The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Eighteen

"A caravan.” Eyul studied the parallel tracks in the sand. “We’re close to the buried city,” Amalya said. “Horses, twenty or thirty of them, and a carriage.” Military, without a question. Whether they were White Hats or Blue Shields, Beyon’s Imperial Guard, he could not tell.

“Too close.”

He looked at her now. She was shivering, her hand clutching the pommel. “Then we will go wide around them.”

Eyul mounted his camel and steered it westwards, away from the road. The Scorpion looked down upon his back, while the Maid pointed to the palace with one starry finger. They steered their camels in and out of shadow, the dunes guarding their path.

“Do you think it is safe to sleep without your Knife?” Amalya asked after a time.

They passed between the dunes in silence. Eyul closed his eyes and felt the weight of the weapon at his side. “I will sleep with my Knife, then.”

“You are the emperor’s Knife, the Knife of Heaven,” she said. “Your weapon is the holy connection between you and Beyon.”

“Beyon would not care for there to be a connection between us,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

Did the Tower really know so little of the palace? “Because I cut the throats of his five brothers. The eldest had reached ten years of age. The youngest was in his silk wrappings. I killed them all.” There; he’d said it. She wanted him to keep his Knife; this is what it meant, for Beyon as well as Govnan.

Amalya did not speak for a long while. They moved, side by side, the sand blowing like fog around their camels’ knees. When dawn broke over the mountains, Eyul pulled up to bind his eyes.

Amalya looked towards Nooria and said, “ Tahal killed his sons. You were nothing more than his instrument, no more worthy of blame than the Knife that made the cuts.”

Eyul drew out his bandages and listened.

“I’ve been thinking of when you joined the assassins. You said they looked for mercy, but I think they were looking for something else, too.” Her voice sounded regretful. “They gave you a choice: kill or lose a hand. Some would have tried to get out of both, but not you. You accepted those as the only options.”

“But they were.”

“No, there are always more options, Eyul. They needed to be sure you were—”

“What?”

She moved as if to speak, then shrugged.

They needed to be sure I was obedient. He pulled his bandages tight. He wasn’t one of Beyon’s dogs, to run hither and yon fetching rubber balls. He looked her way, but the fabric made it impossible to see her face. “I am loyal, but no lackey.” He dismounted.

“No? You’re still following orders. As long as you think it’s for the empire, you obey.” She climbed to the sand, disappearing behind the blur of brown that was her camel.

He played for time. “You said the emperor and empire are one and the same.”

“But you said otherwise.”

He pulled the tents from their bindings.

“You must decide for yourself, Knife-Sworn, whom to heed.”

“Maybe I’ll find my own way.” He threw down some water-skins and the dried camel dung for cooking.

“Not if you can’t see beyond the choices you’re given.” She stood facing him, not moving. He imagined the look in her eyes, patient but firm.

He moved away and began to assemble his tent. He was still learning how to do it by touch alone. So she didn’t think he was capable of making the right choice? Next she would try convincing him to stick close to Beyon, to be truly his Knife, as he had been Tahal’s. She didn’t know the emperor was marked, didn’t realise what a farce that would be.

Why had he not told her? Eyul could see her shape moving around the fire, hear the water pouring from her skin, smell the pepper rising into the air. She stopped her work, turned her face his way.

He asked a question. “What did Beyon want with the hermit?”

“The emperor did not want the hermit,” she said. She bent over the fire and lifted the pot to hang over it. “He wanted you. He wanted to know if he could trust you.”

The tie snapped and the poles fell in opposite directions.

“You came to spy on me? For him?”

“I came to assess you.”

You are as brave and obedient as I have been told. Her words. He felt naked under the sun, as naked as the boy in that prison so many years ago. “Then tell me, Amalya of the Tower, did you find me wanting?” He wished he could see her expression.

“I told you,” she said after a moment, “you are loyal to the empire, but not to Beyon.”

He picked up the poles and began his task a second time. He would make her the fool this time. “You do know Beyon is marked?”

She caught her breath. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the pattern has marked him. Half the palace knows.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Now I’m a liar?” He grunted with false amusement. “He had his bodyslaves killed to keep them silent. And their executioner. Where do you think the links in that chain will lead? Now Carriers walk unchecked through the centre of the palace, attacking the vizier himself. Beyon can’t be trusted.”

Amalya’s voice wavered. “It’s impossible. The Tower has many enchantments, protections over the emperor. Govnan—”

Eyul tensed at Govnan’s name, dropping another tent pole. She continued her protest: “Govnan has done everything he can to protect the emperor, even placing patterns of his own around the palace walls.”

Placing patterns of his own? Eyul cleared his throat. “The vizier already searches for an heir. The—”

He heard a sizzle; untended water boiling over and falling into the flames.

Amalya didn’t move. “Have we failed, then?” Her voice sounded thin, scraped by sand.

He didn’t think she wanted an answer. He stretched the tent cloth over the poles. His mouth tasted sour. He felt as if he’d stuck himself with an arrow. Amalya had believed in Beyon, believed in the Tower’s ability to protect him. He finished erecting his tent and walked around her to pick up the second set of ties. He could see through the bandages that she sat before the fire, shoulders slumped.

When both tents were up, gleaming in the morning sun, Amalya began to finish her work. Steam from her pot wafted past Eyul’s nose, speaking of the barks, peppers, and flowers of her homeland. Her scents. He wondered if he would ever smell that lively, fertile aroma again once he left the desert. He settled down in the sand and watched her silhouette, cut out against the sun, though it sent a bright pain behind his eyes.

She looked over her shoulder. Somehow she always knew when he was watching her, even when her back was turned. Eyul stared down at his fingers, blurs against the lighter-coloured dune.

“I’m glad you told me.” She stood and turned to face him; her shadow fell across his lap. “Have you seen his marks? Is that how you became a Knife with no emperor?”

He shook his head.

“Then how are you sure?”

“I was there when the Low Executioner swore to the word of Beyon’s body-slaves. The vizier was with me.”

“And then he was attacked?” Amalya knelt facing him. Though he struggled to, he couldn’t see her expression.

“Soon after. I protected him…” He remembered the Carrier who’d circled Tuvaini at the fountain and then run away.

“When did you last see Beyon?”

“Just before I left.”

“So did I.” She paused. “He didn’t seem any different.” This was true. “What are you thinking, Amalya?”

She waved her arm. “I’m not sure. Give me some time.”

“The line of the Reclaimer has come to an end.” He took her hand. He remembered what she’d said: that loyalty was the easiest of virtues to subvert. She had been right. “I know every well and oasis between here and the western mountains.”

“What are you saying?” she asked, studying him. “That we should run away?”

“Are you saying the two of us can save the empire?”

She came to him then, close enough to embrace. “What would we do in the west, you and I?” Her breath fell across his lips. He put a hand on her neck and traced her cheekbone with his thumb.

“I don’t know. Go fishing.”

She laughed. “Fishing?”

He smiled at himself, but he was more interested in the feel of her skin under his fingers. “It was the first thing that came to my mind.”

“Well,” she said, resting her head on his chest, “it’s a long way to go for a fish or two.”

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever invited to come fishing with me.” The only woman he ever would.

“I’m flattered. But there is nothing for us in the west.”

“There may be nothing for us in Nooria,” he said.

She raised her head to him. He longed to see her eyes. “There is hope. Beyon remains well. Hope failing, there is death.”

“Shall we go to Nooria, then, and die?” He traced the line of her waist with his hand, from her ribs to the flare of her hips. Was this what he had wanted all along? Had he ever tried to do what he could for Beyon?

She leaned into him. “We will go to Nooria and learn our fates. Together, as we are.”

“If that’s what you want.” Their lips met and held, smoke, pepper and sand. He turned his head to look out over the dunes, but she said, “We’re alone.” She released his weapon belt and let it fall.

“I could be your father.”

“You don’t look like my father.” She kissed the edge of his chin, where his beard grew in sharp and rough. “And your body is strong and lean.”

“Try living in it.”

“Be quiet,” she said, pushing up his tunic. Her mouth traced a jagged scar on his chest.

He let out a hard breath and pulled her closer. She ended on his lap, hand running through his hair, lips dancing over his neck. He pushed the fabric of her robes aside, his hand finding the curves of her skin. Her fingers moved over him, too, running across his old scars and healing wounds. He whispered her name, as he had so many times in the hermit’s tent.

Amalya pushed him onto his back and placed her knees to either side. She touched her hand against his mouth. “You are just like a man.”

“I hope so.”

“Come into the tent.” Amalya scooted away from him and through the flap. Her sandals fell off her feet and lay, small and dainty, in the sand, one on either side of his belt. Eyul fingered the beaded leather. So delicate. He wondered why they hadn’t already broken.

She called out for him. “Eyul?”

“Here I am,” he answered, dragging his belt with him through the flap. She knelt in the sand, her eyes bronze in the diffuse light. He tossed the old leather aside, Knife and all.

“Make it good, Knife-Sworn,” she said. He did his best.

Afterwards, as they lay entwined, her head against his neck, she said, “There is another heir.” Her voice sounded breathy, sleepy.

“Beyon’s brother.” He ran his fingers over her thigh.

“Govnan says he’s a powerful mage.”

Eyul frowned. Tuvaini had said nothing of this.

“We could go to the prince, tell him everything.” She lifted her leg to rest on his hip bone. “Perhaps he can help us, help his brother.”

“He’s mad,” Eyul said. “The vizier has already tried to rouse the prince to his duty, to no avail.”

“But he was alive when you left.” Not a question.

“The Empire Mother sought a wife for him in the Wastes. Once he makes an heir…” He knew the vizier intended for him to kill Sarmin. He fell still as he let the idea rush over him, let its bitterness sink in. “It is bad luck to kill the mad.”

“Everyone wishes to command the emperor’s Knife, but that right belongs to just one man.”

“Which man is that?”

She didn’t answer, instead running her finger over his lips. “Emperor Beyon doesn’t know about this woman from the Wastes?” “Not unless the vizier told him.” Which was unlikely, Eyul decided. He

thought of Tuvaini, and how he would react to the things Eyul had learned.

“The hermit thinks Beyon can be cured.”

“So that’s what you meant, before.” She shook her head. “I don’t trust

him.”

Neither did Eyul, but the hermit had restored some of his sight and saved

Amalya’s arm. Eyul believed the hermit could help Beyon. All he had to do

was kill Govnan, and the hermit’s way was clear.

Amalya’s injured arm lay between them. He touched the bandages, yellow

with sand. “Is your wound still clean?”

She twisted away from him, looking up at the roof of the tent. “We’ll

change the bandages later.”

“Later,” he agreed, kissing her again, and there was no more talking.

Tuvaini took the folded letter from his pocket once more. The handwriting looped across the page, curved and voluptuous. I would like to speak with you concerning the temple of Herzu. Come to my rooms this afternoon. No signature. Perfume on the paper. She’d been confident he would know who had sent it.

Too much doubt had forced Nessaket’s hand. There had been no word from Arigu, of this Tuvaini made sure, and now, with Beyon running off to the sands, Arigu’s fate was even more uncertain. All that remained to Nessaket now was her mad prince, and Tuvaini. She had no choice. He kissed the letter and laughed.

He walked from one end of his room to the other and back again. He wished he could go to Lapella, but this was one thing he could not tell her. In any case, she would not be there; she rarely waited for him at this time of day, occupying herself instead with mysterious female tasks.

So he was left to pace, and had no one with whom to share this moment. The sun lowered in the sky. He’d planned to make Nessaket wait, but not too long. He lit his lantern, stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the mosaic at the end of the hall. He pressed the golden stone that was the eye of Keleb, and the panel swung open. Once inside he pulled the latch closed, listening hard and holding his lantern high. Ever since he’d divulged the secret ways to the Carriers he felt nervous travelling through them, though he’d left out many paths. This one, for example, which ran closest to his own room, he’d kept secret; but that didn’t mean a Carrier wouldn’t stumble across it.

The family history he’d gained outweighed the risk. It wouldn’t be long now.

Satisfied he walked alone, he hurried across a stone bridge and up the stairs to the next storey. After stopping to listen again, he walked down a corridor, slower now, not wanting to be out of breath when he met her. At last he came to the door that would open across from Nessaket’s room. He fumbled with the keys for a time; he didn’t know the feel of the right one. At last the lock turned and he opened the door, just a crack.

He didn’t hear any women’s voices, or soft footsteps, or shutting of doors. Most of the wives, old and new, would be at the fountain at this time. He and Nessaket would have their privacy. Nevertheless he took care in stepping out; being caught here was a good way to get his throat cut, even with Beyon in the desert.

He moved towards Nessaket’s door, listening to the silence. He remembered how once this corridor had run with happy children. Even then, Beyon had dominated, lording over his brothers and sisters in both height and will. They had loved him and obeyed him without complaint. It was foolish of Tahal to rid Beyon of his most devoted servants; the only foolish thing he’d ever done.

The mechanics of his journey had kept him distracted, but now, knocking at her door, Tuvaini’s body tensed with excitement. To be at her door, to be invited to her private rooms, was to stand on the threshold of success. Soon he would preside over a secure, bountiful empire, with a beautiful queen at his side. He would invite the greatest poets and philosophers to court. He would establish a laboratory, where the seers could view the stars. He would build monuments to Cerani greatness all around the world.

The first statue would be of Tahal.

Nessaket let him in and quickly pulled the latch closed. She stepped away, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. He’d never seen her this way, but he liked it.

“My son is ill,” she said, “and my other son mad.”

Tuvaini said nothing. It was better she saw it for herself, though his tongue, body and mind were itching.

“In that family, only Tahal kept his sanity. Even Satreth the Reclaimer drank Yrkman blood and slept with a sword in his bed, though nobody speaks of it today.” Her words came out in a rush. “The line was ever volatile. It is said there has never been madness among the leaders of the horse tribes. I hoped…’

Silence. Sweat gleamed between her breasts. “I could wait for Sarmin to get a son.”

Tuvaini willed his hands to stillness.

“Or I could have another son myself. I still could; I was only twelve when Tahal first took me.” She turned away and wiped her brow with a silk cloth. Her dress tightened around her hips when she raised her arm. Two steps away, her bed curtains hung open, inviting.

Tuvaini licked his lips. “And what do you want?”

She turned back to him, her eyes wild. “For years I struggled to be Tahal’s favourite wife, to make my boys his favourites. I taught my sons the craft of the palace, how to survive with no friends and no trust. Four of them, I had. One died as a baby, I lost one in the succession, and one to the Tower. And then it was all for nothing; Beyon pushed me away.”

He picked his words carefully. “You have allied yourself with the army. Some would call it treasonous.”

She shrugged. “It was something to stand on. If I am tall enough, the emperor will see me.”

“And Arigu?”

She turned away again and wove her hands together.

“Do you renounce him?” he asked, hearing the quaver in his own voice.

Her shoulders tensed. “Yes.”

He moved closer. “An army wants things the palace doesn’t see, cannot see. One cannot trust a sword for long. You are right to renounce him.”

“Yes.” Her voice came out a gasp.

Another step closer. “What now? Another emperor, another child?”

She relaxed, preparing for his touch. “It is the easiest way.” He paused behind her, breathing her scent. “Starting over from the beginning.”

“Tuvaini.” The way she said his name, hoarse and breathless, sent a thrill through his body. “There will be no wife but me, no son but the first.”

“Why would I want anyone else?” He drew a finger down her back now, closing his eyes as he reached the end of her spine.

“Then we are agreed.” She turned to him and put a hand on his chest, but she did not push him away. It felt strange to stand so close to her, to have her within his power, that for a long while he simply stood, looking down at her.

“I remember you,” she said, “always running errands for us wives. When the slaves brought the sweets on a tray, you would pick the best fig and bring it for me. When I had to kneel at Tahal’s feet, you brought me two cushions instead of one.”

He couldn’t speak for a moment. “You remember?” For so long his thoughts had centred on owning her, wanting her—now she reminded him why.

“I remember. Mostly because I thought you’d ask me for a favour. Nobody in this palace does such things out of kindness. But the years went by, and you never said a word.” A tear ran unheeded down her cheek.

Tuvaini brought his hands up to rest on her shoulders. “You were his favourite. And mine.” He looked at her as he once had, back when they were young and the world a simple place. He saw the pretty girl instead of the cruel beauty who walked his dreams.

The years have stolen away that boy and that girl. We have both become twisted things. But maybe now we can make each other better.

“I never forgot you, Nessaket.”

“That is why I put my faith in you now, Tuvaini. I will make you a son, and you will make me a queen—a real queen, not someone who hides in the shadows.”

He pulled her towards him and lowered his face to hers. The feel of her eyelashes brushing his skin, the touch of her breath on his lips, almost made him forget his words. “You will never have to hide. There will be no enemies, no Carriers, and no other wives. No mages or generals under our feet. It will be you, me and our empire.”

Nessaket took a quick breath. She tilted her head, her lips parted, her eyes half-closed. Another tear fell into the hair at her temple; Tuvaini didn’t know which of them had shed it. He kissed the wet spot on her skin. She was sorry to let Arigu go; she loved him. But compared to himself, the heir to the throne, Arigu was no more than an upstart foot soldier. She would be glad that she chose him soon enough. He would make her glad.

Eyul woke in the heat of the tent with a growling stomach. Amalya slept by his side, her breathing smooth and easy. Her bandages had loosened during sleep and were beginning to unwind. He smelled no sickness in her wound, and his own cuts had healed well under the hermit’s care. Still, he thought it best to keep her arm clean. The fresh bandages were outside, in his pack. He should also get their food from the fire. He hoped it hadn’t burned to a cinder.

He crawled out of the tent and stood up, yawning, feeling the afternoon sun on his naked body. I’ll be scorched if I don’t hurry. He opened his eyes before he remembered not to, and light cut through his mind, turning the desert to black and white. He knelt, groping in the sand for his Knife. He slipped it free from its belt and hefted it, the weight of the hilt reassuring in his hand.

“Listen.” The whisper came to his ear just before the sound of horses. Eyul held his left hand over his face, squinting in the direction of the noise. Two silhouettes rose over the dune: riders, pulling a third horse between them. Two recurved bows rose up over their shoulders.

The riders slowed to a halt, heads turned his way. They moved as if they were wearing something stiff. Leather, maybe. They turned to one another, some silent message passing between them. In unison they brought their bows forwards and set arrows to their strings.

Eyul laughed. He laughed so hard that his stomach cramped. Blinded and naked they’d found him. This could be the end of the Knife-Sworn, just as the emperor’s life also came to an end in Nooria.

The riders looked at one another again and Eyul knew what they were thinking: it was bad luck to kill a madman.

It gave him the moment he needed. He threw himself sideways, the hot sand searing his shoulder and thigh, and two arrows struck the ground beside him. Eyul rolled closer and found his target. He could see the archer on his left, a sore outline against the sky: too distant a target for any real hope. They managed to miss him with arrows. He could hardly expect to hit back with a thrown blade. Eyul flung his Knife anyway, on a high arc, and rushed forwards. The closer man let out a soft, surprised grunt. He had a right to be surprised. He slid from the saddle without further complaint and Eyul raced on, putting the man’s horse between him and the second rider. His mark landed on the sand, a blur.

“Herzu!” The other man’s voice sounded familiar.

Eyul pounded up to the vacant horse, a well-trained beast that kept its place and let him use it as cover. He had only moments, and little hope, despite his lucky throw. He felt around the fallen man for his Knife. It had to be lodged somewhere vital since the archer had only twitches left in him.

“To your left.”

Who spoke? He found the hilt jutting from the dead man’s throat. The horse he’d ducked behind whinnied in pain and ran; the surviving rider had kicked it. Eyul tumbled away, too late, and a spear-thrust grazed his side. The other horse bore down on him now, a dark shadow, and Eyul rolled under it, lifting the bloody Knife over his head and slicing a clean line from foreleg to flank. He dashed clear as the horse fell screaming.

The rider jumped free as well; Eyul heard his boots hit the sand.

“Try me, old man.” The voice came from over by the fire, near Amalya’s tent. Eyul recognised that smooth tone now: Poru, from the palace guard. He remembered the man as an easy-going fellow from the sea province, given to gambling and racing boats along the river. Now he cut circles in the hot air with his sword, leaving dark traces in Eyul’s vision.

“What are you doing here, Poru?”

“What does it look like?”

“Eyul?” Amalya stepped from her tent.

Poru’s stance relaxed. “Is that a girl? Not bad, old one.” He backed towards the tent, still on guard for Eyul’s Knife. “I’ll just take her, shall I?” He moved, leaving a series of dark after-images.

Eyul took his aim, tried again. “No.” He lowered his knife-hand.

Poru stopped. “You’re blind, aren’t you, old man? A lucky throw on Bazman, that was. You won’t be any trouble.”

“If you’re so confident, come closer.”

Instead, Poru took a step back, towards Amalya. She had wisely retreated inside the tent, but nevertheless, Eyul felt a shiver in his knife-hand.

“Why don’t I just take your girl, your food and your water, and let you find your own way home?”

“And when I find you in the palace, what then?”

“You won’t.”

“And why is that?”

Poru laughed. “Throw that Knife or let me go, old man.”

“Twenty feet, a line from your left shoulder.” Another whisper; not a woman, he realised; not Amalya. It never had been. Instead it was a child. Eyul froze, confused. “Now.” It came again, more insistent. He threw, snapping his arm out, allowing no warning.

Poru fell against Amalya’s tent and slid, jerking, into the sand. He made high animal noises as he died.

Eyul stepped back, looking around. He made out no other figures against the white of the sky. “Who spoke to me?” He felt something solid beneath his boot; Bazman’s bow. Crouching, he ran his fingers along the wood. Yokom of the royal armoury was the only bowyer capable of creating these recurved masterpieces, fitted with bone and gut-string. They were among the most powerful weapons the city had to offer.

“Who sent you, Poru?” he muttered, plucking the string with his finger. He walked slowly to his victim. Faces passed through his mind: Beyon, Nessaket, Tuvaini.

It took effort to free his Knife. The blade had pierced Poru’s forehead and sunk hilt-deep. Eyul yanked it clear at last and wiped it through the sand.

Amalya’s voice brought him back to the desert. “Blue arrows.”

She was safe. Little else mattered at that moment. He dropped the Knife and went to her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t want to leave you in danger.”

“You killed both of them, blind. I’d hate to see what you’d have done if you could see.” She pulled at Poru’s quiver. “Can you see these? Bright blue. What kind of bird—?”

“Those fletchings are reserved for the royal family.”

A pause. “Beyon?”

“I don’t know.”

She drew in her breath. “So these were assassins?”

Eyul knew all the assassins of Nooria. There were few enough of them. “No, palace guard, but dangerous men. I should have died.”

“Then why—?”

“I don’t know.” He considered it as he pulled on his clothes and knife belt. His head ached from the light; he felt as if his teeth were vibrating from the pain. He picked up the Knife from the sand and slid it into its sheath. “It’s afternoon. We might as well start moving.”

After breaking camp they mounted their camels. He noticed Amalya no longer had any trouble commanding her beast; she did not need him for that. The horses Eyul let loose. They would follow their noses to water. Eyul and Amalya set out towards Nooria, leaving Bazram and Poru in the sand.