The Emperors Knife (23 page)

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, listening 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.

This tent was not for her; this was someone else's tent, where she would wait for the emperor's judgement.

The old woman touched her arm and pointed to the tub.

“Wash first,” she said.

“I speak Cerantic,” said Mesema. “You needn't speak to me that way.”

The woman nodded, grinning. “I am called Sahree. Now you take off your clothes.” She pointed at the tub again. “You have sand ground into your skin, like a nomad.”

Mesema almost asked why the emperor should care, but she held her tongue. Her fingers worked the lacings of her blouse as she looked around the tent once more. Two other women, both young, had come in behind her. When she looked at them, they giggled and huddled together. One had blue eyes, but she didn't look Felting. The other looked Cerani.

Mesema's heart gave a twinge when she thought they might have been her friends, had things been different. If Arigu hadn't been such a liar and Banreh such a fool.

When she took off her blouse, the women exclaimed in laughter again. Mesema burned with humiliation and began to undo her skirt.

Sahree must have seen the expression on her face, for she tapped Mesema's shoulder and smiled. “This is good,” she said, pointing to her chest. She motioned to the blue-eyed woman, who stepped forwards and put her hand right over one of Mesema's breasts. “Good skin. Tight,” she said. An odd compliment, Mesema thought; Cerani might not be the girl's native language, but the message came across in any case. She nodded encouragingly at Mesema.

Mesema tried to smile back, but her body had begun to shake. Would the emperor be looking at her chest? She wondered where Banreh was, and if he were still alive.

“Don't be frightened,” said Sahree. “It's just some soap and a brush.” Her eyes betrayed a hint of impatience. “Willa, help her.” With that, the blue-eyed girl took Mesema's arm and eased her towards the tub.

Mesema climbed in while the young women exclaimed over her thighs and buttocks. The water felt cool against her skin as Sahree cleaned her with gentle hands and rubbed soap into her hair. She hadn't been washed like that, by another person, since she was a baby. It made her think of her mother. When she climbed out, the younger women dressed her hair. As their soft fingers unwound her tangles, tears ran down Mesema's cheeks. She missed Dirini and Eldra.

“No, no,” said the Cerani girl, the one Sahree had called Tarub, “don't ruin your eyes.”

Willa fetched a wet cloth and pressed it over Mesema's face.

“Better,” said the other.

“Now for the difficult part,” said Tarub.

Mesema panicked: what did they mean, the difficult part? She calmed her breathing. She was a princess. She would not scream, or be frightened, but she did push the cloth away. She wanted to see.

They laid her back onto a cushion and held her legs apart as Sahree gave her a gentle smile. “We need to be sure you are a maiden. Please forgive.”

“It will just take a moment,” said Tarub, grasping her hand. A few seconds later, when Sahree's fingers found their way inside her, Mesema squeezed Tarub's hand so tightly that she feared she'd injured her.

Sahree laughed and let her go. “Maiden, for certain.”

“This is good,” said Tarub, extricating her fingers from Mesema's grasp.

“Now we dress you,” said Sahree cheerfully, splashing her fingers in a bowl of water.

Mesema pressed her legs together, but she still hurt. A Windreader could not be humiliated this way. “Who are you?” she asked at last. “Why are you here?”

The women looked at her as if she were mad. “We are the body-slaves to the Old Wives, the emperor's mothers and grandmothers,” said Sahree.

“Are the Old Wives here, then?”

Sahree shook her head, amused. “Of course not.”

This didn't answer anything at all, but Mesema chose not to pursue it as the women started holding up filmy pieces of cloth, more like scarves than dresses. “See this one?” Tarub shook out some fabric and held it against Mesema's face. “It looks well on you.”

Mesema wrung her hands together. The bath, the maiden check, the clothes—none of it made any sense. Why wasn't she dead already? Was it a game? If so, all she could do was go along with it. “I choose that one, if I am allowed to choose.”

The women exchanged glances. “Of course you may choose,” said Sahree. They gathered the fabric over her shoulder and pinned it with a jewelled brooch. It felt softer than the softest wool, softer than skin, as it fell cool against her body. Another piece went around her waist and they tied it all together with a patterned sash. They placed jewelled sandals on her feet and stood back to admire their work.

Mesema lifted her arms. It felt strange to have no fabric between her arms and her ribs. She felt naked. “How do you name this color?” she asked. It looked like the grass and the sky mixed together.

“That color is named ocean,” said Tarub. “It is good for you.”

“It is very good,” said Willa.

“What now?” Mesema held her hands awkwardly at her sides.

“I will see if it is time,” said Sahree.

Once again she had received no answer, but Mesema couldn't ask another question, for Sahree had already disappeared through the tent flap. She kicked at the rug. Tarub and Willa smiled at her in encouragement, but still she felt awkward.

After a minute Sahree returned and clapped her hands together. “Soon,” she said. “The emperor, heaven keep him, is almost ready. But you must learn the proper behaviour. First, when you come within your height of him, you must give obeisance. Do you know obeisance?” Sahree put her knees on the rug, then bent over, her hands stretched before her on the ground. “Now you try.”

Mesema did the same.

“Good,” said Sahree. “Then you wait until someone tells you to get up. Don't mutter or fidget, now.”

Mesema didn't need to practise keeping still, but she did it anyway, for Sahree's sake.

“Good,” said Sahree at last. “Rise. You must do the same if he leaves the room before you. Now, when you speak to the emperor, you must address him properly as “Your Magnificence” or “Your Majesty”.”

“All right,” said Mesema, folding her hands to keep them from shaking.

“There is more,” said Sahree, “and we used to be very strict in his father's day, may he live in heaven for ever, but we haven't the time.”

“Because the emperor is ill?”

Sahree gave her a sharp look. “Ill? He is not ill.”

Banreh, you fool.
Mesema stared at her feet. If she allowed the tears that stung her eyes to come forth, they would throw cold rags on her face again. She bit her lip and dug her fingernails into her palms. The pain cleared her mind.

It was clear the emperor didn't intend to kill her quite yet, but it was also clear that Arigu had lied again. The emperor was not dying. She wished she could hit Banreh for believing Arigu's nonsense. She sighed. No; she couldn't hit Banreh. She would be too glad to see him.

An invisible signal stirred Sahree to action. “Come!” she chirped, taking Mesema's arm. Outside, a new series of red corridors appeared for her.

“Why do they make silk paths for us?” she asked.

“So that the common men cannot see you,” said Sahree. Mesema could tell from the morning sun that while her tent had been to the west, the emperor's stood to the south. Their journey ended at a tent flap where two men stood guard. They wore round blue hats topped with feathers, different from the pointed white hats worn by Arigu's men. They gaped at Mesema, and she looked at her feet, small in their jewelled sandals.

After a few minutes the tent flaps parted, pushed from within, and a man wearing blue robes bowed slightly to her.

“Enter,” he said, his voice crisp and cool. She couldn't tell his age; he might have been twenty-five or forty.

She took a breath to steady her nerves and moved forwards, taking tiny steps over a silk runner. Without looking up she could tell the tent was large, three or four times the size of the bathing tent, but she heard no voices or movement. It felt as if she were alone.

After ten steps she looked up; she didn't want to get too close for her proper obeisance. The emperor sat twice her height away, reclining on a pile of cushions. She saw his face first, the face of a Rider in his prime. He looked confident and strong. A smile played around his lips, and yet he seemed angry. She took a few more steps and faltered, now seeing Banreh, crumpled in obeisance, on her left.

“Approach the emperor,” said the man who'd let her in. Mesema swallowed, ashamed of herself, and continued to walk forwards. She realised that she was staring at the emperor; she couldn't remember if Sahree had told her not to look at him. He smiled at her, with the look of a man about to tell the end of a joke, but as she got closer, his expression changed to one of surprise.

She knelt and put her face to the silk. She congratulated herself: she had made it this far. Banreh knelt just beside her and she wondered how long he'd been waiting. She worried about his leg. Her skin tingled. She refused to scratch herself.

The emperor let them wait. After a minute she began to count stitches again. Perhaps this was their punishment: he would sit on his cushions and wait them out, until they starved to death. But soon after the thought passed through her mind, the man in the blue robes said, “The emperor will receive the lady now.”

She sat up and faced him. He looked down at her with almond eyes.

“I've seen you before,” he said.

Mesema couldn't meet his gaze any longer. She looked at his hair, straight and black.

“Do you speak?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Magnificence.”

He leaned forwards, to a tray covered with silver goblets and pitchers. “Do you drink?”

“Sometimes, Your Magnificence.”

He snorted and poured two goblets full of red liquid. He handed one to his servant, who handed it to Mesema. “In the desert, one must provide food and drink to one's guests,” he said.

“Thank you… Your Majesty.”

“Messeeema.” He downed his in one gulp and stared at her.

“I saw you in a dream.”

She sipped her drink and found it sour. Nevertheless she took another sip. She didn't know what to make of his words, and in any case she was having difficulty speaking.

The emperor twirled his goblet, lost in a daydream. Then he bounced back on the cushions, propping his head with one hand. “Do you ride?” He'd changed his mood as quickly as the wind in a storm, and he still hadn't so much as glanced towards Banreh.

“Your— Of course.” She lowered her goblet. “My horse's name is Tumble. He's very fine.”

“Will you ride with me tomorrow? I should like to see a woman ride.”