Knife Sworn

by Mazarkis Williams

  “Rushes! Wake up, girl.”

  Rushes opened her eyes to take in the room, just beginning to show itself in shades of gray, and Mother Hagga, leaning over her with a frown.

  “Sleeping when you should be lighting the fires. Gorgen—”

  Gorgen! Rushes leaped up and reached for her serving-dress, hanging on the wall above her pallet. If she hurried, she’d still get to the kitchen before he did. She didn’t want any trouble. You’ll get it, he always said. She finished tying on her clothes and ran to the water-basin. “Where’s Demah?” she asked.

  Hagga shrugged and reached for her own work clothes, but without any hurry. Mother Hagga had worked in the Little Kitchen for as long as anybody could remember, and did mostly as she liked.

  After splashing some water on her face, Rushes ran through the door and towards the Little Kitchen, holding her skirts up over her feet, taking the corners at a spin.She hoped Demah had already lit the fire.

  But when she got to the Little Kitchen the fireplace was dark, and Gorgen waited by the water-pump, his big shoulders drawn up against the cool of the morning. Tears formed in Rushes’ eyes and she edged towards the coals, listening for Mother Hagga, though she had run so fast, and Mother Hagga was slow. Where’s Demah? As one of the Many she might have called out for her, but not any more.

  Gorgen smiled. In this light his teeth looked just a shade lighter brown than his hair. She froze, one hand on the coal-shovel, but he didn’t move towards her, not yet. “You look so pretty, even first thing in the morning,” he said.

  Confused, she said nothing, watching his face for clues.

  He reached her in one stride, his big, calloused hand raised, and she cringed. But he only ran a finger down her cheek, and this scared her more than a slap ever could have. She didn’t know what he wanted, or what she was supposed to do. To live outside the Many, deaf to the murmurs of those around her, was to live in doubt. “I remember your voice,” he began, but stepped back and fell quiet at the sound of Mother Hagga’s footsteps in the corridor.

  Rushes turned away and shoveled the coal. It wasn’t unusual for people to remember her voice among the Many. She’d been the only child in the palace who survived the Patterning. Also she was fast, and small enough to fit through little cracks and holes, so that it had been her who first found the body of Emperor Beyon, laid out in his coffin with the pattern shining all around him. It had been her who sent the image to the Many so that all could rejoice. When he was alive he promised that as long as he was emperor nobody could hurt her. And then she had become part of the Many, and celebrated his death. Tears burned her eyes; when the pattern broke the shame had found her and it had never left. It burned in her now, so she threw herself into the morning’s work. Sorrow slips through the empty places, the idle moments, and trouble can’t move a busy hand. That was what her mother used to say when the snow piled up outside and the two of them readied the wool for spinning, all alone in their smallhouse, with no clan or fields to surround them. Let’s keep our hands busy.

  “Here comes the priest,” Hagga warned in a low voice and then Rushes saw him, all in black, gliding past the kitchen door like a wraith from old stories. Every morning an acolyte of Herzu went into the dungeon and plucked out a prisoner who never came back. The stairway to the prison cells grew dark and silent.

  She must have stopped whatever she was doing, for Hagga hissed at her, “Get to it, child! You can be frightened later.”

  Mina scurried up from the Big Kitchen, dark hair gleaming under a pink scarf, carrying a bucket of onions with both arms. Only four of them worked in the Little Kitchen—Rushes, Demah, Mina, and old Hagga.

  “Where’s Demah?” asked Gorgen, looking towards the hallway.

  “Sick,” said Hagga. It wasn’t exactly a lie; Demah was always sad and out of sorts since the Unpatterning, the same as many other slaves. People called it the Longing.

  Gorgen snorted. “She better drag herself out of bed. The prince is being presented today, and the silk-clad will be looking to fill their mouths.”

  Rushes imagined the baby, red-faced and soft. It made her smile. She had been allowed only a few months with her own baby brother before coming to the palace. They finished the rest of the breakfast preparations in silence, each to their own tasks. Hagga made the bread, which gave a pleasant smell to the room, and Gorgen polished the silver and glass to gleaming. Every morning Rushes and Mina took platters up to the generals, the visiting nobles, and the finer slaves—the ones who counted money or wrote the stories of empire—while Demah served the women’s wing.

  Gorgen turned to Rushes. His eyes had seemed kind, earlier, but now they went sharp. “With Demah dozing like a lazy cat,” he said, “you’ll have to do her work.”

  Rushes hoped the beating of her heart didn’t show in her hands as she reached for the first silver tray, covered with the best dishes and the finest glass, and placed it on the moving shelves that would rise all the way to the third floor, to where the silk-clad women waited for their breakfasts. Once that tray was in place, she reached for the second.

  “That one’s for the empire mother,” said Gorgen, still at her side, so close she could feel his breath on her neck. He touched another tray, smaller. “That one’s for old Sahree down in the servants’ hall.”

  “Why?”

  “Empress Mesema commands it.” Gorgen straightened and lifted his chin. “Sahree gave excellent service, I heard. Backdoor Arvind told me. Low Vizier Shubhan said it to Guard-Captain Mahmoud, and he got it from even higher up.”

  Rushes couldn’t be sure all of that was true, because she had gone deaf to the thoughts of others, especially Gorgen’s. It would be odd for the message to come from Backdoor Arvind, an old man full of jokes and alcohol, who couldn’t name a single woman who lived upstairs. She lifted the last tray and put it inside the box of moving shelves.

  “Hey.” Gorgen grabbed her elbow, squeezed hard. “When you see Demah, tell her she’s gonna get it.”

  Rushes approached the great bed of the Empire Mother, a silver tray balanced between her hands. Nessaket lay sideways, head turned towards the window, the silk sheets tangled around her feet. Her hair made a brushstroke path along the white mattress, an artist’s sweep towards a word. Beauty. Richness. Rushes thought some more. Sorrow. She placed the tray on a nearby table and knelt into her obeisance, listening for a sound from the emperor’s little brother. Demah had told her the little prince was a jolly child, and fat, and she would very much like to see him, but she heard nothing. Strange. Empty. As one of the Many she would have been able to find the babe and listen to his nascent thoughts. She felt a pang of loneliness and pushed it aside.

  “What is that?” the Empire Mother’s voice came hoarse and tired. “Dinner, Your Majesty,” said Rushes, focusing on a woven red flower just beneath her nose. Nessaket had never been one of the Many, but lying abed was an Unpatterned thing to do—something Demah would do.

  The sheets made a slithering sound as Nessaket rose from the bed. “I know it’s my dinner—what sort of a dinner is it?”

  “Cheese, bread, olive oil and some roasted vegetables and nuts,” Rushes took a breath, “Your Majesty.” The last had come too late, and she cringed, remembering how she had been slapped by the silk-clad before.

  No blow came. Rushes let out her breath.

  “What blood is it that grants such orange hair? I should like a slave with orange hair.”

  “I—I am from the plains, Your Majesty.” Clanless and starving. But from the plains, nevertheless.

  “Girls from the Plains have brownish-yellow hair,” said Nessaket, her voice full of knowing. Silver clinked against silver as she drew something from the tray. “They always look as if they need to be washed.”

  Rushes mulled over the implied insult towards the empress. Her forehead began to sweat where it rested against the rug.

  Glass clinked; the Empire Mother continued to eat while Rushes knelt. After a time she spoke again. “Are you
sure you’re not Fryth?”

  In truth she did not know. Her father had gone east when he left. Gone home, her mother had said, scratching at her own cheeks in desperation. He has gone towards the morning and left us. But Rushes did know the Cerani had attacked Fryth, and that made them the enemy—at least until the peace was made. “My father might have been Fryth, Your Majesty,” she said, “but I lived on the plains until Lord Arigu brought me here.”

  A chuckle. “Arigu is no lord.” And then, more quietly, “He is more useful than that.”

  “Apologies, Your Majesty.” Rushes thought about how long she had been facing the carpet. Gorgen would be in the kitchen wondering where she could be. Trays were lining up on the counter, waiting to be received by generals, advisors, and visiting lords. Mina wasn’t as fast as she was, and Demah was not there. Every day there was another reason for Gorgen to get angry. Warm wine, cold food, soggy bread.

  You’ll get it.

  “Stand. Let me see your eyes.”

  She stood, instinctively avoiding the Empire Mother’s gaze, but then Nessaket grabbed her chin and jerked it up. Rushes stood eye-to-eye with the woman who had given birth to two emperors. Beyon’s mother. She tried not to let the other woman see it in her eyes: that she had stood over his body and radiated joy for the Many. If she blinked away tears, perhaps the Empire Mother would merely think her frightened.

  “Dark blue,” said the Nessaket, letting go of Rushes’ chin. “Fryth for certain.” She took another bite, chewing slowly, her red mouth curling up into a smile. Behind her, the little prince began to wail, pulling Rushes even further into the past, when she was five and her own little brother cried for his milk. Her mother sold her one season later, to get herself a dowry and to secure the baby’s future, but she remembered his angry little fists, his chubby, pumping legs. The fierce love she had felt for him rose inside her, more of a longing than a memory, and tears threatened once again.

  But where could the prince be? She could hear him, but she couldn’t see him. She looked around the room, at its gilded pillars, gleaming mirrors, and fine paintings of angels. There was too much to look at here. He could be anywhere, in a golden or silver basket, lost in the mix of colour and fabric.

  Nessaket returned her food to the tray. “Do you understand the Fryth concubines when they speak?”

  “Apologies, Your Majesty. I have not heard them speak.” In truth she did not know whether she would understand Frythian. She remembered something about her father’s speech, its hard edges and its lack of affectionate tone. Had that been Frythian?

  “But you understand their language? What about the other ones? The Mythyck girls?”

  Rushes blinked away another tear. “I’m just a slave, Your Majesty.”

  “A slave with ears.” The Empire Mother looked away as if gathering her thoughts. Perhaps Rushes’ stray tear had disturbed her. “But pretty. You may attract too many eyes.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Rushes, not sure whether it was the right response. She could have told how she wore her dresses loose, and used two aprons instead of one, to try and keep the men from looking.

  “And yet,” said Nessaket, “I would love to have someone who can tell me what people are saying. Visitors to the palace. Generals and lords. The concubines. They guard their tongues when I am near.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Rushes made a bow. “As you wish.”

  Nessaket smiled and waved a hand over her tray. “I’m finished.”

  Rushes picked up the tray and left the room backwards, bowing. In the corridor she nearly bumped into one of the new concubines, a pale, lighthaired girl with eyes that narrowed at her appraisingly. Had some lord paid her family, and then presented her to Emperor Sarmin like a gilded box? Rushes remembered the first day they brought her before Emperor Beyon. He had been standing all alone in his great hall, but then he sat down on the steps and gave her some honey-candy. He called her Red-Rose and let her play when nobody was looking. She had betrayed him in the end, but she could still help his mother. All she had to do was listen.

  Rushes returned the empire mother’s tray to the moving shelves, careful not to walk into any of the silk-clad concubines. They crowded the great room, circling the food she’d laid out earlier. She felt pity for them; everyone knew the emperor wanted only one wife. It was a love story, savoured over the sleeping-mats. Sarmin the Saviour and his wife Mesema.

  The beauties ignored her as she balanced the tray on one knee and pushed the heavy door. On the other side a guard saw her, smiled and pulled it open. She thanked him as she hurried past, wondering which One he might have been. It was nearly impossible to match the memory of a voice, the impression of a life, with a real face. And of all the things she heard when she was Carried, I was a guard was the most often repeated. But he probably remembered her.

  Rushes turned this way, then the other, as the corridors grew plainer but at the same time, brighter. The plain white walls reflected the sun and made the servants’ quarters sizzle. This hall was for the slaves who had earned their freedom but remained in service, though she did not understand why they would. Before long she found a door hung with a wreath of Mirra and knocked. She heard only a vague murmur, so she put the tray on the floor and pressed her ear to the door. “Hello?” she called out, knocking a little louder. This time she heard something like the croak of a blackbird. Before she had the time to be afraid, she opened the door.

  The room was so dark compared to the hallway that it was difficult to see inside. Wooden screens blocked all light from the window, and shadows drifted along the edges of the room like mist. To the right, she could see an altar, its base carved in the shape of a woman, its candles unlit. In the centre of the room rose the dark mound of the bed, and what lay on the bed looked more wraith than old woman. She could make out only the sharp edges of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, and tufts of white hair glowing in the light from the door.

  Rushes bent down, lifted the tray and carried it in. Finding no table near the bed, she laid it on top of the covers. The room felt colder than it should be. Outdoors it was hot; it was hot in the hallway. And yet this room felt like autumn on the plains.

  “A lady died here,” the woman said, her voice dry as old bread. “Murdered. You can feel it, can’t you?”

  Rushes shivered and wrapped her arms about herself. The old woman smelled of urine, but there was another smell here, something like rot and soil. Rushes sent a quick prayer to Mirra before speaking. “Blessings, Sahree. I brought you food, from the empress.”

  “Cerana has no empress.”

  “But we do. She—”

  “No. We have emperors, and the emperors have wives. Many wives, and many children. But this is one woman who will have just one child, and only doom will come of it.” She spoke with certainty, like a priest in his temple, and with the same ferocity.

  “Don’t worry, Sahree. The little prince is healthy.” But Rushes had not seen the boy. No-one had.

  Sahree chose an olive and sucked on it, making a slurping noise. The room closed in on Rushes. She imagined someone was hiding behind her, or under the bed, ready to grab her feet. She longed to run back out into the sunny hall, run down the stairs and put this room far behind her, but she worried about the shelves returning to the kitchen without the silver tray. Perhaps she could wait out in the hallway while the old woman ate. While she was considering what to do, Sahree spoke again. “Mirra blessed the girl. We all heard it loud and clear from Mirra’s garden in the desert, but she chose her own way instead. A hidden way for her Hidden God. The Hidden God can’t stop what’s coming, can’t stop what nobody can see.”

  “Shh,” said Rushes, looking nervously towards the hall. “Do not speak ill of the empress.” Rushes had seen whippings, and worse, for lighter words.

  “Beyon threw me into the dungeon already,” said Sahree, pointing a bony finger at the floor. “I have been in the highest rooms and the lowest cells of this place. I have seen eve
rything there is to see and the future besides. I saw it in my stone, and it changed me. But now I have lost it.”

  Rushes tried to make conversation, the way she did sometimes with Gorgen, to keep him from thinking about bad things to do. “Where did you lose your stone?”

  Sahree leaned forward. It was difficult to continue meeting her gaze, so intense it was. “Right where I found it,” she whispered, “below.”

  “In the dungeon?”

  The old woman didn’t answer, just stared and popped another olive into her mouth. Her eyes never left Rushes’ face, and there was a question in them that could not be avoided.

  Rushes covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh! I can’t get it for you. I can’t go down there. It’s dark and the priests of Herzu are there and anyway Gorgen would—”

  Sahree snorted. “Gorgen! I spanked him when he was a boy running wild in Tahal’s kitchens. He’s frightened of me still.”

  Rushes forced her hands down to her sides, made them stop trembling. “Well, perhaps you could ask Gorgen…”

  Sahree sprang forwards then, faster than Rushes could jump away, and caught her forearm in an iron grip. Sahree’s skin was cold, and Rushes could feel her finger-bones like claws digging into her flesh. Instinctively she cried out to the Many in her mind: Help me! But the Many had faded to nothing more than a buzzing at the edge of her thoughts.

  “This is Mirra’s work,” Sahree said, “and it has to be us women who do it.” Then she let go, leaned back and lifted one of the silver domes. “The meat is nice and rare,” she said in a normal voice, the voice of a motherly old body-slave. She took a piece and chewed, open-mouthed, and the blood ran down her chin. Rushes looked away. For a moment she felt angry at Demah. If Demah hadn’t run off, she would be the one talking to Sahree.