see, I can keep my word when it suits me.”

  The silver bowl chimed like an orange had been dropped in it. Maati looked over, and then away. The thing in the bowl was only settling, he told himself, not moving. Not moving.

  And with an audible intake of breath, the island girl began to scream. The pale blue eyes were open so wide, Maati could see the whites all the way around the iris. Her wide lips pulled back until they were thin as string. Maj bent down, and her hands would have touched the thing in the bowl, cradled it, if the physician had not whisked it away. Liat could only hold the woman’s hands and look at her, confused, while shriek after shriek echoed in the empty spaces of the hall.

  “What?” Heshai-kvo said, his voice fearful and small. “What happened?”

  10

  > + < Amat Kyaan walked the length of the seafront with the feeling of a woman half-awakened from nightmare. The morning sun made the waters too bright to look at. Ships rested at the docks, taking on cloth or oils or sugar or else putting off brazil blocks and indigo, wheat and rye, wine and Eddensea marble. The thin stalls still barked with commerce, banners shifting in the breeze. The gulls still wheeled and complained. It was like walking into a memory. She had passed this way every day for years. How quickly it had become unfamiliar.

  Leaning on her cane, she passed the wide mouth of the Nantan and into the warehouse district. The traffic patterns in the streets had changed—the rhythm of the city had shifted as it did from season to season. The mad rush of harvest was behind them, and though the year’s work was still far from ended, the city had a sense of completion. The great trick that made Saraykeht the center of all cotton trade had been performed once more, and now normal men and women would spend their hours and days changing that advantage into power and wealth and prestige.

  She could also feel its unease. Something had happened to the poet. Only listening from her window during the evening, she’d heard three or four different stories about what had happened. Every conversation she walked past was the same—something had happened to the poet. Something to do with House Wilsin and the sad trade. Something terrible. The young men and women in the street smiled as they told each other, excited by the sense of crisis and too young or too poor or too ignorant for the news of yesterday’s events to sicken them with dread. That was for older people. People who understood.

  Amat breathed deeply, catching the scent of the sea, the perfume of grilling meat at the stalls, the unpleasant stench of the dyers’ vats that reached even from several streets away. Her city, with its high summer behind it. In her heart, she still found it hard to believe that she had returned to it, that she was not still entombed in the back office of Ovi Niit’s comfort house. And as she walked, leaning heavily on her cane, she tried not to wonder what the men and women said about her as she passed.

  At the bathhouse, the guards looked at her curiously as they took their poses. She didn’t even respond, only walked forward into the tiled rooms with their echoes and the scent of cedar and fresh water. She shrugged off her robes and went past the public baths to Marchat Wilsin’s little room at the back, just as she always had.

  He looked terrible.

  “Too hot,” he said as she lowered herself into the water. The lacquer tray danced a little on the waves she stirred, but didn’t spill the tea.

  “You always say that,” Amat Kyaan said. Marchat sighed and looked away. There were bags under his eyes, dark as bruises. His face, scowl-set, held a grayish cast. Amat leaned forward and pulled the tea closer.

  “So,” she said. “I take it things went well.”

  “Don’t.”

  Amat sipped tea from her bowl and considered him. Her employer, her friend.

  “Then what is there left for us to say?” she asked.

  “There’s business,” Marchat said. “The same as always.”

  “Business, then. I take it that things went well.”

  He shot an annoyed glance at her, then looked away.

  “Couldn’t we start with the contracts with the dyers?”

  “If you’d like,” Amat said. “Was there something pressing with them?”
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  Her voice carried the whole load of sarcasm to cover the outrage and anger. And fear. Marchat took a clumsy pose of surrender and acquiescence before reaching over and taking his own bowl of tea from the tray.

  “I’m going to a meeting with the Khai and several of the higher utkhaiem. Spend the whole damn time falling on my sword over the sad trade. I’ve promised a full investigation.”

  “And what are you going to find?”

  “The truth, I imagine. That’s the secret of a good lie, you know. Coming to a place where you believe it yourself. I expect our investigation—or anyone else’s—will show it was Oshai, the translator. He and his men plotted the whole thing under the direction of the andat Seedless. They found the girl, they brought her to us under false pretenses. I have letters of introduction that I’ll turn over to the Khai’s men. They’ll discover that the letters are forged. House Wilsin will be looked upon as a collection of dupes. At best, it will take us years to recover our reputation.”

  “It’s a small price,” Amat said. “What if they find Oshai?”

  “They won’t.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes,” Wilsin said with a great sigh. “I’m sure.”

  “And Liat?”

  “Still being questioned,” Marchat said. “I imagine she’ll be out by the end of the day. We’ll need to do something for her. To make this right. She’s not going to come out of this with a reputation for competence intact. They’ve already spoken with the island girl. She didn’t have anything very coherent to say, I’m afraid. But it’s over, Amat. That’s really the only bright thing I can say of the whole stinking business. The worst that was going to happen has happened, and now we can get to cleaning up after it and moving on.”

  “And what’s the truth?”

  “What I told you,” he said. “That’s the truth. It’s the only truth that matters.”

  “No. The real truth. Who sent those pearls? And don’t tell me the spirit conjured them out of the sea.”

  “Who knows?” Marchat said. “Oshai told us they were from Nippu, from the girl’s family. We had no reason to think otherwise.”