The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Nine

Sarmin crouched by the head of his bed. Here under the shadow of the canopy none of the gods could see him, and the Sayakarva window was far to his left and out of sight. He was more alone than ever when he huddled here. Any guard entering through the door would not find him.

Ten years ago, one such guard had raised the alarm. Sarmin had held himself still, giggling silently, listening to the men shouting to each other as they searched. Not one of them thought to step around the bed. Sarmin had enjoyed the ruse and had hoped the excitement would bring his mother to his room. He didn’t show himself until his window grew dark.

By that time, all the men assigned to his door had been killed. Now Sarmin settled his back against the mattress and brought his knees up to his chin. He wished to think about his bride in absolute privacy. He remembered his father’s wives, all five of them, with their dark scented hair and their soft breasts. He used to sit on the lap of the one called Lana and listen to his sisters learn their songs.

He remembered his sisters. Their gentle, wary eyes and their sweet voices. He remembered how they loved Pelar, his wild-haired, jolly brother. The girls had petted him like a kitten.

He remembered Pelar’s red ball bouncing, Pelar running, Pelar laughing—very different to the ghost who appeared before him now, the ball in one hand, his face solemn.

“No,” Sarmin said to his brother, “not now. Go away.”

A Felting woman. He tried to imagine what she might look like. His mother had been true to her word and sent him another book, this one full of women in contorted, uncomfortable positions. He couldn’t see any of their faces, no matter how many pages he turned. Sarmin fell to one side, staring blankly at the wall.

Pelar bounced his ball.

The door handle turned. It felt early for that, but Sarmin didn’t care. Lost in thought, he rubbed his cheek against the carpet.

Light. A new sharpness of sound. The door had been opened. Sarmin rolled to his knees and peered over the bed. A man stood at the edge of the room, looking to his left and right in consternation until his eyes met Sarmin’s over the sea of pillows and sheets.

Pelar’s ball hit Sarmin in the chest.

Broad cheekbones, a bronzing of the eyes, a stubborn curl to the hair over the left temple. His brother’s shoulders were broader than Sarmin remembered, and he was thicker of stomach than before. And he was no longer a boy. His eyes had grown wary; his hands restless.

Beyon. He looked well. Sarmin couldn’t breathe.

No, not Beyon. The emperor. Lord of Blood. Lord of Dead Boys.

“My Emperor.” Sarmin crawled around the bed to make his obeisance, placing his hand on the soft leather of one imperial boot. Toes moved beneath the leather, and the boot slid from under Sarmin’s grasp. Fabric whispered. The door hissed over the carpet. The latch clicked.

A silence followed. Pelar’s ball hit the back of Sarmin’s neck, quick jolts that drew his shoulders together.

“Come here.” The emperor’s voice didn’t belong in this room where everything was soft, where everything gave, even the vizier.

Bounce.

Steel for steel. I won’t give.

Bounce.

He heard a crunch of stiff fabric. “Look at me.”

Sarmin didn’t move; he would face his brother, but not the emperor.

“Look at me,” Beyon repeated. The voice sounded different now, lower. Softer.

Pelar’s ghost took his ball and slipped away. The living crouched alone before the gods and demons.

Sarmin raised his head by hairs until he met his brother’s eyes. They had once been merry, not like Pelar’s, but easy and joyful. Now Beyon’s eyes were older than his face.

Even old eyes can be shocked. Beyon covered it well, but Sarmin saw him flinch. “It’s true—you’ve changed. But you are my brother,” he said, “you of all people shouldn’t grovel before me. Come, sit here.” He indicated Sarmin’s own bed. He wore three golden rings on his right hand.

Sarmin climbed up and watched Beyon through watery eyes. Heat rose in the back of his throat. “My Emperor,” he said again, “why do you come—?” He stopped to wipe at his nose with the back of a hand.

“Sarmin—please understand, I’d have come sooner, but it wasn’t safe for you. There are people who, if they knew you were here—” Beyon’s eyes wandered towards the scrollwork, in the area of the hidden door. “Well. You wouldn’t be here any more.”

“But you come now.” Sarmin wondered why his life was no longer important. Perhaps Beyon had conceived a child at last?

His brother changed the subject. “Do you know why he did it, Sarmin? Our father?” Beyon moved to stand at the edge of the carpet, by the opaque window. “Our grandfather had mercy and spared his brothers. Our father had to kill them himself, but not in the courtyard, on the battlefield. Father wanted to spare me that.

“But you—” Beyon turned back towards Sarmin. “You were the kindest, the gentlest child—the wisest of us. You were the one who would never lead an army against his brother. I went to our father’s deathbed and asked him to let you live.” His voice grew soft. “It was my very first decision as a ruler.”

Sarmin’s shoulders shook with denial. “No. It was Mother who begged our father to save me.”

“No,” said Beyon, “I asked Father to spare you.”

A cold tear slid down Sarmin’s cheek.

Beyon continued, “I believed it then, and I believe it now—even all these years later. You’re the only person I can trust—Why do you shake your head? Is it not true?”

“It’s true. It’s true.” Sarmin slid to his knees on the floor. He cradled his head in wet hands. “I would never betray you, Beyon.”

Beyon knelt beside him, smelling of memories. The fatherly aroma of tobacco. A musky, female scent Sarmin almost recalled from the women’s pillows. And then another, long forgotten until now: Beyon owned a dog. Sarmin longed to press himself up against his brother, soak in those memories and the fragrances of life, but Beyon grabbed his elbow and lifted it.

“Swear it,” he breathed. “Swear it on my head, and I will take you from here. I will make you my first adviser.”

Sarmin felt a moment of hope. He might sit at court. He might live among people, help Beyon run his empire, even breathe the outside air. But his imagination of these fine days quickly led him to thoughts of Tuvaini, followed by their mother and her general. He frowned as he placed his hand upon Beyon’s clean hair. “Is that wise, my brother?”

“You question the Son of Heaven?” The emperor drew back, his eyes narrowing.

“Brother, if you anger those who have brought themselves up into power...” Sarmin thought of his knife, tucked away under his pillow.

“What do you care about that?” the emperor snapped. “Swear it!”

Sarmin said nothing. Beyon looked at the carpet. He lifted a hand, let it fall.

“I swear it,” said Sarmin, at last, “as a brother. I will never betray you, Beyon.”

“Yes.” Beyon nodded and placed his hands on Sarmin’s shoulders. “You have sworn.” He exhaled a long breath.

Sarmin let Beyon hold him in that position for as long as he wished. He could feel Beyon’s strength, and he could see the healthy tone of his skin. Beyon’s breath wafted across Sarmin’s face, pleasant and cool.

Tuvaini had lied. Beyon was not sick.

Beyon released him and leaned back. He looked at Sarmin as if he had just asked a question.

Sarmin opened his mouth, then said the second thing that came to mind. “I’d like to meet your dog, Beyon.”

His brother laughed, and Sarmin watched him, the way his chin went up, the way his eyes cast to the side. This, he remembered.

Beyon was like a precious new book that he couldn’t keep. If he told Beyon about Tuvaini and their mother, Beyon would be angry and leave him here alone. But Sarmin couldn’t keep the secret for ever.

“Sarmin,” said Beyon, with a wide-lipped smile, “you have just told the emperor that he stinks of dog.”

“My apologies, my Emperor—”

“No, no—don’t apologise.”

Sarmin looked at the small scar on Beyon’s cheek, the stiff taffeta of his robes, the unadorned gold around his neck.

Beyon’s hands moved to his sash. “I have something to show you. Don’t be afraid.” As his fingers moved, Sarmin tried to look away, tried to obey the cold hand that seemed to pull his chin to the side, but he could not. Blue-marked skin revealed itself, finger-span by finger-span.

Beyon slipped the red silk from his shoulders and sat bare-chested before his brother.

So Tuvaini had spoken true, after all. The emperor’s chest and shoulders were as muscled and hairy as their father’s once had been, but a curious patterning ringed his midsection with coils, concentric squares and halfmoon shapes. Pairs of triangles, one facing up, the other down, appeared at regular intervals. A band of blue underscored each string and behind that, in fainter blue, a complex geometry marched beyond sight into finer and fainter detail.

Sarmin shivered. “But you look well.” He couldn’t take his eyes from the designs written upon his brother’s flesh.

“I’m marked,” said Beyon. “It began soon after I took the throne. At first I could hide the shapes —they were small enough—but of late, I go to my wives only in total darkness. My body-slaves…” His eyes focused elsewhere for a moment. “I was forced to have them killed. Now I let no one into my rooms.”

“Are you dying?” Something lurked in the pattern: a threat, the language unknown but the tone clear enough.

“I don’t think so—maybe.” Beyon rubbed his chin. “You are my heir, should I be.”

“So you’re—” Sarmin’s lips trembled around the word. He forced his eyes to the emperor’s face.

“A Carrier? Not that I can tell. Everything I do is of my own will.” Beyon buttoned his tunic.

Sarmin half-opened his mouth to protest as the pattern vanished behind silk. He forced himself to silence.

Beyon flicked his hair out of the way. “The dreams scare me. In them I do things not of my choosing.” He looked at the stone window. “In my dreams, my body is not my own—but I can run away from the dream if I wish. I ran away when my dream made me threaten the vizier.”

“The vizier?” Sarmin remembered the vizier’s words: The Carriers become bold, even attacking on palace grounds.

“It’s getting late. They’ll be looking for me.”

“Who? Who will be looking for you?” Sarmin’s throat seized with fear.

“Slaves, administrators, wives, dogs.” Beyon smiled. “The denizens of the palace.”

Like Tuvaini. Sarmin again considered telling Beyon everything; to confess about his wife, the vizier, and his secret treasure under the pillow. No. I have sworn to my brother, but I won’t let the emperor take what is mine. Not yet.

The emperor’s commanding voice broke through his thoughts. “You have sworn. You will be summoned when it is time for you to serve.” His brother was gone; the latch clicked.

Sarmin curled against the carpet until full dark, letting Ink and Paper step around him as they came to light his lanterns. Someone placed a tray of food beside his head. He smelled something new: the sour aroma of wine. Beyon’s favor, or Tuvaini’s, or perhaps his mother’s. Whoever sent it did not expect him to wonder. He laughed to himself against the purple threads.

“Prince Sarmin of the Petal Court,” he whispered to himself. “Vizier Sarmin.” He thought another moment. “Emperor Sarmin.”

Nobody answered.

He didn’t know when Beyon would be back. How long would it take? Longer than a ride from the Felt? Longer than Tuvaini’s trips through the secret passageways? Longer than the reach of their mother’s arms?

Sarmin stood and pulled his knife from beneath his pillow. I will not betray you, brother.

He turned his desk upside down and hunched over it, intent. With fevered concentration he began to work. The point of the dacarba scored the wood time and again as he recreated the pattern: crescent moon, underscore, diamond within diamond, crescent moon, overscore. He missed no detail. Breath escaped him in slow rasps. There’s a secret here, for those with eyes to see.