Too much doubt had forced Nessaket’s hand. There had been no word from Arigu, of this Tuvaini made sure, and now, with Beyon running off to the sands, Arigu’s fate was even more uncertain. All that remained to Nessaket now was her mad prince, and Tuvaini. She had no choice. He kissed the letter and laughed.
He walked from one end of his room to the other and back again. He wished he could go to Lapella, but this was one thing he could not tell her. In any case, she would not be there; she rarely waited for him at this time of day, occupying herself instead with mysterious female tasks.
So he was left to pace, and had no one with whom to share this moment. The sun lowered in the sky. He’d planned to make Nessaket wait, but not too long. He lit his lantern, stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the mosaic at the end of the hall. He pressed the golden stone that was the eye of Keleb, and the panel swung open. Once inside he pulled the latch closed, listening hard and holding his lantern high. Ever since he’d divulged the secret ways to the Carriers he felt nervous travelling through them, though he’d left out many paths. This one, for example, which ran closest to his own room, he’d kept secret; but that didn’t mean a Carrier wouldn’t stumble across it.
The family history he’d gained outweighed the risk. It wouldn’t be long now.
Satisfied he walked alone, he hurried across a stone bridge and up the stairs to the next storey. After stopping to listen again, he walked down a corridor, slower now, not wanting to be out of breath when he met her. At last he came to the door that would open across from Nessaket’s room. He fumbled with the keys for a time; he didn’t know the feel of the right one. At last the lock turned and he opened the door, just a crack.
He didn’t hear any women’s voices, or soft footsteps, or shutting of doors. Most of the wives, old and new, would be at the fountain at this time. He and Nessaket would have their privacy. Nevertheless he took care in stepping out; being caught here was a good way to get his throat cut, even with Beyon in the desert.
He moved towards Nessaket’s door, listening to the silence. He remembered how once this corridor had run with happy children. Even then, Beyon had dominated, lording over his brothers and sisters in both height and will. They had loved him and obeyed him without complaint. It was foolish of Tahal to rid Beyon of his most devoted servants; the only foolish thing he’d ever done.
The mechanics of his journey had kept him distracted, but now, knocking at her door, Tuvaini’s body tensed with excitement. To be at her door, to be invited to her private rooms, was to stand on the threshold of success. Soon he would preside over a secure, bountiful empire, with a beautiful queen at his side. He would invite the greatest poets and philosophers to court. He would establish a laboratory, where the seers could view the stars. He would build monuments to Cerani greatness all around the world.
The first statue would be of Tahal.
Nessaket let him in and quickly pulled the latch closed. She stepped away, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. He’d never seen her this way, but he liked it.
“My son is ill,” she said, “and my other son mad.”
Tuvaini said nothing. It was better she saw it for herself, though his tongue, body and mind were itching.
“In that family, only Tahal kept his sanity. Even Satreth the Reclaimer drank Yrkman blood and slept with a sword in his bed, though nobody speaks of it today.” Her words came out in a rush. “The line was ever volatile. It is said there has never been madness among the leaders of the horse tribes. I hoped…’
Silence. Sweat gleamed between her breasts. “I could wait for Sarmin to get a son.”
Tuvaini willed his hands to stillness.
“Or I could have another son myself. I still could; I was only twelve when Tahal first took me.” She turned away and wiped her brow with a silk cloth. Her dress tightened around her hips when she raised her arm. Two steps away, her bed curtains hung open, inviting.
Tuvaini licked his lips. “And what do you want?”
She turned back to him, her eyes wild. “For years I struggled to be Tahal’s favourite wife, to make my boys his favourites. I taught my sons the craft of the palace, how to survive with no friends and no trust. Four of them, I had. One died as a baby, I lost one in the succession, and one to the Tower. And then it was all for nothing; Beyon pushed me away.”
He picked his words carefully. “You have allied yourself with the army. Some would call it treasonous.”
She shrugged. “It was something to stand on. If I am tall enough, the emperor will see me.”
“And Arigu?”
She turned away again and wove her hands together.
“Do you renounce him?” he asked, hearing the quaver in his own voice.
Her shoulders tensed. “Yes.”
He moved closer. “An army wants things the palace doesn’t see, cannot see. One cannot trust a sword for long. You are right to renounce him.”
“Yes.” Her voice came out a gasp.
Another step closer. “What now? Another emperor, another child?”
She relaxed, preparing for his touch. “It is the easiest way.” He paused behind her, breathing her scent. “Starting over from the beginning.”
“Tuvaini.” The way she said his name, hoarse and breathless, sent a thrill through his body. “There will be no wife but me, no son but the first.”
“Why would I want anyone else?” He drew a finger down her back now, closing his eyes as he reached the end of her spine.
“Then we are agreed.” She turned to him and put a hand on his chest, but she did not push him away. It felt strange to stand so close to her, to have her within his power, that for a long while he simply stood, looking down at her.
“I remember you,” she said, “always running errands for us wives. When the slaves brought the sweets on a tray, you would pick the best fig and bring it for me. When I had to kneel at Tahal’s feet, you brought me two cushions instead of one.”
He couldn’t speak for a moment. “You remember?” For so long his thoughts had centred on owning her, wanting her-now she reminded him why.
“I remember. Mostly because I thought you’d ask me for a favour. Nobody in this palace does such things out of kindness. But the years went by, and you never said a word.” A tear ran unheeded down her cheek.
Tuvaini brought his hands up to rest on her shoulders. “You were his favourite. And mine.” He looked at her as he once had, back when they were young and the world a simple place. He saw the pretty girl instead of the cruel beauty who walked his dreams.
The years have stolen away that boy and that girl. We have both become twisted things. But maybe now we can make each other better.
“I never forgot you, Nessaket.”
“That is why I put my faith in you now, Tuvaini. I will make you a son, and you will make me a queen-a real queen, not someone who hides in the shadows.”
He pulled her towards him and lowered his face to hers. The feel of her eyelashes brushing his skin, the touch of her breath on his lips, almost made him forget his words. “You will never have to hide. There will be no enemies, no Carriers, and no other wives. No mages or generals under our feet. It will be you, me and our empire.”
Nessaket took a quick breath. She tilted her head, her lips parted, her eyes half-closed. Another tear fell into the hair at her temple; Tuvaini didn’t know which of them had shed it. He kissed the wet spot on her skin. She was sorry to let Arigu go; she loved him. But compared to himself, the heir to the throne, Arigu was no more than an upstart foot soldier. She would be glad that she chose him soon enough. He would make her glad.
Eyul woke in the heat of the tent with a growling stomach. Amalya slept by his side, her breathing smooth and easy. Her bandages had loosened during sleep and were beginning to unwind. He smelled no sickness in her wound, and his own cuts had healed well under the hermit’s care. Still, he thought it best to keep her arm clean. The fresh bandages w
ere outside, in his pack. He should also get their food from the fire. He hoped it hadn’t burned to a cinder.
He crawled out of the tent and stood up, yawning, feeling the afternoon sun on his naked body. I’ll be scorched if I don’t hurry.
He opened his eyes before he remembered not to, and light cut through his mind, turning the desert to black and white. He knelt, groping in the sand for his Knife. He slipped it free from its belt and hefted it, the weight of the hilt reassuring in his hand.
“Listen.” The whisper came to his ear just before the sound of horses. Eyul held his left hand over his face, squinting in the direction of the noise. Two silhouettes rose over the dune: riders, pulling a third horse between them. Two recurved bows rose up over their shoulders.
The riders slowed to a halt, heads turned his way. They moved as if they were wearing something stiff. Leather, maybe. They turned to one another, some silent message passing between them. In unison they brought their bows forwards and set arrows to their strings.
Eyul laughed. He laughed so hard that his stomach cramped. Blinded and naked they’d found him. This could be the end of the Knife-Sworn, just as the emperor’s life also came to an end in Nooria.
The riders looked at one another again and Eyul knew what they were thinking: it was bad luck to kill a madman.
It gave him the moment he needed. He threw himself sideways, the hot sand searing his shoulder and thigh, and two arrows struck the ground beside him. Eyul rolled closer and found his target. He could see the archer on his left, a sore outline against the sky: too distant a target for any real hope. They managed to miss him with arrows. He could hardly expect to hit back with a thrown blade. Eyul flung his Knife anyway, on a high arc, and rushed forwards. The closer man let out a soft, surprised grunt. He had a right to be surprised. He slid from the saddle without further complaint and Eyul raced on, putting the man’s horse between him and the second rider. His mark landed on the sand, a blur.
“Herzu!” The other man’s voice sounded familiar.
Eyul pounded up to the vacant horse, a well-trained beast that kept its place and let him use it as cover. He had only moments, and little hope, despite his lucky throw. He felt around the fallen man for his Knife. It had to be lodged somewhere vital since the archer had only twitches left in him.
“To your left.”
Who spoke? He found the hilt jutting from the dead man’s throat. The horse he’d ducked behind whinnied in pain and ran; the surviving rider had kicked it. Eyul tumbled away, too late, and a spear-thrust grazed his side. The other horse bore down on him now, a dark shadow, and Eyul rolled under it, lifting the bloody Knife over his head and slicing a clean line from foreleg to flank. He dashed clear as the horse fell screaming.
The rider jumped free as well; Eyul heard his boots hit the sand.
“Try me, old man.” The voice came from over by the fire, near Amalya’s tent. Eyul recognised that smooth tone now: Poru, from the palace guard. He remembered the man as an easy-going fellow from the sea province, given to gambling and racing boats along the river. Now he cut circles in the hot air with his sword, leaving dark traces in Eyul’s vision.
“What are you doing here, Poru?”
“What does it look like?”
“Eyul?” Amalya stepped from her tent.
Poru’s stance relaxed. “Is that a girl? Not bad, old one.” He backed towards the tent, still on guard for Eyul’s Knife. “I’ll just take her, shall I?” He moved, leaving a series of dark after-images.
Eyul took his aim, tried again. “No.” He lowered his knife-hand.
Poru stopped. “You’re blind, aren’t you, old man? A lucky throw on Bazman, that was. You won’t be any trouble.”
“If you’re so confident, come closer.”
Instead, Poru took a step back, towards Amalya. She had wisely retreated inside the tent, but nevertheless, Eyul felt a shiver in his knife-hand.
“Why don’t I just take your girl, your food and your water, and let you find your own way home?”
“And when I find you in the palace, what then?”
“You won’t.”
“And why is that?”
Poru laughed. “Throw that Knife or let me go, old man.”
“Twenty feet, a line from your left shoulder.” Another whisper; not a woman, he realised; not Amalya. It never had been. Instead it was a child. Eyul froze, confused. “Now.” It came again, more insistent. He threw, snapping his arm out, allowing no warning.
Poru fell against Amalya’s tent and slid, jerking, into the sand. He made high animal noises as he died.
Eyul stepped back, looking around. He made out no other figures against the white of the sky. “Who spoke to me?” He felt something solid beneath his boot; Bazman’s bow. Crouching, he ran his fingers along the wood. Yokom of the royal armoury was the only bowyer capable of creating these recurved masterpieces, fitted with bone and gut-string. They were among the most powerful weapons the city had to offer.
“Who sent you, Poru?” he muttered, plucking the string with his finger. He walked slowly to his victim. Faces passed through his mind: Beyon, Nessaket, Tuvaini.
It took effort to free his Knife. The blade had pierced Poru’s forehead and sunk hilt-deep. Eyul yanked it clear at last and wiped it through the sand.
Amalya’s voice brought him back to the desert. “Blue arrows.”
She was safe. Little else mattered at that moment. He dropped the Knife and went to her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t want to leave you in danger.”
“You killed both of them, blind. I’d hate to see what you’d have done if you could see.” She pulled at Poru’s quiver. “Can you see these? Bright blue. What kind of bird-?”
“Those fletchings are reserved for the royal family.”
A pause. “Beyon?”
“I don’t know.”
She drew in her breath. “So these were assassins?”
Eyul knew all the assassins of Nooria. There were few enough of them. “No, palace guard, but dangerous men. I should have died.”
“Then why-?”
“I don’t know.” He considered it as he pulled on his clothes and knife belt. His head ached from the light; he felt as if his teeth were vibrating from the pain. He picked up the Knife from the sand and slid it into its sheath. “It’s afternoon. We might as well start moving.”
After breaking camp they mounted their camels. He noticed Amalya no longer had any trouble commanding her beast; she did not need him for that. The horses Eyul let loose. They would follow their noses to water. Eyul and Amalya set out towards Nooria, leaving Bazram and Poru in the sand.
Chapter Nineteen
Three days. Three days, and yet she lived. Mesema folded her hands in her lap. Riding in the carriage without Banreh or Eldra there dulled her mind and spirit, so, to keep herself sharp she concentrated on remembering the pattern, savouring her own fear; other times, she thought about embroidery. She would hold herself in one position for hours on end-anything to keep herself disciplined, for she would need discipline, to go to her death with dignity. If news of her death travelled to her father, she would not want him to be ashamed. And if she lived…
If she lived, she would need discipline, just to keep on living. She shifted on the bench. The muscles of her back complained with every jolt and bounce of the carriage, and her rear ached. The felt padding she had complained of so much back in the grasslands would be a blessing now. Her neck felt stiff, too-these were minor complaints compared to what had happened to Eldra, or even what Banreh suffered every day, though she told herself she didn’t care about that. She maintained her position, counting stitches in her mind.
The caravan slowed and stopped. She could hear the men talking, low and scared. They had found something, but what?
Perhaps it was time. She smoothed her hair and straightened the beads around her neck. She would look well for this.
She waited. She did not fan herself, or squirm, but kept still, listen
ing to the voices of the men and the nickering of the horses.
Banreh appeared at the carriage window. She looked away from him, at the opposite seat. She didn’t want to see his eyes.
“What is it, Banreh?” She used her father’s tone, formal and clipped.
“We have come upon the emperor’s camp,” he said. “We have been commanded to stop here.”
She imagined the emperor, frail and sick, being carried on a litter to oversee the destruction of those who plotted against him. “Very well.”
Banreh said nothing else but waited near the window as if expecting her to speak. Finally he urged his horse forwards, beyond the carriage.
Stupid thrall. He values words far too much. Mesema closed her eyes and took a breath. She would be brave. Every woman must be brave eventually. She realised she’d made fists in her lap and relaxed them, placing her hands loosely on her knees.
She waited.
The air grew heavy. She couldn’t breathe, but she remained still. She heard women’s voices, giggles, and it made her sad for Eldra. She cocked her head, listening.
The door swung open, revealing a wizened, dark woman with chestnut eyes. Her gaze ran down Mesema’s body, taking in her clothes and jewellery. Mesema sat straight in her seat, resisting the urge to bite her lip.
Four men ran towards the carriage, carrying large sticks wound with fabric like great scrolls. Mesema jumped back, startled, but the men paid her no attention. They stood on either side of the old woman and unwound the scrolls, creating red screens made of silk which they held aloft, forming a corridor. The corridor led to another, and another, each held up by four men, leading to a place she couldn’t see.
The woman watched her, smiling. “Come, come,” she said in Cerantic, motioning with one hand.
Mesema slid off the bench and down the steps. The woman took her arm and led her between the swathes of fabric, turning here and there until finally she walked through a tent flap-or at least it had looked like a tall tent flap from the outside. Inside, it resembled a small house. The red walls slanted towards a high, round ceiling of white. On the sand, rugs and cushions offered comfort for her sore body. A sleeping mat and a large tub full of water occupied one end. Oil lamps provided light and scented the air with lavender.
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