The Emperor's knife

by Mazarkis Williams

  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

  Mesema 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?”

  “Yes.” Lana almost said more, but fell silent instead.

  Picking her way through secrets, again. Before Mesema could ask another question, they turned into the ocean room and she saw her trunk waiting by the bed, its unstained wood and simple brass fittings too plain for its surroundings. She dropped Lana’s hand and rushed towards it.

  “Your things?”

  “Yes.” Mesema pushed the trunk open and pulled out the blanket on the top. It was heavy and thick, too warm for the desert, but she placed it on her bed anyway, still folded. Next was her wedding dress, which made a soft jingle as she lifted it. She felt a lump in her throat when she remembered the women stitching around the fire. The women here didn’t sew; they only prettied themselves and whispered.

  She could see now that the dress wasn’t colorful or revealing enough to wear in the palace. She put it aside with a little sigh.

  She ran her hands through the rest of her few possessions: Woollen stockings-why had she thought she might need those? Copper hairpins. A necklace made of river-shells. Riding gear. All these things belonged to a girl, not a woman. A flash of blue set her digging and she pulled Eldra’
s arrow-fletching from the bottom. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “What happened?” Lana stepped forwards.

  “Nothing. I just-”

  But Lana looked behind her and hurried away, leaving Nessaket standing there instead. Mesema buried the feather and closed the trunk before pressing her head to the carpet.

  Nessaket wasted no time. “The prince is dead. The emperor is deposed.”

  Beyon-they found his marks! Mesema sucked in her breath. Sarmin was not really dead, she knew this. Did Nessaket?

  So easily she casts off two sons.

  “Rise. We will honour our alliance with your father.” Meaning there would still be war. “And we will find a place for you.”

  What? Mesema straightened her skirt as she stood. Her thoughts raced ahead of her, leaving her mind blank. Where are you, Beyon?

  Her finger told her nothing. She pressed it against her skirt.

  Nessaket had already turned away and was looking out into the corridor. “Stay in your room until evening.”

  “May I ask why, Your Majesty?”

  She barely glanced back at Mesema. Something else had her attention. “There are assassins and Carriers about. Stay in your room.”

  Mesema’s heart skipped a beat. She’d seen Sarmin’s blood and Beyon’s marks, but Nessaket’s words shocked her, nevertheless. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “No matter what you hear.” And she was gone.

  No matter what I hear? The Empire Mother was expecting somethingwas she part of it? Part of what?

  Mesema sat on the bed and gathered a cushion to her, the one with Sarmin’s dagger inside. Her mother had thoughtfully packed needles and threads in her trunk. She could sew the pillow up a little bit, if her hands weren’t trembling so. She wanted to run through the halls, out to the courtyard, find the stables, get on Tumble…

  If I can find the river, then I can find my people…

  And so would the pattern. After a time she rose, walked to the window and peered through the carved wooden screen. The women of the palace could look out upon the soldiers, but none of them could look in. The women belonged to the emperor.

  The emperor. So was there no emperor now? The soldiers moved about as if nothing strange had happened. White-hatted men were loading a waggon train. Mesema thought some of their horses looked familiar. Of course. Her eyes followed a chestnut mare being led through the courtyard. Those horses belonged to Arigu’s men.

  Arigu was here, in the palace. He hadn’t fled-had he exposed Beyon? Or was it Nessaket? Or someone else?

  If Beyon is exposed, then what about me? She pulled the pillow close. Always with the selfish thoughts-she was born under the Scorpion’s tail, after all. Sarmin was selfless in comparison.

  Male voices murmured in the corridor-not Beyon’s, not Arigu’s; nobody she recognised. She crept across the room and opened her door a crack to peep out. A soldier stood between two graceful fountains, glancing uninterestedly at the colorful walls. She cringed as his dark eyes slid over her, but she remained unseen. He moved forwards, and eight men came behind him. He turned and whispered orders, pointing at several closed rooms. The men went through the doors.

  Mesema watched the leader, hoping for some clue to what was happening. He tapped his finger against his belt, as if tracing a beat to a song. She wondered what it might be. She’d never heard a Cerani song, but now she thought maybe they had drums just like Felting ones. Doors reopened; his fingers stopped moving and he made a fist instead. He closed his eyes.

  Hadassi’s angry voice pierced the air. “What is the meaning of this? My husband will kill you for entering this wing!”

  “You’re not allowed in here!” Marren sounded more annoyed than angry.

  A third woman screamed, and everything went silent except for the sound of footsteps on carpet. The men returned in twos, each hauling one of Beyon’s frightened wives between them. Mesema moved from the door and crouched on the floor close to the wall, her breath suddenly ragged in her throat.

  “I demand an explanation,” she heard Atia say. “We are the wives of the emperor.”

  The leader spoke. “The emperor,” he said, “is dead.”

  Mesema knew that was a lie; her finger traced Beyon’s movements somewhere on the other side of the palace. But his wives had no way of knowing this. She kept her head low to the floor and peered out again, the daggerpillow still clutched between her hands. The wives stared at one another until, in a single moment, they all reached the same thought.

  “None of us is pregnant,” said Chiassa, touching her straw-colored hair. “He had no heirs.”

  Mesema remembered the green vase. She wondered where Lana might be right now. Had Nessaket warned her as well?

  “We’re not here to kill you and the unborn,” said the leader; “we’re to take you downstairs. That’s all.”

  “The assassin will kill us, then.” Hadassi tried to jerk her arms away from the soldiers who held her as Chiassa screamed and fainted.

  Mesema drew her arms about herself and tried to still her trembling.

  The leader sighed. He looked sad, and yet impatient. “Come, now.” But Hadassi had finally struggled free and now she ran towards the end of the hall. Mesema wondered if she was making for the secret door. The two soldiers who had held her chased behind, one laughing as if it were a game. He caught Hadassi just as she passed Mesema’s room and grabbed her by the hair. “We’ll make it quick, then,” he grunted, and something warm and dark splattered Mesema’s face. What-? She wiped it from her eyes as the dark-haired woman lay spasming, face-down on the floor. The soldier moved away. A metallic, salty taste filled Mesema’s mouth. Blood. The soldier had drawn his dagger over the woman’s throat, and the blood…

  Mesema screamed, squeezing the pillow between her hands, creating a snow of feathers.

  The soldier swung around, astonished at first, and then amused. He held the dagger, still dripping, at his side, not ready to use, but not sheathed either. Mesema kept her eyes on his face.

  He prodded her door wider. “It’s the savage girl, crawling on the floor with feathers.”

  “Maybe that’s how they say welcome.” The soldier’s partner arrived at his side, stepping over Hadassi’s twitching body. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Hey-” Another of the soldiers leaned forwards. “Wasn’t she with him? The emp- Beyon?”

  “I heard she was in his tent.” The killer’s eyes were dark, almost black.

  His partner licked his lips and waved his dagger like a fan. His green eyes darted back and forth as he studied her skin. Banreh had told her the ones with the light-colored eyes were given by their families as payment to the empire. She wondered where he had come from, whether he missed his family.

  “What should we do with her?” All eyes turned now to their leader. He studied her a moment, frowning. She already knew what sort of man he was; he wouldn’t kill her if he didn’t have to.

  “We’ll take her to the general.” He shot a glance around his soldiers. “All of them are wanted alive.” He pointed to the man clutching his dripping dagger. “You’ll find yourself answering to me for that later, then to the general, and if you live long enough, the emperor’s Knife might find you. Spill royal blood and there’s a price to pay.”

  Sarmin stared at the ceiling. Something called to him, a warmth, a resonating mark in the world, and he reached out with his mind, rolled it through his consciousness as he might roll an olive across his tongue, tasting it. He breathed it in. It repelled and yet thrilled, as much as Grada’s mind, Mesema’s voice or the taking of Tuvaini’s dagger. It went down his throat like sweet-wine and set his skin buzzing. Blood. When he recognised it he found even more: the after-images of violence and brutality. A sick power ran through him: spilled blood called to the bed he lay on, harm to harm. He could draw lines, if he wished, and create a pattern outside the Master’s design. A pattern drawn in blood, as big as the whole palace, might hold the strength to fight back.

>   No; it was not yet time. He could not draw the Master’s attention so early. He would work carefully, slowly, sketching it behind his eyes and keeping it secret until everything was ready. Until enough blood had been shed.

  The leader grabbed her, his hand on her arm, and dragged her up and out. She tucked the pillow under her other arm, holding it closed, keeping the dacarba inside, though she knew she couldn’t fight them if it came to that. She wished she had grabbed Eldra’s blue feather. Two of the men carried Hadassi. Hadassi of the golden skin. Mesema’s feet slid in her warm blood. The leader held Mesema’s elbow so tightly she felt he would crush it. The soldiers marched all the women down the grand stairs, where it smelled of roses and the banisters gleamed with gold. They turned into a corridor, then another, and another, the corridors all blurring into one. Mesema’s stomach twisted in fear. She stumbled, but the soldiers’ leader kept her upright.

  Arigu waited in an orange room, sitting behind a dark wooden table scattered with parchment and writing implements. She remembered those eyes, hard and all-seeing, and the way his mouth twisted as if he were tasting something unpleasant. He looked at the arrayed women, his eyes lingering over Hadassi’s limp form and then Mesema and her bloody clothes. His eyes fell on the torn cushion. Then his gaze returned to the commander.

  “There were four wives, Rom, not three plus a horsegirl.”

  “That one tried to run.” The leader gestured towards Hadassi. “We wanted them alive.”

  “Regrets, sir.”

  “I hope for your sake the emperor does not make an issue of it.” “Thank you, sir.”

  Mesema puzzled over Arigu’s words. The emperor? Did he speak of Beyon? “As for young Mesema…’

  She met Arigu’s eyes. Unlike these other men, Arigu might wonder what she held in her pillow. He would wonder if she knew anything, if she would try to spoil his schemes. She kept perfectly still.

  But Arigu’s mind was apparently on other matters.

  She took a breath. Mesema, once the centrepiece of all Arigu’s ambitions, no longer mattered. He must believe the prince dead, and had other plans afoot. I’m invisible to him now. She felt free. “Her countryman will deal with her,” Arigu said.