Knife Sworn (24 page)

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Rushes did not allow herself to feel relief just yet, not when the empire mother seemed so angry.

“If it wasn’t you, then the snake-bearer has not been caught,” said Nessaket, pacing. “There are so many who want Daveed dead, it is difficult to sort who might have done this.” Nessaket walked back and forth, muttering to herself, a frown marring her forehead. Finally she stopped before the mirror. “First pika seeds, and now a snake,” she said, more to her reflection than to Rushes, and so Rushes kept her silence. As important as her information might be, she could not speak unbidden. Nessaket took in Rushes’ filthy clothes, her soiled shoes. “I know who you are. You’re the girl I sent to listen. Now they say your master was killed, and you were seen running away. Should I send you back?”

“I did run from the Little Kitchen, Your Majesty, and I know it was wrong, but please don’t send me back there. It’s beatings, and worse. I’d rather go to the dungeon, as dark and cold as it is.” Then she sucked in her breath, trying in vain to bring all those words back to her mouth.

Nessaket frowned. “I don’t care what you’d rather! But if you can show that you listened, as I have asked you, I will keep you here—for now.”

Rushes cleared her throat and curled her fingers around the luck-stone in her pocket, wondering where to begin. “Your Majesty,” she said. “I heard them talking about the snake in the Ways. A man, and a woman.” She didn’t know their names, or what it all meant, but she could remember their words, and their voices.

“Tell me,” said Nessaket, “and you will become mine.”

Rushes began.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Nessaket sat with the pouch of pika seeds.
One for sleep. Two to make sure there’s no waking. Five to kill.
She had killled Lapella with five. She had not relished it. Yes, she had hidden in the shadows of a wall-niche and watched Demah deliver the candied dates, but not out of pleasure. It had been her plan and her responsibility. Eyul had said something to her once, long ago, when Beyon was just a boy
. Killing becomes too easy if you don’t look
. And so she had looked, all the while until it was over, letting herself into the woman’s room and standing over her as she died. Eyul had been right—killing had not become easy.

Dinar had stated the price of Daveed’s safety. Kavic’s death. Could she do it again?

The mirror showed Rushes hovering over Daveed. Could she ask Rushes to deliver the poison? Perhaps Marke Kavic would trust her, see her as a fellow Fryth, and eat whatever she brought him. They could make desert candies. Pika seeds were bitter, best hidden in honey.

Or perhaps she should save them for the concubine from the Ways, the one who had brought the snake to her balcony. The one who had obtained pika seeds, and meant to use them. She did not doubt the specifics of Rushes’ account. The girl had a good memory. Nessaket had tested her.

But which concubine, and who was her master? Rushes had described him only as cold. But just as the concubine was that man’s instrument, he might in turn be obeying the orders of someone more powerful. If she chose to protect Daveed in that way Nessaket might never be finished killing.

But she could stop the concubine using other methods. Exposure. Blackmail. Threats.

“Let Dreshka tend to the boy,” she said to the girl, “You should be in the Great Room, listening to the women. Find the one you heard talking in the Ways.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rushes did a quick curtsey and left her alone with Daveed. Nessaket looked at the cradle, so very small, the child within it even smaller. So vulnerable. If she should die…

Could I do it again?
She imagined the palace in thirty years’ time, with her grandson Pelar on the throne and Daveed at his side, wearing priests’ robes. She tried to imagine her son in other ways, as a trusted advisor, or perhaps a general—but she could not see him alive in those positions. Not in thirty years, and not in twenty. A priest was the best role for him, the safest role. She poured the seeds out into her hand. Five shiny, red crescents. Just enough for one death, with no room for error. If she killed Marke Kavic, it would secure Daveed’s place with Herzu.

Nessaket wished she had given birth to girls instead of boys. Her life would have followed a different path, and all her children would still be alive. She would not be counting pika seeds. She would be combing hair, giving advice, living in a softer world.

Had she never counted Mesema as a daughter? Over time she had come to find the horsegirl tolerable, but Mesema was too hard around the edges, too clever and wilful. On her first day in Nooria she had walked into the temple of Herzu, bold as a lion, and laid a hand upon the god-statue. She’d enraptured Beyon before Nessaket had even had a chance to speak with her or guide her; she remembered he came into the women’s wing, nearly frantic that he couldn’t find her.

She’d enraptured Beyon.
Why had Nessaket never considered that before? Mesema had been with Beyon in the desert. Had they made love there, out on the sands?

It was possible—more than possible. And if Pelar was Beyon’s son, then he, not Sarmin, was the emperor.

The shock of it put Nessaket on her feet. If it were true, then Mesema needed only to tell someone—Govnan, Azeem, Dinar—and the emperor Sarmin and his young brother would both be dead. Mesema would become the empire mother, and in controlling Pelar control the world.

And yet she took no advantage. Was she biding her time, waiting for some signal from her people or their Hidden God? It was difficult to know what to make of Mesema; she played by inscrutable rules, born in high grass, drawn from the wind with sky-washed eyes.

Nessaket replaced the seeds in the pouch. Whatever Mesema’s intentions, she had been faithful to their alliance thus far. She deserved a warning about this concubine.

Nessaket checked Daveed’s blankets. Lately she had become afraid that scorpions or fire-dust hid in the folds. There were many ways to kill a child and Nessaket could imagine all of them. She checked the balcony where the dead snake had earlier been laid out, and where a guard remained as proof against further attacks, and glanced to the roof, where Siri’s garden lay dead. The concubine traitor would have dropped the snake from there, a violation to her old friend’s memory, but also a mistake. If the woman had stood there, looking down at this balcony, there might be witnesses, or a clue. Once Nessaket knew who the traitor was then she would decide what to do with her. She ordered the guards to set watch over Daveed and headed into the corridor.

Nessaket was exhausted. It was not the kind of tiredness that led to deep and restful sleep, but the kind that tore at her, pulled her down. The last time Nessaket had felt happy was with Arigu, and before that, when Siri was alive, when they spent long days on that roof garden, Sarmin running, little Amile laughing, every one of them trying to keep up with their beloved brother Beyon.

Half of Nessaket’s men rushed to make a circle around her as she walked to Mesema’s Tree Room. The other half stayed with Daveed. Once there she pushed past Pelar’s dozen guards to where Mesema sat with her books at a new, shining table. Sarmin had taught her to read after they were married; Nessaket thought it a mistake. “You should not read, my empress,” she said, “You’ll ruin your eyes and get ugly creases on your forehead.” Was it because her son was the true emperor that she did not care how she looked?

The empress shut her book and put it aside with a smile. “There are worlds in books, whole nations beyond our reach, with new gods and songs and stories. The only way to know them is to read of them, for we can never get there if it takes us our entire lives. I always wondered why Banreh loved his scratchings so. Now I understand.” Banreh was the new Windreader Chief. She spoke as if she were fond of him, and yet she pushed for peace—surely against his wishes. The girl was made of contradictions.

Nessaket motioned to the door. “Come.” They made a parade through the women’s wing, Nessaket and her half-dozen well-armed men, followed by Mesema, Pelar, and their own guards. They passed slaves and concubines, a confusion of faces to which she could give no names.
Which one? Which one of you?

The only way to the garden was through the room of Old Wife Farra, a corner room, large and well-appointed, if in an older style. The door stood ajar, ready for visitors, though it was akin to putting bowls of bitter nut on the dinner table; nobody was interested. Most of those who had known and loved Farra were dead or gone. Her sons had fought Tahal for the throne, and lost; her daughters had married away. Most days she sat in her gilded rocking chair, lost in memories, rising only for meals. Dread turned Nessaket’s stomach. Here was a woman whose life had shrunk to almost nothing.
How long before my life is the same? Ten years? Twenty?

Farra sat up in her chair and squinted about the room when all of them entered, a confusion of men inside the soft room and then Nessaket and Mesema, in the middle. “Who is there?” she called out in a quavering voice. Her body slave, nearly as old as Farra herself, had been dozing on a long couch, but soon fell to the floor and made a clumsy obeisance.

“It is I, Nessaket, with your empress.” She walked forwards to where the woman could at least see the outline of her form. Looking down she saw withered scalp, whisks of white hair.

“Nessaket, Majesty.” Farra lifted her eyebrows. “What brings you?” The Old Wife did not so much as look at Mesema.

“Blessings of the day,” Nessaket said. “Farra, has anyone been up to the garden recently?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see… can’t see much these days.” Farra sighed again, her thin shoulders drawing up like the wings of a bird.

“Where is the key?”

“Yes,” said Farra, folding one shaking hand over the other, “you need the key.”

Nessaket sighed in frustration and looked to the slave. “Where is the key?”

The slave stood, and with slow, shuffling steps she moved to a mahogany dresser with brass pulls. Mesema cast a questioning look at Nessaket. Of course she had not known about the roof. At last the old woman opened a drawer and pulled out a long and rusted key. “It is here, Your Majesty.”

“Has anyone else asked you for it?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Bring it,” said Nessaket, feeling a buzzing along her skin that overwhelmed even her annoyance. She was about to climb those stairs again, see the old garden. The last time she stood there, it was to look down upon Siri’s broken body in the courtyard. The day before that Siri had wrapped Kashim in his burial linens, and Beyon was given his crown. They had loved one another, she and Siri, but not after that. And then Siri had jumped. Nessaket allowed herself to feel the emotion, just for a moment, and realized it was no longer anger.

The woman handed her the key and she turned it in her hand, feeling the old weight of it. Already she was lost in memories, like Farra. She opened the door for herself, the first time she had done so in years. The key made a grinding sound in the lock. She heard the mechanism tumble and turned the knob. She turned to the men who crowded the entryway. “Wait here.”

The stairs rose up, into the night. Nessaket climbed them, breathing in the open air, Mesema and Pelar close behind. Pelar made a sound of joy when he saw the starry sky above him. The stone lay cool beneath Nessaket’s sandals. Statues of Mirra and Pomegra bracketed long, flat flowerbeds set in a square around benches and a dried-up pool. The beds no longer contained flowers, not even dead ones. Nessaket poked at the cracked dirt. Siri used to carry up the water by the basin-full, never asking the slaves to do it for her. She had always said that watering the flowers made her feel at peace. That peace had been broken long ago, but the attack on Daveed was nevertheless an attack on its memory.

A guard lifted his lantern and as the light ran across the roof-stone Nessaket caught a gleam of metal along the low wall. She pushed aside stacked clay pots and lifted a long-handled snake hook. It had been put out of sight, but not hidden. She would give it to Govnan, see if the spirits of stone and fire could tell who had held it. It was something, but she had hoped for more. She called for more light and searched for a lost earring, a scrap of silk, a hair-tie—but she found nothing. In sudden anger she threw a pot against the bench. It shattered, making a sudden, sharp noise in the gloom.

Nessaket said what she had come to say. “There is a concubine working against us. She has pika seeds and means to use them, to kill one of us and blame the other.” She did not say who was to die and who was to be blamed.

Mesema frowned. “And the snake?”

“Her work.”

“Hm,” Mesema said, looking more thoughtful than frightened, “Which one?” Perhaps fighting the Pattern Master had left her so brave that the threat of assassination did not alarm her. Or perhaps she had already known.

“If I knew who they were, I would have told you.” Nessaket turned back to the pots, turning them upside down and shaking them.

But Mesema moaned and stumbled forwards, her free hand extended over the low wall as she sought for balance. Nessaket jumped up and grabbed Pelar just in time to keep him from going over the edge. Perhaps the news had been too much for her, after all. Putting a hand on Mesema’s elbow she said, “It’s too soon since the birth. You should not have climbed—”

The empress waved a hand. “The Hidden God has shown me something… no. Nothing. He has shown me nothing. And such nothing…” She straightened, but she remained shaken. “I am well. But what I saw… such a thing that is impossible to see. I do not understand it.”

Nessaket frowned. If the girl had seen nothing, how did it count as a vision? “A deception,” she offered. “Prophecy is unreliable.”

“Yes, that must be it,” Mesema agreed, putting a comforting hand on Nessaket’s arm. The kindness of the gesture made Nessaket uncomfortable, as if Mesema knew some truth, and pitied her for it. She looked to the statue of Mirra, where the moon reflected off the marble with a soft glow, and felt there was something she had missed. She sat on the wall of a flowerbed and her guards took their places around her, silent, faithful.