The Emperors Knife (37 page)

Almost four days, Eyul. Where are you?

Tuvaini extended his arms so the slaves could remove his robes and wash him with scented water. Their gentle, slow touch made him impatient. He was neither their child nor their lover. He kept his gaze on the soldiers until soft hands drew fresh clothes over his nakedness. He fingered his blue sash. All his silks were simple, unassuming. He needed a tailor.

Dressed and perfumed, he opened the doors to the adjoining room where Azeem waited, forehead to the carpet.

“Did Eyul report during the night?”

Azeem shook his head, eyes down. They had had the same exchange every morning.

“Rise, Azeem.” Beyon persisted like a stone in Tuvaini's slipper. He poured some water and let its coolness soothe his throat. A night without sleep had left him parched and dizzy.

“I will see Donato, then I would see the potion-master. What is his name?” Tuvaini knew his name well enough; he had purchased from him poisons aplenty, but Azeem did not know that.

“Kadeer, Your Majesty.”

“Kadeer.” Tuvaini lifted a date from the golden breakfast tray and brought it to his nose. Biting into it, he said, “Yes, I'll see him, too.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Tuvaini smiled. He could afford that much for Azeem.

“The Empire Mother waits upon your attention, Magnificence.” Tuvaini chose another date and bit its dark flesh. “Does she,” he murmured. Nessaket of the flowing robes and dancing hair waited on his whim. He let that roll around in his mouth with the sweet fruit. “Let her wait. Come with me, Azeem.”

He had walked the emperor's path to the throne room countless times, first with Tahal, and then with Beyon. Azeem walked beside him now, playing his own former role as faithful servant. Tuvaini hoped Azeem would be more faithful than he had been. He warranted watching.

On the dais the throne sat, tall and gleaming. He ran his fingers along the cool armrests and looked out over the room. Slaves hung tapestries and leaned soft pillows against the wall. Closer, at the foot of the dais, Arigu knelt in obeisance, waiting for him. Tuvaini waved Azeem off to fetch Donato.

As the great carved doors closed behind Lord High Vizier Azeem, Tuvaini said, “Rise, General.”

Arigu rose to his feet, but kept his gaze low to the floor. Tuvaini smiled. Everyone, from his slaves to his generals, was wondering how much he would remain the same, how much he would hold to his former habits and promises. “Why have you come, old friend? Is there a problem?” Arigu should be on his way into the desert by now if he wanted to get to the horse tribes before winter.

Arigu raised his eyes, concern painted on his face. He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I wanted to express my regrets at the terrible loss of your cousin, and pass along my best hope that Beyon will be captured.”

“I pray the same to Keleb, good General.”

“Our gods are strong, my Emperor, stronger than any other that might try to insinuate itself in our land.”

A look passed between them.

“You speak of the Mogyrks.”

Arigu had the feel for the common people—he always had. It was something Tuvaini lacked, but he could appreciate the value of a little rabble-rousing.

“I do. In the desert, Your Magnificence, I happened upon a Mogyrk church, and around it, I saw the pattern.”

“The same pattern that marked our emperor.” Tuvaini lifted his hands above his head, getting a feel for the drama. He met the eyes of everyone in the room, especially the guards, and raised his voice. “An assassin silenced Prince Sarmin's heart. An assassin, brought to the palace by Beyon himself.”

“A Mogyrk assassin,” Arigu met his eyes again, gaining confidence as he interjected, “from Yrkmir.”

“A foe once distant in both leagues and time,” Tuvaini said.

“But now so close as this very palace, Majesty.” Arigu stepped forwards, ignoring the bodyguards who drew steel and blocked his way.

Tuvaini kept his face still. This was Arigu's moment. He would let him talk.

“We had forgotten the dangers of that faith,” Arigu continued. “They worship the dead god. They brought the pattern-curse to the emperor and killed Prince Sarmin.”

A cold shiver ran along Tuvaini's spine. Arigu's words made him feel something was missing, a gaping hole he hadn't noticed before, as if he might step off the dais into empty space.

“A Mogyrk assassin,” he said. He looked out across the throne room at the tapestries depicting the Reclaimer's victory. Once they had felt celebratory to him; now they read like a warning. “We will have our revenge.”
Where is Eyul?

“The army loved Beyon well enough.” Arigu placed his boot on the first step of the dais. “He had a warrior's soul. But the army best loves the man who puts it to its intended use.”

Tuvaini brought his eyes back to the general. Arigu smiled inside his beard. Behind him the guards looked at one another, excited. The wisdom of Arigu's performance impressed Tuvaini.

“Nothing pleases the people like holy war, Majesty, old friend.” Arigu pushed a bodyguard's blade out of his way and leaned closer. “That faith flows around our borders, a stinking tide, waiting to overwhelm us.” He spoke softer still. “Yrkmir is at the heart of what is not ours.”

Tuvaini rose and addressed his audience of slaves, guards and stray administrators. “The Yrkmen came to our doors with their evil faith in the time of my grandfather's father. The years have weakened them and made us strong, and in their jealousy they took our prince. Let us now pay them a visit in return. If we take Yrkmir, the gods will be pleased, and will open all roads to us.” He nodded at Arigu. “You speak wisely, General. We shall attack in the spring. Go now to the horse tribes, before snow closes the passes. Win their allegiance.”

Arigu bowed. “As you command, Your Majesty.” He straightened, and spoke again, in a different tone, his voice lower. “There is something else.”

Tuvaini put the assassin from his mind. “What is that?”

“The wives—Beyon's wives. There is a risk they bear the marks.” He leaned closer. “Or an heir.”

Arigu echoed Tuvaini's own thoughts. “You never know. Beyon was cursed indeed, but it is not impossible.” Tuvaini had wondered about Beyon and his wives. He'd never shown any attachment to them, though they were beautiful, the prettiest flowers within reach of the empire's plucking. Beyon must have been proud of that.

“Your Majesty?”

“Use them—draw him out. You know Beyon.” Tuvaini shrugged. “He may do something rash.”

Arigu gave another bow, tighter this time. He backed away from the dais, almost bumping into Donato and Kadeer as he exited the room. Tuvaini was no longer interested in Donato and his analysis of the provincial markets. Arigu's performance had both excited him and left him unsettled and dissatisfied. With Beyon and Eyul unaccounted for, there was the question of his own protection. Arigu had spoken true: the soldiers had loved Beyon. Tuvaini should have consolidated his position over the men before sending them off to war, but he had no choice: Winter advanced.

In other days he would have found Lapella and been soothed. He gritted his teeth.

Azeem settled into a chair at the scribing table, ready to mark numbers and take names, but Tuvaini would be unpredictable today, changeable. He would show those same traits that had always frustrated him in Beyon. His gaze turned to where Kadeer embraced the floor. “Rise, Potion-master.”

Azeem leaned back and placed his quill to the side. Doubtless he found Kadeer, with his twisted beard and stained fingers, to be repellent. Only the cowardly or the unfit would ever seek him out. Tuvaini had been both, in the past, but no longer.

“Kadeer,” said Tuvaini, “is there anyone ill in the palace? Anyone asking for a cure?”

Kadeer studied the dais with beady eyes. “Not for some time, Your Majesty. I've had the usual—”

Tuvaini cut him off. “Define the usual.”

Kadeer cleared his throat. “Nobody has asked for anything beyond the occasional healing elixir for rheumatism, twisted stomach, sleeplessness—”

“Sleeplessness.” One pika seed brought peaceful dreams. Five pika seeds brought convulsions, choking and death. For a moment the sight of Lapella on her bed, distorted and ruined, filled his vision. “Who has asked for sleep ingredients?”

Azeem leaned forwards now, his interest overcoming his repulsion.

“Your Majesty, I feel that—”

Tuvaini snarled, “Don't play with me, Kadeer.” He saw the fear in the man's little eyes and felt some comfort, but it was as a drop of water to a parched man.

Kadeer drew in his breath, one last hesitation, before speaking. “The Empire Mother has trouble sleeping at night, Your Magnificence. She frequently asks for relief.”

Tuvaini looked past him to the tapestries, to the door, to the corridor beyond. The room felt small and close. The incense made it difficult to breathe.

“Your Majesty?” Azeem's chair screeched against the marble as he stood. “Are you well?”

Tuvaini waved a hand. “I am quite well. Thank you, Kadeer. You may go.” He sat in the throne. Kadeer backed away, bowing as he left, leaving ripples in the silk runner. Six slaves rushed forwards to straighten it.

Azeem cleared his throat. “Your Majesty.”

“What is it, Azeem?”

“Donato awaits your attention, Magnificence.”

Magnificence.
He would never hear Lapella call him that. He would never hear her laughter again, nor the little sounds she made when sleeping. Mogyrks, war, Carriers… Lapella had never used those words. He stood. “I shall—”
I shall be the emperor. I shall make war, defeat our enemies, crush the pattern beneath my feet.
“—retire.”

Azeem fell to his obeisance. All was quiet. Tuvaini turned and left the room.

Chapter Thirty-Three

M
esema sat with the women for a lunch of honeyed river-fowl seasoned with yellow pollen. They sat together on the cushions, sharing the food from common platters. The eldest, wives of Beyon's father and grandfather, helped themselves first. They murmured among themselves and paid no heed to Mesema or Beyon's wives. After they had their fill, Atia, the tall, dark First Wife, took her food, followed by Chiassa, Hadassi, and finally Marren. Lana did not take her share until everyone else had served themselves, though she had the status of an Old Wife. She was so small and timid that Mesema wondered how she had survived so long in the palace. But then she remembered Beyon kissing Lana's forehead, and how much straighter Lana had stood in the emperor's presence. Beyon's affection had protected her all these years.

Mesema did not feel that Beyon's attentions would yield her the same benefit. Something had happened in the palace, signalled by the arrival of the High Mage. The women whispered nervously among themselves, but nobody quite knew what to make of things: Beyon had not returned, and Mesema feared that his marks had been discovered. If that were true, then all the women connected to him had instantly lost their status and protection, even if they did not know it yet. She longed to go to Sarmin again and ask him, but she had not found a time to slip away, and perhaps it would not be so easy to walk the palace unattended again. She wished she knew how to open the secret door in the hall.

Atia was gazing at her over a platter of fruit. In the lantern light her brown eyes looked orange, like fire. “So many important thoughts for a horsegirl.”

Mesema swallowed. “Blessings, I did not mean to be rude.”

“Blessings,” echoed Chiassa with a smile.

“You would be rude,” said Atia, turning her attention to a plump fig, “if you welcomed Beyon into your room before he has been to each of ours. You are to be last in his attentions, do you understand?”

The Old Wives stopped their murmuring. Lana laid a hand on Mesema's arm. No one reached for a plate or cup.

“Yes,” said Mesema, “I understand.”

“Atia would have you wait for ever, as we do,” said Marren with a wink.

Chiassa gave a high-pitched giggle. Atia's cheeks turned red, but the silence was broken and the women resumed their meal. Mesema looked from one wife to another in confusion. If they wanted Beyon to visit them, if they cared about him, why did they use the resin? Why did they help his mother work against him?

Because they are afraid, as I am.

“I don't wish to offend you. I would like to be friends.” Mesema set down her meat and rinsed her fingers in a bowl of rosewater.

“When she's not riding horses with the emperor, anyway,” Hadassi muttered.

Mesema sighed to herself. She never should have mentioned Tumble.

“What?” said Atia, nearly choking on her fig. “Riding horses? I won't allow it.”

Lana spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Keleb has showered wisdom upon the emperor, heaven bless him. Don't you think that Beyon should decide such things?”

Mesema smiled at that narrow, timid face. She already thought of Lana as an aunt or grandmother. “It's all right, Little Mother,” she said, grasping Lana's hand. “Walk with me.” She stood and curtsied at the women. “Blessings of the day.”

“Blessings,” Chiassa said again, though the others just stared. As they walked, the women's whispers fading behind them, Mesema studied the women in the niche-pictures. They were all the same: pretty, docile. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but she was disappointed: pretty and docile weren't going to help her survive. She needed allies.

“Lana, I'm curious. Does Beyon have no sisters?”

“He does, but their marriages were arranged long before his father's death. They have been gone for many years. Nessaket made sure the contracts were honoured.”

Nessaket.
The Empire Mother spent most of her time outside the women's wing. Mesema wished that she could do the same. “Lana, have I met everyone in this wing? It's just us, the Old Wives, the young wives, and Nessaket?”