The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER One

Twenty paces to the north, fifteen to the west. Enough to bound a room, but few to encompass a man’s world. Sarmin knew every color and touch of his soft prison. When he extended his fingers they found no iron bars or cold dungeon stone. Only the curving scrollwork along the walls, the gods fixed upon the ceiling, and the flowers carved into the door marked his barriers. Nevertheless he could not leave. He paced, his bare feet deep in silken carpet.

Only silk can bind a royal.



But other things bound him too. His memories. His dreams. His mother, sitting now on a low bench, waiting for his acknowledgement. These threads caught him so tightly that sometimes he couldn’t breathe.

He paced, and his mother said nothing. She only fingered the blue gem around her neck. After sundown it would burn like blue fire in the lantern light. He remembered it dangling before his childhood eyes when she pulled the soft covers around his chin at bedtime.

But that was two lifetimes gone, and other things occupied her now. She came seldom, even in the day.

Sarmin settled on the edge of his bed and reaccustomed himself to his mother’s face. Save for some spidery lines about her mouth, she could be as young as he. Hair dark as calligraphy fell around her bare breasts. They proclaimed her two sons, born alive. Even if Sarmin had perished with the others, she would have the right to show where he once suckled.

The idea of such intimacy seemed absurd to him now. Her eyes wrote a story of ruthless choices, her pupils the quill-tips. Yet she spoke humbly, as befitted a woman. “I am concerned for the emperor.”

The emperor. There was something yet unbound within Sarmin after all. He felt it stir beneath his ribs. “What ails my brother?”

A flicker at the edge of her mouth. “None of his wives has quickened. We have prayed and sacrificed, and yet there is no heir.” A wrinkle of her kohl-thickened eyebrows. “I am frightened for him.”

Sarmin imagined Beyon’s wives scurrying through the palace with both breasts covered, the scorn of the Old Wives heaped upon them. The free thing inside him twisted again.

“Then I am concerned as well, but I know nothing of medicine.” Sarmin spoke the truth. He knew only this room and the five books it contained. Those books held everything he would need to know if his brother died: the histories, the gods, how to eat roast pimicons with a tiny spoon. But that was not the reason for his reply. His soft room didn’t fool him into thinking the palace had no sharp edges.

She watched him. He laid his hands on the cool fabric of his sheets and waited.

“I have found you a wife,” she said.

His hands curled around the silk.

To everything there is a season. A time to be born, and a time to lie still in the courtyard with your blood draining through a slit throat. A time to pace. Fifteen by twenty, fifteen by twenty. Time enough to pace, to walk off youth, to count away a hidden lifetime. A time to marry.

“My son?”

My son.

“If it is time, then I will marry. Emperor willing.” The last he said with emphasis.

It made no difference to her. “I will make the arrangements.” She stood, whip-thin, one eye reproving him. “Do you not stand when the Empire Mother stands?”

Sarmin hastened to his feet. Etiquette. It was a small title for a most heavy book, the largest of his five. He even knew the page, four hundred and eleven, two hundred and six pages beyond the eating of pimicons: “Rarely is it seemly for a noble man to notice a woman at court, but when a woman ranks sufficiently high above one, even the nobly born must offer courtesies.”

She turned from him and went to the door. There had once been warmth at partings, in a time before the world shrank to this single room. He remembered softness and enfolding arms as one remembers a taste or scent. Maybe it had never been so. In many empty hours he named everything “before” a false dream, the delusion of a sick mind. But now…

“Mother?”

Her gaze fell upon him like hard words. No softness there. Young Sarmin had died with his brothers. A ghost inhabited this room.

He dipped one shoulder to her. “Never mind.”

For the slightest moment something tugged at her face. She was, after all, the one who had saved him. “I will send a new book,” she said.

A knock, the creak of hinges, and she was gone.

Alone again as always, Sarmin paced the worn track of his days. He walked beneath the impassive gaze of the gods. He knew better than to ask them what would come, though the question fluttered behind his lips. The gods never answered. The others watched him, hidden, but he would wait for the privacy of full night to summon them forth.

As the window’s glow faded, his slaves arrived: one pale as paper, the other dark as ink, and though ink and paper spoke together in books there was never a word between these two. They were stories untold, tantalising and mysterious.

Paper kept his eyes lowered to his tasks and obeisances. His arms were thin and looked translucent as the alabaster window. Ink’s arms were stronger, and he met Sarmin’s eyes with his own, dark brown and intelligent. Usually it made Sarmin’s breath catch, but tonight he felt immune to such minimal contact.

The slaves carried lanterns.

Sarmin looked to Ink. “No light,” he said.

The two left as quietly as they came, bowing their way backwards to the door. Sarmin noticed how Paper hesitated, letting Ink exit before him. The low voices of the guards in the hallway wafted towards Sarmin like exotic scents. The door closed and the lock turned.

All fell quiet.

The jewelled colors of Sarmin’s room faded into the night, his window lit with moon-glow. Once, this room had been salvation. He had punched through that window and seen his brothers sprawled upon the courtyard stone. They died, and he had been saved, a loose thread held against an unknown future.

“Your father is dead.” She had come at last, days later, and with those words his mother had changed his world.

He thought he had been saved. But he had only exchanged a quick death for a slow one.

Sarmin missed the high laughter of his brothers, the wild chases, the fights: all of it. One night took them all. Five given to the assassin’s knife and one transformed. Beyon, whom he’d worshipped as an eldest brother, now elevated to the Petal Throne. Truly a living god, though surely none adored him as Sarmin had before their father died. How would he seem now, after the slow passage of fifteen years? Sarmin tried to imagine Beyon’s smile on an emperor’s face, but could see only the grim mask their father wore. Even now the memory made him tremble, but with fear or rage he could not tell.

No matter what his mother said, whatever memory of love flickered over her face, his solitude held the truth of it. The old bitterness soothed his mind and he nursed it, letting it sink its fangs deep.

In the dark, the free thing inside him beat stunted, heavy wings. He rolled to his side and searched for the hidden ones. They might answer his questions.

But a noise distracted him. At first, he thought he imagined it. He lay on his side a while longer, studying the scrollwork, but it came again. Below the distant wind-wail of the Tower-wizards, a soft scratching. And again, too deliberate for any mouse, a scrape of steel on stone.

He knew every crack and seam in these walls. How many days had he spent searching for an escape? Would they total a year? Two? He’d have found a trigger the size of a hair by now; of this he felt sure. But when he raised himself on an elbow, eyes searching the gloom, he discerned a quill’s width of flickering light, growing impossibly larger.

An opening.

A man, silhouetted by torchlight, came through the wall. In one hand he held a dacarba; Sarmin recognised the long knife from a picture in his Book of War. It had a narrow blade, sharp enough to slide between the ribs and pierce a man’s heart, made three-sided for extra harm.

Sarmin sat up and slid from the bed to the soft floor. His turn had come around at last. A squeal of a laugh escaped his lips, though part of him despaired. Perhaps he would finally be free.

The assassin leaned against the wall, closing the secret door with his back.

A time to die.

The man must have seen something in Sarmin’s expression, for he grimaced and sheathed his knife. “Please excuse the weapon, Your Highness,” he said. “The door trigger is on the inside, a shaft the length of a dacarba’s blade.”

Your Highness. He was Prince Sarmin, next in line to the throne, and he bent knee to no one but the emperor. If he knew nothing else, held no other power, there was that.

“Who addresses me?” Sarmin summoned the authority he remembered from his father’s voice and made his eyes like his mother’s.

“Tuvaini, my lord. I am Lord High Vizier.” Tuvaini stepped forwards, his face shadowed and indistinct. “I have come to discuss a matter of empire.”

Sarmin laughed again. “Empire? This is my empire.” He swept the room’s span with one arm.

“You remain here because that may not always be true, my lord.” Tuvaini held himself motionless, his face bland.

Sarmin was a spare, a replacement, a contingency plan for other men. He’d known it for years, but to hear the words out loud in this silent place… He looked at his hands, balled into fists, hands that had never touched a real blade.

“Two visitors in a day,” Sarmin said. “There have been months when I had not so many.” He crossed the room to face Tuvaini. The man stood an inch or two taller, and the planes of his face caught the moonlight.

An acid thrill burned Sarmin’s spine. He reached towards the dacarba’s sheath, but Tuvaini put a protective hand over the leather. “Give me your weapon,” Sarmin said.

“My lord, I cannot.” The vizier shook his head. “We have important matters—”

“You walk through my wall. You pass in secret,” Sarmin cut across him. “Would you have me tell my mother of this visit? Would you have me call the guards who sit outside my door?”

“My lord, I come on a mission of great delicacy. What I have to say concerns you deeply. Your future hangs in a balance that I can sway.”

They stared at one another. The moonlight made tiny pearls of the sweat on Tuvaini’s brow. Another second, and he raised his hand from the knife’s sheath.

Sarmin reached for the dacarba and held the triangular blade before his eyes. With the right edge, any tie might be cut, any bond broken. “But what if I pray for death?”

“My lord, please…” A tremble replaced the surety in Tuvaini’s voice.

Sarmin’s skin tingled. The courtier had come to trade in politics, but found a man who dealt in alien currencies. “The dacarba is mine. Your gift to me. A token of the—the bond—between us,” Sarmin said. He set the knife upon his bed. “So, I’ve been remembered? My brother cannot sow the seed of dynasty no matter how fertile the fields, or how many?” Sarmin marvelled at the words flooding from him. The eaters of hashish, the men who drew opium from their hookahs, did they feel like this? And what drug had lit freedom for Sarmin? He glanced once more at the vizier and in that instant knew the answer. For so long he’d lived at the sufferance of others, under the will of silent men. And here in one glorious blaze of circumstance he held power, for the first time ever.

But he knew from the Book of Statehood that there would be a price.

“Why do you seek me out, Tuvaini, and at such risk? If my brother thinks you move against him, it will be the end of you.”

The vizier hesitated, as if gathering strength. “It is not only to please heaven and win an heir that the emperor burns the Patterned.” The certainty entered his voice again. “Your brother carries the marks now. I had it from the executioner who slew the royal body-slaves. The sands run swiftly. The time may come when it is you, and not Beyon or his son, who sits upon the Petal Throne.”

Beyon. Sunlight and wood, laughter and punches; the lost joys came to him unbidden. That price was too high.

Treachery. He’d been frightened to see it in his mother’s eyes, but the vizier didn’t scare him. He moved in close and looked up at the man’s thin nose and heavy brow. “You speak of replacing the emperor,” he hissed. “Do you think I have no love for my brother?”

“Of course you love him, my lord, as do I,” whispered Tuvaini, dark eyes flicking to the door. The real door. The guards outside carried heavy swords, hachirahs that could cut a man in two.

“I love our empire, and our beautiful city. Your brother is the embodiment of all that I love.”

“Then why come to me? Find a doctor.” Sarmin took a half-step towards the exit, towards the guards, and the vizier drew a harsh breath.

“Please, my lord, there is no cure for the patterning!”

Sarmin turned to face him again. “If I am to be emperor, you don’t need to come in the night and tell me so. Why are you really here?”

Tuvaini took another breath. “Your Highness… has your mother been to see you?”

Sarmin felt it best not to share. “Why do you ask?”

Tuvaini’s words tumbled out like hair from an overstuffed pillow. “It was my lord’s mother who saved you. Glory be to her name, she foresaw this day. But she is a woman, my lord, and for a woman she has too many ideas. She thinks of the Felting folk to the north, and an unclean daughter there. My lord, these men are savage. They eat from besna trees and drink the milk from the mare’s nipple. Your brother is marked… This cannot be the right woman for you. We cannot risk another curse.”

Sarmin waited, but the man had finished. Sarmin wondered if he spoke true. He knew nothing about these men to the north. He examined the vizier’s face. Tuvaini was like a book in himself. He knew of the court and of the many tribes surrounding the city. He knew about power.

And so could Sarmin. A forgotten Settu tile can set the whole game in motion. Sarmin knew the rules from the Book of War. Though he had only ever played against himself, he knew with the right alignment, one tile could clear the board.

Tuvaini glanced behind him as the secret door eased open. Someone waited beyond.

“My mother has no way to approach these people,” Sarmin said. He remembered. Wives could not leave the palace, even the Old Wives.

“This is not true, my lord. Forgive me for correcting you,” said Tuvaini with an unrepentant look. “Your mother is very close to one of our generals, Arigu. It is he who carries out her wishes.”

Sarmin met Tuvaini’s eyes. A struggle, then, between his mother, this general, and the vizier, with Sarmin in the middle.

“You will come back next week and give me your impressions of General Arigu.” Tuvaini would have to obey him; that was in the Etiquette book.

Tuvaini’s eyes narrowed before he pressed his knees and head to the carpet. “As you wish, Your Highness,” he murmured into the silk. He stood, took three steps back, and ended on the other side of the stone door. He pushed it to.

Sarmin looked with longing to the passageway, but instead he turned to the guards’ door and knocked. “I wish for light.” Silence answered him, but he knew the slaves would be called back, the fire would be fetched. He stood in the centre of the room. His eyes focused on the scroll-worked walls, finding the deeper pictures in the pattern, the spirits watching from complex depths. There for those with eyes to see, and time to hunt.

He unfurled before them, a new Sarmin, strong and free.