The Emperors Knife (41 page)

Beyon's voice rumbled behind him. “I will stay here. It was my decision, and I will take responsibility.”

It was the first time Beyon had ever expressed such a sentiment, and though it might have been welcome at some time in the past, it was not welcome today. Eyul bent the wood over his thigh and fitted the string in place. “I do my work alone. It has always been that way.”

“Come, Beyon,” said Mesema, but the emperor stepped forwards.

“Eyul—”

“It will be painless,” Eyul promised. Laughter from the Knife.

“Can you keep that promise, Knife-Sworn?”

“It will be painless,” Eyul said again.

“We'll wait in my tomb, then.” Beyon allowed the woman to lead him away.

Eyul breathed a sigh of relief as he checked the tension in the bowstring.
His tomb is a strange choice, but wise.
He turned to the Knife again, tapping it with one finger. “There,” he murmured. “You've helped me before.”

A rustling, and then, “You have to kill them.”

“Yes.”

“The soldiers are too many and you have little time.”

Three women. Three women to add to my list.
“I know this.” He examined his arrows, chose the first one.

“You are the emperor's Knife.”

“I know this also. Where do I point my bow?”

Another voice, younger. “You end both the innocent and the damned, but you are not damned.”

“Good. Now tell me where to shoot.” He would bring mercy to these women, then find Govnan and kill him. He should have sent Beyon farther away; the tomb was too exposed, too dangerous, but they were not yet ready to move to the desert. The voices were right: there was not enough time. Killing Govnan might buy a little more.

“You bring peace. You send souls to paradise. You give an end both swift and kind. Few in this world have one strong enough to offer mercy in their final moments.”

“You mock me.”

“Never.” A pause. “To your right… down. Down. Now.” Eyul let the arrow fly.

“Right through the heart.” Satisfaction.

Eyul strung a second arrow. “Again.” He could hear shouts below him, white figures running across the diamond pattern.

“Hurry.”

“Left, down. No, up. Now!”

Eyul reached for the third and last arrow.

“Be glad you cannot see what the soldiers have done to them, assassin. Be glad that it is not yet time for you to uncover your eyes.”

“It will be night soon enough.” He heard men running on the floor beneath him, thundering towards the stairs.

“That is not what I meant… Now!”

Eyul released the string and slung the bow across his back.
Do not think about those women. Do not think about Amalya. Keep moving.
He sheathed the Knife and turned for the secret ways.

“An excellent shot. Govnan looks impressed.”

Eyul paused, his hand on the hidden door. The soldiers' boots echoed on the stairs, seconds away. “He saw?”

“He watched you from the prince's tower.”

Anticipation drew Eyul's breath. At last he would have his moment with Govnan, to avenge Amalya and to open the way for the hermit to fight the pattern-curse. He slipped into the ways just before the soldiers entered the room behind him.

Eyul uncovered his eyes and ran through the dark, not as quickly as he might have before. The cut made by the horse-woman slowed him down, but he was still fast enough to stay ahead of any would-be pursuers. He knew every drop and chasm in the darkness, and when to take extra care where another man might meet a surprising end. And there were other men; the secret ways had become much less secret of late. He had seen, at various times, Carriers, soldiers, and even Old Wives sneaking along the dark paths to unknown destinations, though they did not see him, or hear him.

Eyul did not pause in his rush towards Govnan, though when he found him, he would wait, he would savour it. But he would find him first.

Halfway there he decided not to enter through the prince's room. The prince, according to Tuvaini, was insane, unpredictable—he might warn Govnan, or interfere in some other way, and Eyul did not relish the idea of killing Beyon's last brother. He would use the door near the tower, at the bottom of the stairs, and wait for Govnan there.

At last he stood unobserved before a wooden door. This one required an arrow shaft. He pushed one in as quietly as he could and gave it a twist, though he needn't have been so careful: the door screeched open on rusty hinges. He kept to the darkness a few minutes longer, waiting to see if anyone was reacting to the sound, but he heard nothing. He wrapped his eyes against the low light and moved out of the hidden ways.

He moved into the shadows behind the curving stairs of the prince's tower. He heard footsteps above him, coming down. The old man was taking the steps carefully, but that didn't mean his elemental would be slow. Eyul looked at the soot-blackened walls, the ash on the floor. Govnan was more dangerous than Amalya had been, but that did not concern him. Govnan would die.

Eyul wished it were night. He wanted to be able to witness the disappointment on Govnan's face when he realised he'd been caught. The fear when the Knife stopped his heart.

“Do you wish to see?”

Eyul fingered the twisted hilt. “Of course I wish to see, but I can't.” He kept his voice below a whisper lest the old man hear him.

“But you can. You have clung too long to darkness when the Knife cuts both ways.”

Eyul listened for Govnan.

“You are the emperor's Knife.”

“You repeat yourself.” Somewhere above him, the high mage coughed. Had he heard? Eyul drew the Knife from its hilt.

“You end both the innocent and the damned, but you are not yourself damned.”

A child giggled. “I am Pelar, who died at your hand.”

“I am Asham, who died at your hand.”

“I am Fadil, who died at your hand.” The youngest of them all.

Eyul fell back against the wall, tears filling his eyes. Of course they were—he had known that—he
must
have known. “Why do you help me?” He moved his lips more than spoke, but the Knife heard him nevertheless.

“You are the emperor's Knife. Only you can shed royal blood without damnation.”

“You said that.”
Had they?

Silence.

Govnan drew closer.

Asham, the eldest, said, “You must see. You are not damned; you are the Knife. You cut both ways and you cut me. But I will help you.”

“I will help you,” said Pelar.

“I will help you,” said Fadil.

“We don't want the Master to use you,” said Asham.

Eyul's fingers tensed on the Knife. “Govnan.” A thought more than a word.

Silence
.

At last Eyul saw the flaw that had been invisible to him before: Govnan was not the enemy. He had accepted what he was told without thinking of another possibility. But he was learning. Amalya's trust had not been misplaced.

“You can see.” Pelar's joyous voice.

“You will not be broken,” Fadil said.

Eyul reached for his linen wrappings, then hesitated.
Amalya?

“The Pattern Master took her before you did. She is not with us.”

“They are coming.” Fadil, serious.

“Very close.” Asham.

Eyul freed his eyes and blinked away his tears. He was ready. The sun's dying light trickled through the unseen windows high above him. Standing at the bottom of Sarmin's tower, Eyul was able to pick out every crack, every pebble on the stair, every grain in the ash-cloud that billowed under Govnan's approaching feet. He saw everything, and it caused him no pain. He stepped out into the light.

The high mage came around the last curve and peered down just as heavy boots sounded in the corridor. Eyul motioned to him and mouthed “Carriers.” Govnan had burned the tower; he was powerful. Together they could overwhelm the patterned men. But the old man crept back up the stairs and out of sight.
Strange.

Five Carriers entered and spread out from the base of the stairs to the wall. Though they still wore the clean blue uniforms of the royal guard with burnished pins of rank on their collars, the marks had taken their sense of decorum. Three had discarded their hats; on two they sat askew, the feathers dragging like those of dead birds. The pattern drew parallel lines across their cheeks and noses and marked their chins with triangles of deep blue.

Their faces looked identical now, but they had once been their own men. One, Eyul recalled, had been a joker who spent his free nights playing dice; another had been in love with a kitchen girl, always finding an excuse to stop by the ovens when he should be on patrol. The one in the middle had been a Beyon loyalist. Eyul had told him about the emperor's meeting place in Mirra's garden—but he did not have time to ponder the implications of that right now, because all five had drawn their long hachirahs and were moving forwards. Eyul kept light on his feet, watching their movements, waiting for his opening. The Knife felt warm in his hand.

“Hello,” he said, “I bring peace.”

They did not react, other than to step towards him again, their eyes blank and unfocused, their weapons ready.
An assassin must be fast and clean. Above all, fast
. He ducked beneath the swinging of two swords, slit the first from hip to shoulder, and cut the second Carrier's hamstring.
Economy of motion, an absence of fear.
These are the first pillars of the Grey Path. He rolled away, ignoring the pain as a blade scraped against his chest, and used his feet to knock the fifth one down. Now the Carriers were between him and Govnan.

One of the Carriers spoke, his voice flat. “Where is the high mage, assassin?”

Eyul smiled. “How would I know?” If Govnan had no defence against the Carriers, then he would protect him: he would do it for Amalya, for Beyon, for the empire. He would do it because that was his purpose. Blood seeped from his wound and over his ribs, soaking his shirt. The wound the horsewoman had given him stung like a hot needle.

Four moved forward as one. The last was dragging his leg behind him, and Eyul made a dervish spin to the far right, slitting that Carrier's throat before he could swing his heavy blade.
Be fast, keep close. Knife-work is intimate
. The fifth was getting up from the floor; barely pausing, Eyul kicked him again, sending him sprawling on his stomach, and dived backwards, out of range of a hachirah. He was dancing to a tune no one else could hear. This was a game he played well. No dead princes, no mage-girl, just Eyul and a sharp edge with death behind it.

They were better fighters now than they had been as guards, but it didn't matter.
Move fast; their boots and heavy blades make them slow.
Before the Carrier could raise his sword to swing again Eyul had launched himself forwards and to the left, landing on the prone man's back and hearing the snap of bone. He ignored his own pain—
getting old; pain is for later.
He leaped clear and turned to face the Carriers again. Two were left on their feet.

The one on Eyul's right charged him, hachirah held high. The other, lame, pulled himself forward with some effort.
Foolish.
Perhaps the person guiding them had grown impatient. Eyul rolled below the slice the first made through the air and got to his feet so close that he could smell the Carrier's stale breath. His head struck the man's chin as he rose to his feet. Teeth snapped together, and part of the Carrier's tongue fell clear. Knife scraped bone as Eyul stabbed him in the heart.

The last Carrier wrapped an arm around Eyul's neck, lost his balance and pulled them both to the floor. Eyul held the Knife firmly as he fell. The twisted metal of the hilt was easy to grip, despite the blood. He lay on top, the Carrier cutting off his breath from behind.

Eyul twisted in the Carrier's grip, found the man's ribs and stabbed down. Immediately he could breathe again. He rolled over to the last, the one with the broken ribs, and slit his throat.

Only then did he notice that the Knife had been silent. He looked over at the stairs and found Govnan looking down at him. “You didn't use your fire,” he said, neither accusation nor question.

Govnan smiled. “Prince Sarmin separated me from Ashanagur.”

The mad prince?
Eyul stood and sheathed his Knife, surprise taking his words.

Govnan descended the last few steps. “Ashanagur was always able to sense flesh,” he said, “and though he is gone, it appears he has left that echo of himself with me.” He looked out, beyond the archway. “There are more coming.”

“Let's get to the ways.” Eyul moved to the secret door. He twisted an arrow shaft in the hole to release the catch and together they entered the darkness, tracing their way from memory.

“They are all around,” said Govnan in a low voice, “closing in. They think I have the power to get in their way.”

“You don't?” Eyul's thoughts turned to Tahal in the church, to Amalya in her tent. Had all hope been lost? Had it all been for nothing? That didn't feel right—it
couldn't
be right.

“I don't.” Eyul felt the man's robes brush against his arm and caught the scents of char and sulphur. “But Prince Sarmin does. His magic is older than anything the Tower can access.”

So, Tuvaini, you missed something in all your scheming.
The mad prince, Tuvaini had called him; useless. He had been wrong. The spark in the line of emperors that had begun with Uthman the Conqueror lived on in his descendants. Would the power that vanquished a continent be enough to defeat the pattern?

Eyul tried to conjure an image of the prince. He remembered Sarmin as a young man, quiet and bookish. Tuvaini had described him very differently.

“The magic in your Knife is similar to his, incorporated in metal.” Govnan touched the hilt of the Knife and Eyul jerked away. Another man's hand on the Knife felt like a violation. Could Govnan hear the dead princes? He thought about them and their brother Sarmin.