The Emperors Knife (38 page)

“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 something—was 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 dagger-pillow 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.

The soldiers pulled Mesema forwards and she tripped as the light-eyed soldier opened a door at the back of the room. She tried to turn and look at Beyon's wives, but the soldiers held her too tightly. They traversed another, narrower, corridor that smelled of wet shoes and leather, opened a wooden door and pushed her through.

A lantern illuminated another wooden table, smaller and cleaner than Arigu's. On it lay a single parchment, half-covered in writing. A cold wind blew through a window in the facing wall, moving the parchment like a leaf, but a round red stone kept it from flying away. She knew the stone. She could kiss that stone. Its owner leaned out of the window, his face tilted towards the moon. As the soldiers pushed Mesema forwards he turned, surprise in his eyes.

She ran, dropping her pillow, crying, “Banreh!”

He took her in his arms, his golden hair falling softly against her cheek, and she breathed him in. The soldiers left the room, and closed the door behind them.

“What happened to you?” He drew back and looked at her gown.

“They came to the women's wing and killed one of the emperor's wives.” Her voice sounded weak to her when she said it out loud. “The blood went all over me.”

He frowned. “I heard the wives were to be taken, but I never dreamed you'd be involved.”

He knew?
She let go of him and wrapped her arms around herself instead. “Banreh, how did you get here?”

“Don't you remember? Arigu said that if anything went wrong I should meet his man by the river. And I did.”

“But the emperor sent you back with my gifts—”

“Mesema—” The same old tone now, scolding and patient both at once. “—he's not the emperor any more. He had the marks—you know what that means. An heir was found, a new emperor, one who will work with us.” Banreh pulled two stools over and eased onto one, wincing as he stretched out his bad leg.

“Us?”

“The Felting.”

Mesema settled onto the other stool, folding her hands together in a formal pose.
Careful, now.

Banreh put a finger against her cheek. “Listen—what worries you? Both brothers are dead, so there is to be no royal marriage. You can go home.”

Home.
It came back to her in a rush: the fields, the scent of wet wool, the soft voices of the women at their craft; the way she knew what people meant when they looked at her. She could go back across the desert and leave the pattern behind, leave Sarmin on his sickbed, leave Beyon. She would return to her life, work the wool, marry a plainsman. Maybe her father would even let her marry Banreh.