The Emperors Knife (32 page)

“I'm Mesema.”

Hadassi took a step forwards, looking around the room. “This was Tahal's mother's room. Nobody has lived in it since before Nessaket came.”

“It's a beautiful room.”

Hadassi took a seat on the floor. “Mine is better.” Her dress shimmered in greens that made her skin seem to glow. Amber gleamed from her neck and wrists. In the palace everything beautiful was made even more so, until the eye became tired, jaded.

Hadassi took Mesema's left hand, the unmarked one. Her brown eyes crinkled as she smiled. “You are to be fifth wife?” Another wife, blonde, appeared in the doorway, wary and watchful.

Mesema shook her head. “No.”

“But he likes you, no? You have been with him?” Hadassi waved at the second woman, who entered and took a seat next to Mesema. “This is Chiassa, second wife.”

“You are concubine?” Chiassa didn't speak Cerantic as a native. Her hair suggested eastern origins. “You go on cushions with emperor, heaven bless?”

It struck Mesema that both women had asked the same question—were they genuinely curious, or worried, or had someone instructed them?
Snakes
, Beyon had warned her. Arigu had gone to great lengths to bring her across the mountains and the desert, to arrange for an heir that was not Beyon's. And now someone wanted to know whether she and Beyon had lain together. Mesema pretended not to understand. She curled her marked finger against her palm.

“Well,” said Hadassi, patting her leg, “we'll know soon enough.”

Mesema kept her silence. She must be careful. The women would be in and out of her room every day, asking questions until everything was revealed, even her pattern-mark. She would never be safe here. The room felt close and stifling. She stood up.

“Blessed be the day,” said Hadassi, rising also.

“Blessed be the day,” Mesema repeated. It felt like the thing to do.

Chiassa stood, brushing the wrinkles from her pink skirt.

“Blessing, where do you go?”

“Blessing,” Mesema repeated. “I'm going to go—” Nessaket didn't want to see her. “For a walk.” Perhaps the wing was big enough for that? She walked out of the door, and the other two women followed behind her like ducklings.
Well, this won't do.
She quickened her pace and rounded a corner, nearly colliding with an Old Wife, who stood against the wall chewing black leaves that smelled of rot. A dark froth bubbled between her lips and ran down to drip on sagging bare breasts. She did not speak, but glanced at Mesema's covered front and stuffed another stinking leaf into her mouth.

Mesema curtsied and kept on walking until she reached the great room inside the main doors. A red-headed woman sat upon the cushions and fiddled with her jewellery. She looked at Mesema with piercing dark-blue eyes. “Well, hello there.”

“Hello.” Mesema gave up on finding a place in the women's wing with no women. Resigned, she sat down, and Hadassi and Chiassa sat opposite. There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at one another, comparing, measuring, wondering. The red-haired one twisted a jade bracelet around her wrist.

Chiassa laid a soft hand on Mesema's arm. Her touch differed from Hadassi's. Hadassi had been curious and false, even greedy, while Chiassa felt sisterly. “Nessaket say to keep out of sight. You should do that.”

“I'm to stay in my room all day? What of my horse, Tumble?”

Hadassi almost jumped off her pillow. “You have a horse? You don't ride it, do you?”

“Of course I ride him—or I did, at least.”

“Well, they won't let you now.” She thrust her lips out in another pout.

“But they said… It was written.”
Dry plains take you, Banreh.

The redhead let go of her bracelet and it dropped to the carpet. “You meant a real horse?”

“This is Marren,” Chiassa said, motioning.

“Fourth wife,” said Hadassi. Marren made a face at her.

“Yes, a real horse. His name is Tumble. He is somewhere here at the palace. Bey— The emperor let me ride him in the desert, but I don't know what will happen now.”

All three of the young women leaned forwards.

“He let you— You rode with him?” Marren asked, and the others leaned back again, eyes cast down, thoughtful.

Careful, now.
“Oh—I think it was just amusing to him.”

“Even if Beyon allowed it in the desert,” said Marren with a cold smile, “Nessaket and First Wife would say no in the palace.” At the mention of those two women all the other wives went quiet. Mesema reached for Beyon's memories, but could find nothing of his First Wife except for a lingering sense of dislike.

“Where is the First Wife? What is her name?”

“Atia.” Chiassa said. “She's sleeping, maybe.”

“She is speaking with Beyon,” said Marren. The wives exchanged looks at this and said no more.

Mesema studied the floor. Did Atia have a grievance about her? She shifted on her cushion and looked up to see Marren watching. Perhaps she'd given them enough to talk about and could now return to her rooms alone. “B-blessings,” she said, rising. “I think I will retire.”

They smiled at her. She judged that it would not be long before they were deep in gossip.

Mesema went out into the corridor and worked her way towards the ocean room. She paused to examine the mosaic in a wall niche: a woman, her eyes made of polished jade, held out a red fruit to a reclining man. Her placid face was almost a challenge; many people—her father, Arigu and now Nessaket—wished she herself were this calm and unquestioning. She couldn't be, especially not now that the pattern stood so close, its colours scratching at her skin, ready to be revealed.

Voices intruded upon her thoughts, distant, but raised in argument.

“Perhaps Nessaket sent for her, but you went to the desert to claim her and never said a word to me!”

“The tale was carried quickly enough.”

“Lana, explain to him that I have the right to refuse new wives and concubines!”

“Why did you drag Little Mother in here with you? To make sure I keep my temper? Because I won't. I am the emperor, and you have affronted me. If I say the horsewoman comes, she comes. If I decide to make you fifth wife and her the first, that's how it will be.”

Me, First Wife? What about my prince?

“Bey-Bey—”

Mesema could not hear what else Lana said.

As she strained to listen, the jade-eyed woman swung away from the wall, ruby fruit flashing in the lamplight. A corridor revealed itself on the other side, dark and reeking of smoke. Mesema backed away as a cloaked figure moved forwards, but she found nowhere to hide among the tapestries and cushions. She felt naked and vulnerable: someone in the desert had tried to kill her, but killed Eldra instead. Now she stood here defenceless, with no generals or look-alikes to protect her.

She remembered her vision:
No, it's impossible; I can't die before Beyon does…

How could I take comfort in that!

The stranger pushed back his hood, revealing white hair and a long nose. Bright eyes examined Mesema's face. The old man stepped into the corridor and closed the hidden door behind him. His shoulders were stooped and his skin sagged, but she sensed a strength in him that didn't come from swinging a sword or throwing a spear. His strength was more like Banreh's.

“My dear, I am sorry to frighten you,” he said, taking both her hands in his. She feared momentarily that he would notice her mark, but his eyes were on her face. “And you are the girl.” He cocked his head. “Ah, I could not have chosen better myself.” His eyes held her still and she realised, too late, that his kindness covered something else. He expected something from her: some unnamed duty.

But Mesema would get something from him, too. She looked back at the tiled woman, swinging towards the wall now, her fruit still uneaten. “How did you come through that wall, my lord?”
And who are you?

The old man tapped his head with a grin. “I am an old man, but I still have some secrets.” He linked arms with her and turned back towards the entrance. “I heard the emperor was here.”

“He is… talking, my lord.”

“Then I shall wait. Would you be so kind—?” They entered the great room, and the women on the cushions all turned their heads, craning their necks for a better look at the old man.

Mesema caught sight of Beyon at the back, white-faced and motionless, and beyond him Lana, pointing with a shaking hand, her lips trembling.

Then Lana screamed.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
uvaini waited before the throne-room doors. He had waited a lifetime. He could wait some more.

Govnan arrived to stand beside him, head down, as if lost in his thoughts. The high mage looked different; something had changed in him. He seemed both less than he had been, and more, though Tuvaini couldn't determine why he thought that.

Tuvaini watched for Master Herran. His voice would carry further than most at the council table. Men like Eyul were the sharp edge of Herran's organisation, but the assassins did more than kill: they were the Emperor's ears, his secret eyes, his police, the long arm that reached those who worked against him.

Dinar, Herzu's priest, joined them, surrounded by a dark flock of acolytes. His followers peeled away to the corners of the antechamber as he approached Govnan.

“High Mage. Vizier.” Dinar inclined his head.

They acknowledged him, then continued to wait in silence. The doors towered above them, the wealth of a small nation in cedar wood, carved with the many gods of Cerana.

General Hazran arrived, worry in the hard lines of his face. His aides lined the grand corridor, lamplight gleaming on their polished leathers, the royal guard almost lost in their number.

General Lurish accompanied Mirra's priest, bringing more soldiers and more clerics.

“A bad business,” Lurish muttered to Dinar, “I remember the boy…'

Tuvaini caught a snatch of the conversation.

Without warning the great doors parted, swinging silently inwards on well-oiled hinges.

“Where's Master Herran?” Tuvaini looked to Govnan. “Who will speak for the assassins?” The council was not yet complete. Beyond the doors a gong tolled, a slow beat, repeating and repeating.

Govnan only shook his head and walked in. Tuvaini followed.

Before the dais where Beyon was seated upon the Petal Throne, the council table had been set out: a long, gleaming slab cut from the same forest giants that had yielded the doors. Two figures were already seated at the eastern end, both cowled in assassin grey.

Govnan took his seat at the western end. Tuvaini sat at the mage's right hand. His breath came shallow now; his hands were numb, except for his fingers, which prickled. He hadn't felt such fear since his childhood, when he first came before Beyon's father to pledge his service. Funny how so trivial a thing could make him sweat. The stakes had grown. For some reason an image of Lapella swam before his eyes, but he shook her away.

At the far end of the table, Master Herran pulled back his cowl and looked at the high mage. Eyul, on Herran's right, also uncovered his head. The sun had burned him to a dark oak. He met Tuvaini's stare, but nothing passed between them.

Why had Eyul not come to him first? Tuvaini's hand tightened on the scroll beneath his robe.

“We are met.” Govnan parted his hands. “Emperor Beyon, your council is before you.”

Beyon rose from his throne and clasped his hands behind him. Tuvaini watched him: a powerfully built man in the prime of life, with a bearing the Cerani called “the look of eagles.” Every inch the dynamic emperor.

“How stands my empire?”

“It stands strong, Emperor.” Govnan gave the traditional answer. And Cerana did stand strong; Tuvaini knew of no other empire so great, no people on the face of the world more blessed with wealth. But like the emperor, the empire's outward strength could be deceptive.

“Strong?” Beyon's gaze swept the council. “The empire is attacked from within. An invisible worm gnaws at our very heart. My own brother has been slain within these self-same walls that protect us all.”

Tuvaini suppressed a smile.
All your brothers were slain within these walls, Majesty. Sarmin merely balances an old account.

“My brother is dead,” Beyon strode to the table and circled it as he spoke, “and I will have the author of his murder face justice. I will have
justice,
and if the lands of Cerana must be sliced open from belly to throat before it is found… then so be it. An evil grows among us, and it must be cut out.”

Beyon stopped at the eastern end of the council table and rested one hand upon the shoulder of the emperor's Knife. Eyul made no move, but his gaze fell on Govnan with a dark intensity.

Tuvaini wet his lips. His mouth felt dry, and tasted sour.

The words he had to speak built behind his teeth. He felt sick with them. He could swallow them down, hold his peace, and let the moment pass. He could live his life in the quiet luxury of his office, loyal, with honour. He could take his frustrations to Lapella, all that bitterness, and the hollow, aching certainty that there must be more for him—he could take it all to her, and she would bear it all.

“We have an enemy who works against us,” Beyon said, “a secret foe who poisons all our efforts. Someone who seeks to wound us on every level. Govnan and his mages fight a war that ranges from the vaults of the sky to the deepest caverns. Our enemy moves behind the fire and amid cold ocean depths. Master Herran's assassins chase the foe's agents in shadow. My own Knife has killed them before the fountain—the place my father named as the palace's own heart.”

Beyon walked the length of the table to stand by Tuvaini.

“We have endured these attacks too long. It is time we struck back.” A hand upon Tuvaini's shoulder. It had been an age since last the emperor touched him. “What say you, Lord High Vizier? Where must we strike?”