The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Twenty-One

Mesema had heard nothing of Banreh. Perhaps he had already set off over the desert. Perhaps he sat in some other tent, scratching on his lambskin. Perhaps the emperor had killed him after all.

Sahree had not allowed her to get her own riding clothes from the trunk on top of the carriage. Instead she had, after much fussing, dressed her in thin silk pants and a long tunic. A wide blue scarf protected her head from the desert sun. “No padding?” Mesema asked Sahree, tapping her behind, but Sahree just shook her head and sighed.

She moved through the silk corridor once again, but this time it ended not with a tent flap but with open sand and a group of horses. Mesema’s heart lifted when she saw Tumble at last, waiting next to a tall steed; she hadn’t quite believed she would be allowed to ride. She clambered into the saddle with a yelp of joy and patted his mane. “You’re a good boy, you are, getting through all that heat and sand for me,” she said. From her elevated position she could see the entire camp: waggons were being loaded, tents struck, fires doused. Men in different colored uniforms—Arigu’s in white hats and the emperor’s in blue—hastened to their tasks. She didn’t see Banreh.



Everyone fell quiet, and she knew the emperor had arrived. He mounted the powerful horse on her right. He wore a rough tunic and breeches, nothing more than what a thrall might be given at her father’s holding; only the gold on his fingers showed him to be something more. Behind him, two soldiers in blue mounted their own horses. A fourth man waited well to the emperor’s right, his white robes fluttering, though no wind stirred. He looked at Mesema with eyes the color of the winter sky and she quickly turned away.

The emperor gestured towards the mountains ahead. “We’ll ride to the east.”

She didn’t ask where he was taking her—she didn’t feel that it mattered. He was the emperor, and if he wanted to take her to the top of a mountain or drop her down a well, it couldn’t be prevented.

He smiled then, a natural smile from a Rider in his seat.

“Let’s see you ride.” He set off, and she could see he treated his horse more as a thrall than an equal. Still, he rode well, and she had to struggle to keep up with him. She wasn’t used to the soft feel of the sand under Tumble’s hooves. The emperor rode ahead for the most part, but she managed to pull alongside for a few moments at a time. They exchanged no words. The blue-hatted soldiers followed at a distance, and behind them rode the strange man in white. When she turned, she could see them, sitting straight and awkward on their mounts.

The mountains towered before them, lit by the evening sun. In time the rock grew distinct, shadows marking lower peaks, crags and ridges. They passed from the dunes to where the sand rose in tiny ripples. She could see a great rise of mist from the rocks to her right, and a swathe of green that trailed away, heading south-west. This could be no other than the River of a Hundred Names, which fed the Felting in the valleys and flowed down into Nooria and beyond.

Mesema rode on, trailing the emperor, until the orange-lit rock face filled her vision. Here the mountain threw out two great stony arms, boulderstrewn and riven with deep clefts, in a protective embrace around an area of sand. The emperor steered his horse into the gap. Mesema looked up at the huge rocks that looked poised to fall and crush him.

“Come,” he called back to her. Cerantic did not have the authoritative inflection her own language provided, but she recognised the command in his tone. She followed, clinging to Tumble’s mane.

Once through, she drew in her breath. A riot of colours, yellow, purple and blue, danced from rock to rock. It could be the plains for all the flowers, except for the pale, shifting earth that lay beneath them. She slipped off Tumble and knelt by a sky-tinted blossom. She ran her fingers over the thick and fleshy petals.

“It looks like you,” he said. He’d come to stand beside her.

“The zabrina.”

Mesema stood and backed away.

“I meant the color is the same as your eyes.” He leaned over and snapped it from its stem.

Mesema frowned at the flower as he twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Why did you bring me here, Your Majesty?” Behind him, the soldiers had dismounted and were standing guard. She didn’t see the man in white and was glad for it.

“Do you see nothing here worth the bringing?” He threw the flower aside.

“It is pretty.” Mesema looked around at the colours, intensifying now in the last light of the sun. “Where is my father’s voice-and-hands, Your Majesty?”

Shadows reached across the valley.

“He has gone to join the rest of his body.”

She hoped he spoke truly. Mesema fingered the blue feather in her pocket. More questions bubbled up inside her. “Why didn’t you bring your brother the prince to greet me? Are you angry with him because of the general?”

“No.” He studied her with copper eyes.

She hugged her arms around herself. “Did he not wish to come?”

“He—” The emperor glanced back at his guards, but they were not within earshot. “He’s not like us.”

“Us? I am not like you, Your Majesty.” The words came out before she could stop them. She braced herself, but he only laughed.

“Correct: nobody is like me. I am the Son of Heaven.” He laughed again. “The gods’ favour is obvious, is it not?”

Mesema watched him laugh, feeling uncertain. Cerani humour eluded her. She took a few steps away, admiring the flowers that rose impossibly from the sand. The desert: this was the heart of the Cerani Empire. Her father had told her that a person who can live in the desert can live anywhere—fight anywhere. These flowers looked delicate, but they must be

strong, to survive here. Indomitable.

The soldiers pierced the ground with long torches and touched them with flame. Flowers did not look so pretty in firelight, but Mesema could still smell their perfume, and if she closed her eyes she could imagine springtime on the plains.

Mesema felt something hard underfoot and when she drew back her shoe she could see metal, glimmering low in the sand. She glanced at the emperor, but he had turned away and was looking at something in his hand.

Mesema lifted the item and turned it over in her palm. She’d seen such round discs before, in the sacks of the traders-who-walked. It was a coin, for people to use when they had nothing to barter. The face stamped on the coin looked like the emperor, but older. She dropped it and studied the desert floor. Other objects glittered in the flames, and she picked up each in its turn: a colored gemstone, a ring, a charm. She lifted the charm and held it up to the light of torches and sunset. A golden ship, held aloft by great clouds, twirled from her fingers. She turned it this way and that, trying to imagine if such a ship existed, one that could fly through the air. Sand shifted behind her and she tensed as the emperor spoke.

“These are offerings to Mirra, goddess of beauty, children, and healing.” One does not take what belongs to the gods. Mesema gave a solemn nod and replaced the cloud-ship, but not before its golden mast pricked her index finger. She hissed and pressed her thumb against it to stop the bleeding. “Your goddess has blessed this place, Your Majesty.”

He said nothing, but she could still sense him at her back. He expected her to make an offering.

Perhaps the goddess could be a friend. She might ensure Mesema’s child would be a glorious ruler as her great-uncle had foreseen. Mesema fingered the beads around her neck. Glass and ceramic brought across the mountains by the traders-who-walked, strung with some of her mother’s gold on a woollen string. She had nothing better other than the silk clothing Sahree

had given her.

No sooner had she begun to lift the necklace over her head than she felt the string snap between her fingers. The beads cascaded over her palm and onto the sand, a fall of sparkling colour. She watched them roll and bounce between other, half-buried offerings, until they came to rest in a serpentine line.

A wind blew from the west, sweeping the sand from around her feet and casting it against the mountain face. A long note sounded from the stone, higher and fuller than anything blown from a singing-stick. It seemed the final note of a longer piece, the last broken-hearted syllable of a mourningchant; it spoke of all the unheard notes that had come before it, chords that told of beauty, sorrow and violence. She felt it vibrate in her chest, and she knew that the entire song would have been too much for her to bear.

The guards fell into a whispered chant, while the emperor laughed once more. In a voice meant for only her, he said, “The ignorant say that Mirra sings for those She favors.”

The wind shifted then, bending the flower-heads towards the south, where she knew the city lay. The sand scattered around her feet, hinting at shapes and lines, moving towards something she almost recognised. The Hidden God offered at first only two vague figures and a few spidery lines, but then the wind blew harder and for one moment the image lay clear before her: a woman, knife in hand, with a fallen man at her feet. The sand offered no detail but she knew them even so: herself and the emperor.

Mesema felt each hair on her head standing on end. Her palms hurt where her fingernails dug deep. Her lungs began to burn before she remembered to inhale, and even then her breath came in gasps and gulps. She was more frightened now than when the Red Hooves had flown through her village on their cursed horses. Why would she kill an emperor? What would happen to her after she did?

She had to run away.

If she could get to Tumble, and start riding, the River of a Hundred Names would take her to the folk in the mountains, and they could take her home.

She swung about. The emperor stood directly behind her. No. She put out her hand and tried to push him away. The cut on her finger burned, and she screamed.

Darkness. Flowers, tobacco and leather. Someone held her.

“Mirra’s song was too much for her. Bring me the water, now, quick!” The emperor. She opened her eyes and looked at his face. He glared over her at the soldiers in blue, his eyes wild and furious, and she saw the cruelty there, the other side of his strength. Had he killed Eldra, after all? How long before she too became a problem best solved with a cut throat or an arrow?

He looked down at her and put a hand to her cheek. “Are you well?” She closed her eyes, fighting nausea. A message from the Hidden God. Its meaning was clear, and unavoidable, the most definite and most terrible message He had ever sent. It filled her mouth like a bitter root. “It is sometimes hard to serve the gods, Your Majesty.”

The emperor snorted. “Then don’t, unless you want to find your efforts wasted.”

He held her in silence for a time and she gathered herself. The emperor felt different from Banreh. Softer. His hair reminded her of her father’s. But my father doesn’t kill girls. Or did he? She remembered what Eldra had told her about pulling a spear from her sister’s neck. She didn’t know what to believe. I may be a killer, too.

“I’m better now,” she said. Her finger hurt.

As they rode towards the caravan, Mesema held tight to her reins, feeling so dizzy she feared a grain of sand might knock her from the saddle. The Hidden God had shown her a future, but she hoped it wasn’t true. Gods do not lie. They can be unclear, but they do not lie.

The emperor rode beside her, as lost in thought as she. The movement of sand filled the silence between them as the moon rose in the sky, a wide crescent. The Bright One moved closer, his long journey three-quarters finished.

“Tonight you will dine with me,” he said, and spurred his horse forwards.

Eyul left his camel in the valley and crawled up the dune on his elbows. Amalya waited below in the darkness. He looked out over the campsite and slid back down to her.

“The emperor’s caravan, a large one, with his and Arigu’s soldiers both.” “Do we join him?”

Eyul considered it. No. Get to the city first. Deal with Govnan. “They’re bound to move slowly. We’ll go around. If the scouts stop us, they stop us.”

“Eyul.” She looked at the crest of the dune, where the sounds of men and horses carried. “Since he’s here, do you think he was the one—?”

“I don’t know.” He gathered his camel’s tether and pulled. “There are more important things than a girl.”

Amalya moved her lips, but said nothing. She took her camel’s rope and followed him.

Sarmin closed his eyes and let his mind seek the Many. He moved among them, their whispers brushing against him as he passed. Their words shimmered on the edges of the pattern-shapes and pulsed into the threads, strengthening the pattern-bonds he passed between. Sarmin kept to the dark spaces, unseen, unnoticed.

A flash, and the Many turned as one, called by an unfamiliar touch, a vibration at the heart of the pattern. Sarmin felt it too, a prickling against his skin, a hollow in the design. One of the Many drew away. Sarmin followed, curious, ever cautious of the pattern’s Master.

“Rise.” Mesema rose from her obeisance and the emperor motioned her towards a low table. “Please, eat.”

Torchlight danced over the red cloth covering the table, revealing apples and gleaming oranges, flat pillows of bread, and bowls of steaming lamb decorated with zabrina blossoms of deepest blue. The scents of garlic and thyme reminded her of home.

She stood over the feast and stared at her reflection rippling in a golden plate. The body-slaves had crushed berries against her lips, giving them a bloody look, and swept her hair into a cascade of curls. She did not look Felting. She would never look Felting again.

Is this what a killer looks like?

She knew the emperor would not eat. Emperors were descended from the gods, Sahree had told her, and they did not break bread with mere mortals. He did, however, pick up a goblet and gulp down the sour red brew he’d shared with her before.

Mesema settled down and picked up a piece of bread. The emperor kept his eyes on her, as if she were giving a performance. She didn’t think she could eat, no matter how delicious it smelled. She crumbled a bit of bread between her fingertips.

“We should arrive at the palace soon.” The emperor’s voice fell deep and heavy, as if just thinking about the palace made him tired.

“You’d rather stay in the desert,” she murmured. Not a question.

“Always.”

He reminded her of a Rider in winter, restless, waiting for the day the raids would begin, but for the emperor there would be no raids. The empire was at peace, if living with the pattern could be called peace.

“What is the palace like, Your Majesty?”

He smiled. “Like a garden full of snakes.”

Like me. Mesema tried to bite the bread, but ended up just brushing it against her lips. The crust felt sharp and tough. She tried to push the evening’s vision from her mind.

“Something worries you, Zabrina.”

“Yes.” She took a gulp from her goblet—wine, they called it. She shaped the Cerantic word as the wine ran over her tongue, deciding how much to say. “The wind showed me something in the sand, Your Magnificence.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I saw the pattern.” She left out the rest, for now, and it made an empty space in the room.

He stared at her, his hand clutched around his goblet. “You play a game with me?” He lifted it in a rough movement and the wine sloshed over the side and ran across his fingers, but he didn’t take a drink. “There are enough women in the palace who play games. Perhaps I should have sent you home to your father.”

“I…” Banreh had warned her to keep silent. Mesema looked down at her hands. A smudge of blue showed on her fingertip, a threatening touch of colour. Everything seemed to slow as she wiped the mark against her skirt. She felt the soft threads against her finger, the fabric moving against her thigh, the sweat on the back of her hand. It’s just a mark from the colour they put on my eyes. It’s from the soap. It’s from the dye in my clothing. But when she looked at her finger again, the spot remained, taking the shape of a crescent moon. It sent a message she couldn’t read, though she knew it to be fearsome.

“What is it?” the emperor asked, putting his drink aside. She had nearly forgotten him. He would kill her now.

“Nothing.” Run. Go now—find Tumble and go. But she hadn’t run the first time, when she saw the vision in Mirra’s garden, and she wouldn’t run now. The emperor stared across the table at her, and she kept still as a tent pole. His face remained that of a stranger, his expressions alien and unreadable, except when transformed by anger.

“Show me.” He knocked the pile of food aside with his elbow and grabbed her hand. Fruit fell and rolled against her slippers as he examined her fingers. He must have felt her hand shaking. He must have felt her fear.

To end here, in the desert… She had seen death fly through her village on the back of red-hoofed horses. Jakar’s clouded eyes made a hollow in her that she felt to this day. Iron was terrible, but the pattern was worse. The pattern wrote your end upon you. It made you wait, knowing your death, wondering to what sinister goal you were to give your life’s breath.

At long last the emperor looked up and told her what she already knew. “A tiny moon.”

“No!”

“A pattern-mark.” His lips grew tight.

“It’s not!” Her mouth lied without asking permission.

He let go and patted her hand. “Don’t let anybody see it.” She watched him. He should kill her, or at least call his guards and have her removed, but instead he drank again from his goblet. If she were to guess at his expression now, she would call it worried.No, he will not kill me. It is I who will kill him. Would the pattern make her do it? At last she said, “I’ll… I’ll be careful.”

“When we get to the palace, I’ll have the mages protect you as they do me.”

They fell silent for a time. She thought about Eldra, first with the marks across her skin, and then lying on the desert sand with an arrow sprouting from her chest. She thought of herself, standing over the emperor with a knife.

“Your Majesty, why are you helping me?”

He smiled. “You have spirit. I wish I had known you before.”

“Before the pattern touched me?”

He shook his head. “In Mirra’s garden—when you touched me—my robes fell open. Isn’t that when you saw the pattern?” She stared at him, a dark idea taking form in her mind. Banreh had spoken of the emperor as if he were sick, as if he were going to die.

“You really do see things in the wind? And all this time I thought you played Settu with me. The way you always hinted at the pattern—”

“The pattern… was inside your robe?”

“But you are exactly as you seem. How do you do that?” He stood and untied his sash. Mesema thought she should turn her head, or tell him to stop, but a terrible fascination won her over. A truth hid behind his silks, ready to be revealed, and she wanted to see. The knot came loose and the purple silk fell to the floor of the tent.

“See.” He lifted her chin with one hand. She saw.

His flesh showed line upon line of red and blue, the larger shapes followed by smaller and yet smaller again, so that looking at his skin, she felt as though she gazed into the distance. His arms, too, were banded by pattern-shapes. In the centre of his chest, where a crescent moon floated above a series of smaller circles and polygons, she could see a smear of her own blood.

“I touched you, there,” she said. “I cut my finger on a little air-ship.” Would her skin look like this also?

“I have been patterned for years,” he said, “and I am still alive.” The crescent moon drew her eyes, the twin to the one on her finger. Blue outlined with red, her blood a brown smear across it, it seemed to stretch with each breath the emperor took. Stretch, and reach towards her.

She touched her finger to it, moon to moon.

Sarmin felt it again, a brightness between the pattern-threads. He moved towards it, feeling the silence around him. The others hung back, silent, waiting, though for what, he didn’t know. Closer to the brightness he felt many barriers, lines that stopped and twisted the pattern-threads and made them wrong. He studied the ugliness until he found a way to slip through.

The emperor drew in his breath, long and hard. “I remember,’ he said, “so many things.”

Mesema saw them too, the boys running in the throne room and hiding in the women’s wing. She heard the Old Wives singing and nibbled the honeycakes the cooks slipped into Beyon’s pocket. She could feel the taste of them on her tongue. She saw Emperor Tahal, laughing and reaching for her to sit on his lap. She saw her brothers, dead. She never stopped seeing them. She screamed and beat her fists upon the throne. She pushed her mother down the dais steps, seeing the hurt and confusion in her eyes. A gutted nobleman lay prone before her, his blood soaking into a silk runner. Then another, and another. Tuvaini spoke in her ear, soft and urgent, making her stomach twist. Then he left her, and the dark throne room echoed with her finger-taps. Light came and with it children, running across the courtyard, chasing a dog, laughing—but not her children. Never hers.

And the dreams carried her away from the palace. She spied on a caravan, watching a girl with wheaten curls. She thrust her knife at the vizier. She laughed at an assassin, knowing he was trapped.

I was an emperor.

She gasped and pulled her finger away. “Memories.”

“It can’t take mine. There are protections woven all around me.” His hand shook as he replaced his robe.

“But there were things you had forgotten until I touched you.” That, too, she had seen.

“I hadn’t forgotten them, not really.” He sat down, grasping at his purple

sash. “It’s more that I stopped feeling them.”

“Your Majesty,” she said, meeting his copper gaze, “listen. We are both trapped in the pattern-web.”

“In that case you should call me Beyon.”

Was he joking with her? She tried his name in her mouth.“Beyon. What shall we do? We have to stop it.” She thought of her promise to Eldra, not forgotten even when the feather lay beneath heavy wools in her trunk. He laughed. “What shall we do? You are ever brave, Zabrina, Windreader.” She didn’t feel brave, but she tilted her chin at him anyway. “I am Felt. We carry on.”

“Well, Zabrina, Felt, Windreader,” he said, moving to the door flap, “why don’t you have something to eat before you get some rest? We’ll reach the city soon enough, and then we can… do something.”

He didn’t sound convincing, but Mesema nodded before falling into her obeisance. He remained the emperor, and she would obey.

Sarmin had found a way through, only to discover new barriers before him, barriers made of moving ghosts: Pelar. Lana singing a melody in the women’s wing. His father, grunting with pain as he lifted himself from the throne. Every time Sarmin tried to move forwards, a new image from the past blocked his way. On the other side he heard voices. Beyon’s, and a woman’s. The woman’s accent was soft and sibilant. He wanted to stay and listen.

A voice purred in Sarmin’s ear, unexpected, smooth as the silk on his bed. “You move in my place, Stranger.”

Sarmin kept his mind still.

“The emperor is troublesome, isn’t he?” The Master took a conversational tone. “So many protections to move through. Nevertheless, he is mine. Not yours.” The last reverberated with anger.

Fury beat its wings in Sarmin’s chest. The Pattern Master didn’t sense it, or didn’t care.

“Beyon will serve me, alive or dead, broken or no. It is too late for him. And you…’

Sarmin felt himself falling.

“You do not belong.”

Sarmin fell past the whispers and calls of the Many, through the dawntinted desert sky and the dark places suspended in the pattern, between the gods painted on the ceiling and through the purple light of his room, and onto the pillows and comforters of his royal bed.