A Shadow In Summer by Daniel Abraham Read Free Book Online

since you don't want to say. Do you?"
    Maati took a pose of apology. He kept his eyes down while he spoke, but he didn't lie.
    "When I got to the school—I was still among the younger cohorts—there was an older boy who said something to me. We'd been set to turn the soil in the gardens, and my hands were too soft. I couldn't do the work. And the black robe who was tending us—Otahkvo, his name was—was very upset with me. But then, when I told him why I hadn't been able to do as he asked, he tried to comfort me. And he told me that if I had worked harder, it wouldn't have helped. That was just before he left the school."
    "So? You mean someone told you? That hardly seems fair."
    "He didn't though. He didn't
tell
me, exactly. He only said some things about the school. That it wasn't what it looked like. And the things he said made me start thinking. And then . . ."
    "And once you knew to look, it wasn't hard to see. I understand."
    "It wasn't quite like that."
    "Do you ever wonder if you would have made it on your own? I mean if your Otahkvo hadn't given the game away?"
    Maati blushed. The secret he'd held for years with the Dai-kvo pried open in a single conversation. Heshaikvo was a subtle man. He took a pose of acknowledgment. The teacher, however, was looking elsewhere, an expression passing over him that might have been annoyance or pain.
    "Heshaikvo?"
    "I've just remembered something I'm to do. Walk with me."
    Maati rose and followed. The palaces spread out, larger than the village that surrounded the Dai-kvo, each individual structure larger than the whole of the school. Together, they walked down the wide marble staircase, into a vaulted hall. The wide, bright air was touched by the scents of sandalwood and vanilla.
    "Tell me, Maati. What do you think of slaves?"
    The question was an odd one, and his first response—
I don't
—seemed too glib for the occasion. Instead, he took a pose requesting clarification as best he could while still walking more quickly than his usual pace.
    "Permanent indenture. What's your opinion of it?"
    "I don't know."
    "Then think for a moment."
    They passed through the hall and onto a wide, flower-strewn path that led down and to the south. Gardens rich with exotic flowers and fountains spread out before them. Singing slaves, hidden from view by hedges or cloth screens, filled the air with wordless melodies. The sun blared heat like a trumpet, and the thick air made Maati feel almost as if he were swimming. It seemed they'd hardly started walking before Maati's inner robe was sticky with sweat. He found himself struggling to keep up.
    As Maati considered the question, servants and utkhaiem passed, pausing to take poses of respect. His teacher took little notice of them or of the heat; where Maati's robes stuck, his flowed like water over stone and no sweat dampened his temples. Maati cleared his throat.
    "People who have entered into permanent indenture have either chosen to do so, in return for the protection of the holders of their contracts, or lost their freedoms as punishment for some crime," Maati said, carefully keeping any judgment out of the statement.
    "Is that what the Dai-kvo taught you?"
    "No. It's just . . . it's just the way it is. I've always known that."
    "And the third case? The andat?"
    "I don't understand."
    The teacher's dark eyebrows rose on the perfect skin of his forehead. His lips took the slightest of all possible smiles.
    "The andat aren't criminals. Before they're bound, they have no thought, no will, no form. They're only ideas. How can an idea enter into a contract?"
    "How can one refuse?" Maati countered.
    "There are names, my boy, for men who take silence as consent."
    They passed into the middle gardens. The low halls spread before them, and wider paths almost like streets. The temple rose off to their right, wide and high; its sloping lines reminded Maati of a seagull in flight. At one of the low halls, carts had gathered. Laborers milled around,