The Emperors Knife (40 page)

“I am Eyul, son of Klemet, Fifty-third Knife-Sworn.”

“Knife-Sworn? An assassin?”

“Yes.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed: more scared than she looked, then.

“Where are we?”

“This was once the women's wing.”

She looked around again. “It's less grand than the one I'm in.
Was in
.” She took a step forwards. “Why did you cover your eyes? Are you injured?”

More than you know.
“The light hurts my eyes, that's all.”

“Beyon's wives— Did you—? Have they been killed?”

She knew; she saw it in him, that he could have done it—that he
would
have done it, if things were different. Again she reminded him of Amalya. “No. I did not—and only I can kill a royal. They will still be alive.” He watched her consider this. This was no naïve young girl, nor any wild savage. She might manage what lay ahead better than he'd thought.

“One of the soldiers killed Hadassi.” Mesema watched the floor, as if she could see it there.

“No!” Eyul half-drew his Knife. For an instant he felt foolish, as if murder were a small crime when set against murder by the wrong person. The whispers coiled around his fingers again as the Felting woman turned towards the door.

“He comes.”

“He comes.”

“
He comes
.”

Mesema's stomach rolled when Beyon crashed into the room; his presence washed over her like music with all the wrong notes, or a room full of men fighting. He was not like Sarmin, and certainly not like Banreh. He walked straight over to her.

“Are you well?”

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. Purple triangles asserted themselves against the honey color of his cheeks and her finger itched, wanting to reach for them, but she dug her nails into her palms instead. It had been days since she'd seen Beyon, but she was always aware of him, aware of his marks and his memories. Beyon embodied everything she feared in the palace, including herself. The vision still pressed against her mind.
Do not forget that you chose to stay, foolish girl.
She looked through the window-screen. Down in the courtyard, white-hatted soldiers were hammering three stakes into bases.

“My lady, you should keep clear of the window.” Eyul spoke from where he still knelt on the floor, his head to the tiles.

Mesema didn't realise at first that the old assassin was speaking to her. She stepped back.

“Oh, get up, Eyul.” Beyon barely glanced at the man. “I brought you some clean clothes, Zabrina.” He held out a swathe of ocean-colored silk. “At least, I believe these tiny scraps to be clothes.”

The emperor does not deal with such matters.
That's what Lana had said—but then, Beyon wasn't the emperor any longer.

“Thank you.” She grabbed the cloth by its corner to avoid touching his hand. His wife's blood still crusted her fingernails. “I'm sorry…'

“Not your fault.” Confusion flickered over his features. Mesema gathered the clothes and shifted on her feet.

Beyon snorted, turning to the window. “We stand within an entire wing of the palace. You don't have to change in front of me.” He fell silent a moment, watching Arigu's men. “What— What are they doing?”

“I don't know.” She held her new clothes against her chest like a doll, or a shield. She thought about Atia, Marren and Chiassa. Three women. Three stakes.

“Come away from the window, Your Majesty, lest you are seen.” The assassin again. He stretched his wounded leg, glancing at Mesema.

I stabbed him. Will I stab Beyon next?

Beyon hit a hand against the window-screen. “Eyul.” He used a different voice now, lower—colder, the voice he'd used in the tent, looking at Banreh. “They have my wives.”

Instead of responding to the emperor, Eyul turned to Mesema. His eyes were still hidden by the cloth and she wondered what he looked at, and what he saw. “You should go and change now,” he said in a kind voice that didn't feel kind, a voice that had steel behind it. “In another room.”

Mesema nodded. The goddess tiled into the floor stared at her, eyes glowing. She knew it was a goddess because there was no man pictured with her.

Eyul pulled a bit of silk from inside his robes. Then he produced Sarmin's three-sided dagger and wrapped it up like a baby. “Don't forget your knife.”

Mesema shook her head at the knife, but he thrust it at her a second time. Beyon stood motionless at the window, his back to her. Resigned, she accepted Eyul's offering. She walked slowly down the corridor and picked a plain white room. This had obviously been the women's wing in a more austere time. A bench spanned the length of three windows. They were not open windows, nor glass, nor screened with wood like the one in the other room: these windows were fitted with a translucent stone that gleamed with yellow light. She had seen jagged bits of the same stone in Sarmin's room. A small word had been carved into the very bottom, but Banreh had never taught her to read or write Cerantic words, or any words, for that matter.

Mesema wondered what Eyul was going to do about Atia, Chiassa and Marren. He put her in mind of her father, somehow, though her father was neither so strong nor so cold. Her father would try to rescue them, but if he couldn't, and they were going to be in pain… She closed her eyes against the light.

The first scream rose from the courtyard.

Nessaket bowed her forehead to the green and white rug when Tuvaini entered. She had centred herself so that the leaf pattern appeared to generate from her emerald-colored skirt. Her spine curved prettily to where her head lay against the silk, a poison flower on a golden stalk.

“Rise and face me, Empire Mother, mother to dead sons.” Nessaket sat back on her heels, but kept her eyes cast down, and it angered him. She had always been ready to meet his eye, to speak before spoken to; now she chose to feign humility.

“Speak,” he commanded.

“I expected you last night, Your Majesty, but you did not come to me.”

“I was occupied with matters of empire.” In fact he had watched the shadows glide across his wall, but there was no need to tell her that.

She kept her eyes down, calling back the girl she had been, but she was no longer that girl, and he was no longer the frightened, lonely boy in the shadow of Tahal's robes.

“Did you sleep well without me, Empire Mother Nessaket?” Her shoulders tensed with his words, but she soon found her balance. “I did not, Your Majesty. I have grown accustomed to your arms about me.”

He paced around her one way, and then the other. He reminded himself of Beyon. He understood so much more about his cousin now. “We all make sacrifices.”

“I know about sacrifice, Your Majesty.”

Something in her tone made him turn to face her.

She shifted her knees. A strand of gleaming black hair fell over her chest. “Tahal used to say that the empire does not give itself freely. That those who want it must pay for it.”

“In restless nights?”

Her voice grew strong, steely. “I have given more than restless nights, Your Majesty.”

The faces of her young boys passed behind his eyes. “You knew the price.”

“No price is truly known until it is paid.”

Stillness fell over Tuvaini like funereal silk. “And you would teach me this?”

“I have only kept you to your bargain: no wife but myself, no children but mine.”

And there it was. Herzu laid a hand upon his shoulder, his claws sinking deep. “Lapella could bear no children!”

“And Sarmin was harmless to you.” She spoke in such a quiet voice that if Tuvaini had so much as brushed his slippers against the carpet, he would not have heard it. But he was standing still, and so the words reached him.

Revenge? For Sarmin? He had no idea Nessaket had felt any affection for her second son. Tuvaini knew his madness kept her from visiting him more than once or twice a year. She never spoke of him, with love, or anything else. In Herzu's temple she had agreed to pass him over for the throne, and she must have known what that entailed. She, after all, had seen the last succession, seen the bodies of those boys in the courtyard.

And yet her eyes grew wet and she looked away.

Could Sarmin have been her favorite? That mad, pacing prince who talked to himself for hours? The one who did not himself care whether he lived or died? Tuvaini recalled his wild eyes, the hair dark against his forehead, the lips that curled into a mocking snarl. “Better run, Vizier,” Sarmin had said to him.

It is bad luck to kill the mad.

“Rise, Empire Mother, and leave me.” Tuvaini settled into his couch. It was much softer than the throne.

She stood with effort, the stiffness of her legs betraying her age. He took no satisfaction in that—indeed, he might yet find some sympathy for her, rediscover his feelings for her in their shared loss and grief. Somewhere inside, he thought he wanted that for them. He held out hope for that. But not today.

She paused, straightening the skirt around her thighs. “Your Majesty, if I may, I have other news.”

He waved a hand. “Out with it, then.” It struck him once again how much he sounded like Beyon.

“I am with child.”

An heir. He had expected to feel joy, but instead his mouth went dry. He rubbed his tongue against his palate before saying, “We shall have to arrange a ceremony, then. A marriage.” They had discussed this; it would be a different ceremony from the usual. Normally a priest of Mirra performed a quick joining of hands in the women's quarters, moments before consummation. The emperor and his new wife were the only required witnesses. Tuvaini's wedding would show the court and the empire his new way of doing things: one wife, one heir. It would be large, and public. Already his mind went to the complications, to the concerns of his generals, the disapproval of the priests, the resentment of the nobility in the provinces. Would their wives also expect a new order? Would he cause unrest in every home in the empire?

“I will be queen.” Nessaket interrupted his thoughts. She had the steel to remind him, even now.

“Leave me,” he repeated, and she left, silent and graceful as a snake. Tuvaini watched the sun glide across the calligraphy on the walls. Sometimes, in the birth of morning or the fall of night, he thought he saw faces there, hidden in the swirls and hooks of ink.

He heard Beyon's wives begin screaming in the courtyard. He didn't care to wonder what method of torture Arigu's men had devised.

Mesema searched her body for new marks. Finding nothing, she scraped the blood from her sandals with Sarmin's dagger. She heard another scream and fell back against the wall as if struck.

After a moment she began her struggle with the silk, forcing the tiny bit of blue-green to cover her as modestly as possible. Her hands shook, making it difficult to fold and tie the slippery fabric.

Chiassa wailed, high-pitched and long, filling the room where Mesema stood as if she were inside it. A cry of fear, not pain, terror, as they approached her. Chiassa, with the golden curls and the funny way of speaking. Mesema sat on the bench and covered her ears.
Why didn't I say yes to Banreh?
If she hadn't moved away from him, if Eyul hadn't been able to grab her, she might be crossing the sands already.

No.
The only difference is that Banreh would have fought, and been killed. She was where she belonged. If she were to help Beyon and Sarmin and honour her promise to Eldra, she belonged in the palace, not running away. And she should be with Beyon, not hiding in another room. She rebound her dagger and tucked it into the edge of her skirt before opening the door.

Beyon paced the room, his hands pulling at his black hair.

“Something must be done, Eyul—this is intolerable!”

“That is what they want you to feel, Your Majesty. There are twenty of Arigu's men in that courtyard, ten of them archers. They want to draw us out, kill us both.” Eyul leaned against the wall, in shadow, his voice calm.

Another scream pierced the air and Beyon flinched. After a moment Mesema realised that she too was standing with her fists clenched tight.

Eyul's cloth-bound head turned her way and she shivered. The emperor's Knife must not be broken, Sarmin had said. Was Eyul the Knife? She could not imagine breaking that man.

Beyon quickened his pace. “I cannot leave them there to suffer,” he said. “That would be the act of a cowardly man—a cowardly
emperor
.”

Another scream.

“Eyul!”

“You must keep your voice down, Your Majesty.”

Mesema touched Beyon's arm, but he shook her off. “How dare you command me! I am to stand here and watch them die?”

The thought wormed through Mesema's mind, and though she tried to press her tongue down, force her lips closed, it emerged as a whisper. “You could kill them.”

Eyul stood straighter from the wall, his bound eyes turning towards hers.

Beyon turned to her also. “What?”

From the window came a low moan. Marren's low voice, Marren of the red hair and the jade bracelets. Marren of the sharp eyes.

Mesema swallowed and found her voice. “You—You could kill them. Now. Stop— stop their suffering.” Her lips felt numb. Her own words sank through her like sharp needles. It was she who had thought of this and not the emperor. Not the callous, cruel emperor who now turned to the window, regret expressing itself in his mouth, in the set of his shoulders.

“Do it,” he said.

Eyul took up position before the window. The sun-dazzled courtyard was a mass of blurs, shapes drawn together in confusion, just as the women's voices joined together in agony. He had known he would not be able to see, not during the day. He drew his Knife and placed it on the sill. Then he retrieved his bow and notched the string on one end.

“Mesema,” he said to the woman, the woman who had shown Beyon what Eyul could not, “take the emperor into the secret ways.” He braced the tip of the bow against his foot. “Find somewhere to hide.”