The Emperors Knife (31 page)

And then his work would begin.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

E
yul slipped through the Low Gate and the Low Door. He kept one hand on his hilt; Govnan's fire might be fast, but the Knife would be faster. It had fallen silent, which pleased him. Night-time brought a clarity of vision he lacked in the day and now he could see the faces of the soldiers he passed; each shuffled out of his way, mumbling apologies. They knew who he was and what he could do. He was home.

He passed by the temple of Herzu, which was always dark, no matter the time of day. Inside, blue-hatted guards gathered around Nessaket. Her voice cut daggered slices in the air. In days past he might have paused and tried to look across the crowded room; he might have wondered. He'd had Nessaket once, in the dark days after Tahal's death, when Beyon would not allow either of them in his sight. He'd pulled at that golden skin, bitten those smooth shoulders, tried to give her the sense of danger she sought. He'd lived in the service of Tahal's family, whether for killing or pleasure. Now when he remembered Nessaket's bed it was as if some other man had been there. Some other man had been in the courtyard, too, drawing metal across those little throats.

That man had cared.

He turned another corner and sniffed the air. Govnan had a distinctive scent of fire and soot, but Eyul smelled nothing like that here.

“Eyul.”

Eyul turned at the familiar voice. “Master Herran.” Only another assassin could take him unaware; Herran stood but two arms' lengths away.

The old man looked at him without moving. The wrinkles around his grey eyes tightened in a disconcerting way. Assassins were always watching—yet there should be nothing for Herran to see.

“I have been summoned to council,” Herran said at last.

“There will be much to discuss.” Eyul took a step forwards. “Govnan is—”

Master Herran held up his hand. “You would speak of such things in the corridor?”

The emperor's Knife stood half out of its sheath, warm in Eyul's palm. Master Herran had noticed; a flicker of an eyelid had given him away, but he made no movement towards his own weapon.

“Something has happened, Eyul. I want you by me.”

“First I have a task.”

Master Herran raised a white eyebrow. “Indeed. But do you know what it is?”

Soldiers' boots sounded in the other corridor: Nessaket's men, leading her back to the women's wing.

“You stink,” said Master Herran. “You smell of the Maze, and of fire.”

No remnant of Amalya's spice on him, then.

“It will annoy Tuvaini,” Eyul said. Tuvaini washed in rose water and jasmine petals, but it didn't mean his hands were clean.

Master Herran chuckled. “We assassins delight in annoying the vizier. You will go with me, then?”

Govnan would likely be there, if it were a true council. Eyul nodded.

“Very well.” Master Herran walked towards him. One leg was noticeably stiffer than the other. Eyul could have the Knife in his throat before he took another step.

Or in Nessaket's. She rounded the corner now with her usual grace; often she looked as if she were floating. Bodyguards made a clumsy circle around her, their balance skewed by an unfamiliar young woman who stumbled in their midst. Her pale face had been slapped to redness and yellow hair tumbled free of silver pins. Wide cheekbones: she had come from the horse tribes.

Impossible. I saw her dead.

Her eyes, blue as zabrinas, met his gaze and turned away. He frightened her. Good. From all over the world the palace claimed souls, and went on to destroy them. This one would at least be wary.

A smile crept across his lips.

Master Herran touched his shoulder. “Let us go.” Eyul turned and walked with him.

Sarmin sat where he had so often and for so long, upon the bed in his room, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. The gods watched him from the ceiling, the angels from the walls, and the devils—the devils watched from the walls and beyond. The Pattern Master looked for him with a thousand eyes.

Sarmin wondered how many people Govnan had told so far. He wondered how they might react, to hear that someone they had forgotten was now dead. There would be few tears shed.

His mother might dab one eye, smudging the lines of kohl beneath her lashes. Beyon would rage, but Sarmin wondered, would he mourn? Perhaps—not now, but later, maybe, in a week, when the anger had burned out.

“And my bride from the grasslands? Will she mourn me, Aherim?”

Sarmin looked for the eldest of the angels and found him without struggle. Since the pattern first washed through him Sarmin saw things more clearly. Once he had to strain to picture the grim angel among the swirl and scroll of the wall painting; now the faces never hid. Even Zanasta, whose wise and evil eyes could be found only in the last moments of the setting sun, now appeared whenever Sarmin spoke his name.

“She would mourn you, Prince.” The angel whispered his answer.

“Why would she mourn me, Zanasta?” Sarmin found the devil's eyes. Other, lesser demons, the ones who haunted each corner, clamoured to answer, but Sarmin ignored them.

Zanasta smiled, a convolution deep within the complexity of the patterned walls.

“I speak for the dark gods.”

“Answer the question.”

“I speak for Herzu who holds death in one hand and fear in the other. I speak for Ghesh, clothed in darkness, eater of stars. I speak for Meksha, mother of pestilence and famine.”

“Zanasta—”

“She would mourn the idea of you, Prince. She would mourn the lost chances, the step not taken, windows unopened. She would mourn for herself, which is all man can ever truly mourn, for the fact that she lives in a world where lives are lost, broken, trapped.”

Sarmin thought of Grada, safe in the mages' Tower. He wondered if the horsegirl would be like Grada, or his mother, or both. He thought of the soft voice he'd heard with Beyon. Is that how she sounded? What did she look like? He scanned the swirled pattern of the walls. Was she in there? Did her face watch him?

“Aherim?”

“Yes?”

“Will I ever leave this room?”

“Yes.”

“Alive?” Silence.

“Zanasta, will I leave this room?” His skin crawled with cold horror.

“I speak for the gods of darkness and want.”

“Will I—?”

“You will die here, Prince.”

The Empire Mother led Mesema up the stairs, a spiral of marble and gold that rose higher than any tent in her father's holding. It seemed so airy and light that she was terrified it would collapse under their weight. The high domed ceiling told the story of the empire in colorful mosaics. In the pictures worked from stone and glass she saw battles and proclamations, but few women.

At the landing the Empire Mother suddenly turned, her black hair swirling. “The throne room is that way.” She pointed to her left. “The women's quarters are this way.” She motioned towards the right.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

Mesema clenched her teeth and followed to a double door inlaid with silver and gold. Her finger ached, and she sensed Beyon was closer than before. She wanted to ask him what had happened to Sahree. The disappearance of the old woman became more ominous with every moment she didn't arrive. Her fate now sat like a cold stone in Mesema's stomach.

The Empire Mother pushed open the great door. Sahree was not waiting in the room beyond, but the emperor stood with his back to Mesema, speaking to an older woman.

“What do you mean, she's not here? Lana, where else could she be?”

The woman called Lana answered him, her voice soft but audible, as the Empire Mother pulled Mesema into the room.

“I didn't know to send anyone down for her, Bey-Bey—how could I have? Don't worry; the guards will find her.”

Beyon wore stiff robes edged with golden threads. Mesema had never seen him so richly clothed. Lana rose almost to his shoulders. Her short dark hair curled around her ears.

The Empire Mother spoke. “I have again succeeded where the emperor has failed.”

Beyon turned, his eyes so dark Mesema might have thought them black. Lana shrank away, looking frightened, and suddenly very small to Mesema's eyes.

“Lana.” The Empire Mother made it sound more of a statement than a greeting.

“Nessaket.” Lana made a small curtsey.

“Nessaket.” Beyon pronounced her name as if it were an insult. His mouth twisted into a false smile. “So. I missed the honour of seeing General Arigu in the desert. I am concerned for his wellbeing.”

His mother did not look in the least bit concerned. She laughed. “Two steps behind. You always were slow, Beyon.” She looked at Lana. “This is the horsegirl. Put her in the ocean room. I don't want to see her again.”

Lana curtsied again and turned to Mesema. “Come.” She led the way down the corridor. “I sent a maidservant to bring you here, but she said your carriage was empty. You must learn to wait—the palace is all about waiting.”

Mesema left Nessaket and her son with relief, though not quickly, for Lana walked with mincing steps. This gave Mesema time to appreciate the beauty of the women's wing. A longhouse had no corridors: it consisted of one great room, sometimes divided by skins or curtains. Every room here was the size of a whole longhouse, with these corridors leading from one to the other, big enough for everyone to sleep inside.

The corridors were more than functional: they showed who should walk in them. Mesema remembered the plain corridors on the lower levels, where a few faded tapestries graced their walls; that was enough for the soldiers and servants. She could not even make out the color of the women's walls, for all were covered with tapestries, tiles or paintings. Niches hollowed away from her at intervals. Some bubbled with water, while others held cushions or flowered vases. Images of women appeared everywhere, even on the door handles. Mesema wanted to see who they were and what they were doing.

They passed a dark-haired woman who looked at Mesema as she passed.
One of Beyon's wives.
She remembered this, though it was not hers to remember.

Lana stopped almost at the end of the hall and opened a gilded door, motioning for Mesema to enter first.

Mesema walked in before her and gasped. Blue ocean moved along the walls, captured in swirls and strokes of paint. White birds circled lazily over grey fish jumping in the waters below. A wooden ship, big enough to hold five thousand of those grey fish, ploughed through the waves. Mesema touched its textured sails, rubbing the thick paint with her marked finger.

“Clouds,” she said, “I thought these were pulled by clouds.” But clouds were painted upon the ceiling. These ships travelled the waters, she realised, and the sails were made of cloth. The white curtains of her bed were designed to match these great sails.

“Well… goodbye,” Lana said, ducking her head slightly before turning to the door.

She nearly collided with Beyon, who smiled. “Hello again, Little Mother. I'm sorry about all that.”

Lana stood straighter as they clasped hands. Mesema found herself looking up at her now.

“It is good to have you back, Bey-Bey.” Lana's voice even sounded deeper and louder in the emperor's presence.

Beyon turned his smile on Mesema. “Do you like it?”

“My room? Yes. I've never seen the great ocean.” She remembered her wedding dress, Eldra's feather and her secret resin. “Will someone be bringing my trunk?”

Lana glanced at the emperor and then back to Mesema, shocked. “The emperor does not deal with such things!” she said. “I'm sure someone will bring your trunk.”

“It's all right, Lana,” Beyon said, kissing her on the forehead. “I'll talk to you in a bit.”

Lana made a little curtsey and left the room. Mesema hadn't wanted to mention Sahree in front of Lana, but now that they were alone, she stepped forwards. “Your Majesty—”

He lunged and grabbed her around the waist, hands rough against her skin, one thumb moving beneath her silk wrappings. He pressed his mouth against hers so tightly that he flattened her lips against her teeth.

Mesema stood still, arms numb and limp at her sides. Through the open door she could hear women murmuring and the swish of silk.

Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, Beyon let her go. He stood back, and their eyes locked.

Mesema saw the man she had met in that tent in the desert, with Banreh crumpled at his feet: fearsome and terrible, a spoiled boy elevated to godhood, beyond anyone's reproach. She gathered herself. “Beyon, where is Sahree? My maid-servant?”

“She might have seen your finger.” Not an answer.

“She didn't. I was careful.”

His eyes narrowed at her. “Even while you were sleeping?”

“Is she dead, Your Majesty? What of the others? Tarub and Willa?”

“That is not your concern.” He stepped forwards again, and she cringed. He frowned, and she saw a trace of the other man she'd touched, the boy with the honey-cakes in his pocket. “Very well. I will take my leave.”

Mesema knelt and pressed her forehead to the silken rug. She kept her position for the count of thirty stitches. She couldn't hear the emperor move. His slippers were soft, the carpet, soft, but her finger told her he watched her still. At last he left the room, but he lingered nearby. Soon the smell of jasmine told her somebody else had entered. She sat up to see the dark-haired woman from the hall smiling at her from the doorway.

“Hello.”

“Hello.” Mesema tried in vain to fix her silk.

“I'm Hadassi.” She had the black hair and golden skin of the Empire Mother, but she didn't have the same piercing look. The Empire Mother saw so much that Mesema was already afraid of her dark eyes. Hadassi's eyes were dull and wide as she looked Mesema up and down, and her lips formed a pout. “Third wife.”