The Emperors Knife (15 page)

At last there was a soft whisper to his left. “Here…'

When at last he caught a handful of cloth he sighed with relief and reached out again, this time finding firm flesh within the robes. He'd had no plan beyond finding Amalya, and so he gathered the woman to him and sat with her cradled in his lap. He could feel that the fever had left her, expelled with the heat of the flame. She was limp, unstrung, but breathing smoothly.

“You lost control of your fire,” he told her, “but I suppose it's better this way. You can't feel it now.”

Eyul sensed the dawn, felt the fingers of its warmth pushing back the chill of night. He turned his face to the sun and stroked her hair as a mother would her child's. A tear rolled down his cheek. He checked the Knife at his hip. The hilt felt warm beneath his sore fingertips, reassuring. There might be little call for a blind assassin, but the emperor's Knife would make his end a quick one. And hers.

I send souls to paradise.

The heat built quickly, and with it came flies. Eyul covered Amalya's arm as best he could with his cloak. She stirred once in his lap, muttering something incomprehensible, and he ran his fingers across her lips. “Shhh.”

An hour passed, or maybe four. The sun parched Eyul, and his tongue felt like old leather when he spoke. “Perhaps it is time.”
Before she wakes. She won't feel it.
He reached for his Knife, faltered. He didn't want it to be time.

“Nice knife.” A stranger's voice sounded at his shoulder. Eyul pulled the blade clear.

“They say a blind man's other senses get sharp.” The stranger spoke with mild amusement. Somewhere on the dune, others whispered.

Eyul knew the accent; only one people spoke the true-tongue with such reckless disregard for vowels.

“But it can't be true. I watched you cuddle that pretty slave girl for so long that Jarquil had time to find your camels.”

Eyul set the emperor's Knife to Amalya's throat.

“Hey now!” The nomad's surprise set a grim smile on Eyul's lips.

“Wh— What?” The touch of metal to skin brought Amalya from whatever dark seas she floated on.

Eyul flinched, finding his own surprise.

“Who?” Amalya asked the question in a croak.

“Nomads,” Eyul said. “You should let me cut your throat. I'd be doing you a favor.”

Chapter Fourteen

“H
ey now,” the nomad said again, softer this time, “the sun rises. Time for you to come with us, blind man.”

Amalya's fingers curled around Eyul's wrist. With a sigh he drew the Knife away from her throat. He bent his head over hers, seeking the hollow of her ear. “Can you see them?”

She stirred and spoke into his chest. “No weapons in their hands.”

“What do you want?” Eyul asked the nomad, raising his head as if he could see. He heard the soft bray of a horse.

“Me? Nothing. The old man is expecting you. Come, now.”

“It's all right,” Amalya said.

Eyul sheathed his Knife. He kept still as someone, a nomad, from the smell, wound fabric about his eyes.

“Jarquil brings water.” Done with Eyul's bandage, the nomad tapped his shoulder, then tapped it again until Eyul raised his knife-hand to accept a clammy water-bag, cool against his burned palm. He held it to Amalya's mouth first.

Afterwards, the nomad took the skin from his hand. “Come, now. The pretty girl, too.”

Eyul drew his right arm in front of her. “She stays with me.”

This drew a hoot of amusement. “If you think you can hold onto her, blind man.”

He did. She was not as helpless getting onto the camel as he expected, but he wrapped one arm around her anyway, holding her firmly in place. With his good hand he grabbed the pommel.

The nomads led them on, and they travelled in silence under the hot sun. Amalya rested her arms on Eyul's, and nestled her head under his chin. He supposed she was drifting. Her hair was hot from the sun, wafting a fragrance he remembered from the palace courtyard: the yellow flowers that sparkled on their bushes like the stars at night. He had never learned the names of the different flowers, not even for the making of poisons, for he did not work in secret, or with cowardly tools. If a man died by the emperor's Knife, he and everyone else would know it. And so he didn't know the name of the yellow flower. He regretted that, among many other things, today.

Eyul had never questioned any of the decisions and beliefs that had brought him to this moment. Every step felt pre-ordained, difficult but necessary for his service to the gods. At the same time he knew that any different choice might have brought him a different life—one where he would be quietly fishing along the river, perhaps, or collecting ink roots in the desert. Maybe he'd have sons instead of dead princes to dream about.

He felt Amalya's fingers close around his elbow and surprise drove away the last of his wistful thoughts: she was alert.

That small touch of fellowship encouraged him. Without sight, the hours left to him promised to be small in number and low in comfort. Sweat and sand chafed his skin; pain held his back in a scorpion grip. The nomads' high-pitched calls roiled in his ears. Even so, the gods might have chosen a worse ending, for he was not alone.

“How are you feeling?” A stupid question. Soon she would ask him to free her, to give her up, and he would do it.

She turned until he could feel her breath against his throat.

“I think we're going to be all right.”

She lies for me.
“Yes,” he said, “maybe so.”

Tuvaini passed through the Low Room where the fountain made soft lapping sounds and patterned sunlight fell through the latticed stone above. Two of the Old Wives sat upon the fountain's rim, washing their arms in the cool water. One met his eye and whispered in the other's ear, and they both giggled. Despite their grey hair and sagging breasts, he was no doubt too old for their taste.

This room held no more solace for him. When he looked at the tiles, he remembered Eyul's blood, and he wondered whether the assassin had survived his mission in the desert. If it were any other man, Tuvaini would assume him dead, but Eyul's years of killing hung around him like chain-mail. He might survive. The idea was pleasing.

He passed the guards, who bowed, and the slaves, who prostrated themselves; he paid no attention to either.

The doors to the throne room stood open. Tuvaini had liked the great doors very much, in Emperor Tahal's time. It felt right for the gods to smile upon Tahal, who had earned the throne with both strength and spirit. But when Tuvaini realised the doors favoured all emperors indiscriminately, he became disenchanted. Under the aegis of those carved gods, the Boy Emperor had thrown tantrums in his chair, refused to listen to his adviser, and even struck his mother when she tried to whisper in his ear. That was when the nobles had first drifted away from the city, pursuing power in their own provinces, unhindered, while the boy pursued maturity in his.

It would be a long time coming. Even now, as Tuvaini approached, Beyon played a loud game with the slave children and his mangy dog. “Catch the ball like that,” he said, as a little brown-haired boy laughed. “Then—quick!—throw it and turn—”

The boy threw the ball towards a little red-haired girl; her hands darted out to catch it, but she missed. Squealing with laughter, she raced the shaggy dog for the prize.

“Get it, get it!” the boy called after her. But the dog got the ball, and Beyon and the slave boy collapsed with laughter.

“Your Magnificence.” Tuvaini made a quick obeisance. Beyon looked at him like a man coming awake, his eyes clearing, his smile fading. “Tuvaini,” he muttered. In a louder voice he said, “All right, children, have some honey-nuts—here; here—and now back to your master and the chores he has for you. I'll see you again tomorrow.”

The children plodded away from the dais, their heads low, their shoulders bowed.

“Do you know, Your Majesty,” said Tuvaini, “that their master might well beat them for their presumption, interacting with you?”

Beyon raised his eyebrows as Tuvaini put on a look of concern.

“Then I would have their master killed,” said Beyon. “It is not for him to judge.”

“As you say, Majesty.” Beyon rarely had any other solution. It bored Tuvaini, but also he depended on it. “But remember, these slaves will grow up one day, and they will expect special favors from you.”
Or me.

“Unlikely.” Beyon patted his dog and stood up, his gaze taking in the empty room. “By the time they're grown, they'll understand how things are. They'll be all hollowed out.”

Are you all hollowed out, then, my emperor?
Tuvaini cleared his throat. “Then why bother, Your Majesty?”

Beyon didn't answer. He squeezed the red ball between his fingers. “The little red-haired one—her parents sold her. They came from the Wastes. She told me they were clanless, and had too many children and no food. They got a good price for her pretty face.”

Tuvaini thought of Lapella and looked out across the tiles.

Beyon continued, “How do you think they choose which ones to keep and which to sell? Do they choose the oldest? The youngest? Or do they decide which of the children is more useless to them?”

“What is useless to one family,” said Tuvaini, “may be of great use to someone else.”

“That comes later,” said Beyon, waving a dismissive hand. “I am interested in the choosing: how can you see potential in a child, or the lack of it? How can they be sure they made the right choice?”

“I suppose there is no point in dwelling on it once it's done. That road leads to madness.” Tuvaini smiled to himself.

“It's madness from any direction you come at it, to discard your own children.” Beyon looked down at his hands, turning them over to examine his palms. Tuvaini had noticed this habit in him of late. Perhaps there were some small marks appearing there.

Soon, now. Soon.

Tuvaini looked back at the doors, making sure there were no waiting supplicants. “Your Magnificence,” he said, “I came to speak of serious matters.”

“Oh?” Beyon sat down on the throne. He always looked too big for it, too broad in the shoulders and hips. His dog settled at his feet and pricked up its ears.

“You remember I spoke to you of Lord Zell, Magnificence, and his concerns about pirates beyond the western shore. He complains the White Hats of his province do nothing, and would raise his own army as in days of old. I have written strong words—”

Beyon waved a hand. “Lord Zell and his blusterings bore me. Send your letter.”

Tuvaini made his next move, the words coming from his mouth as if he had practised them a hundred times. “My words would carry more weight if delivered by a hundred Blue Shields, Magnificence.”

“I won't send my own guard. I need them.” Beyon shifted upon the throne and sighed. “Who is the general there? Send Arigu to replace him.”

And there it was. In less time than it took to eat a date, Tuvaini had reminded Beyon both of his vulnerability and his dependence on Arigu. The emperor was in position. All he needed to do was set the tiles to falling. “That is the other subject we need to discuss, Magnificence.” He paused for effect. “I have heard whispers: General Arigu plots with your brother. Prince Sarmin means to sire an heir, to rule in your stead. Movements have already been made in this direction.”

Beyon went still and said nothing.

“Arigu asked permission for a brief return to Vehinni Province, but my family confirms he never arrived there. Instead he fetches Prince Sarmin a horsewoman from the north. The prince means to marry her without your permission.” Tuvaini stopped talking and cast his eyes down.
Let him chew on that.

After a silence, the emperor said, “Arigu has wanted to see the Grasslands for some time now. But something is missing from your story.”

“I'm sure I don't know the whole story, Your Magnificence.”

“You've always been too kind to my mother, Tuvaini, but Arigu takes no action without her standing behind him. I suppose she is tired of this son and wants to try the other.”

Tuvaini said nothing. He hadn't meant to implicate Nessaket. He'd expected Beyon to lose his temper, to be rash, to behave as Beyon had always behaved.

Instead the emperor leaned back in the throne, breaking into a smile. “My mother is clever, but she is not clever enough. You are my faithful servant, Tuvaini. She didn't plan on you, did she?”

Tuvaini steadied himself on a pillar.

“I shall frustrate her in the getting of this heir, and amuse myself in the process. When is this woman expected?”

Tuvaini forced the words from his mouth. “I believe very soon, Magnificence.”

“Then I shall go to the desert and fetch her. I will present her to Sarmin myself, as a gift from the emperor.” Beyon laughed. “And when the child is born, my bitch of a mother won't even see it. She'll have no leverage with either of my heirs.”

Tuvaini felt a pressure at the top of his head, heavy and sharp, like the tip of a sword. A pain shot from his scalp to his heels; a strike from Herzu himself, who held agony in one hand and loss in the other. Tuvaini welcomed the pain. He relaxed, breathing deep, and let it fill his veins with steel, strengthen his mind with a warrior's keenness.

He opened his eyes and saw Beyon, the Boy Emperor, staring back at him. He looked foolish and scared. “And the general?” Tuvaini asked.

Beyon shrugged. “He will make an oath, or die.”

This boy was no emperor; he was worth
nothing
. Beyon murdered powerless guards but allowed treacherous generals to live—and why? Because they were powerful; because he needed them. Because he was weak. So weak, he had the marks; so weak, he would die, soon, alone and outcast.

Tuvaini made his obeisance. He was already deciding on his next move. Herzu had touched him, and so blood must be shed. If he felt a slight hesitation, a moment of pity, imagining a girl's blood in the desert sands, he put it aside. The gods and the empire forced his hand. It must be done.