The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Thirty

"And the girl, Your Magnificence?” Azeem stood by the bottom step of the dais, his face polite, respectful, blank. Elevation to Lord High Vizier had wrought no discernible

change in the man.

“Not important.” No grandson of Tahal would threaten him now. Tuvaini eased back into the throne. It was not a comfortable seat. He drummed his palms against its stone arms as his mind rushed through the corridors of the palace, out into the winding streets of the city and along the wide roads that led to every corner of the empire. He had so many plans that he could not decide where to begin.

“I wish to invite some of the greater lords,” he said at last. “We must make it clear that we will work with them. Lord Zell of the

western province is the loudest when it comes to complaint. Send five men with silks, gems and fine wood—it must be a good load. And remind me, is Lord Zell married?”

“His wife died in childbirth three months ago, Your Majesty.” Tuvaini thought a moment. The girl. The gods had arranged everything perfectly for him. “The Felt are good breeders. Keep the girl here.” She wouldn’t marry a prince, but surely her father would be almost as pleased to see her with the empire’s richest lord. That would in turn please Arigu. “And Lord Zell will be further indebted, Your Majesty.” Tuvaini ignored

Azeem’s flattery and looked around the bare room—Beyon’s room. “Bring the cushions back, and the tapestries. It feels like a tomb in here.” Everything of Beyon’s felt empty and cold, as if he had just been waiting to die.

Well, tonight his time had come: his pyre would light the dark courtyard.

Tuvaini thought he would enjoy looking down on it from Lapella’s window.

He stood. “Where is Govnan?”

“In the treasury, Your Majesty, examining the texts.” Azeem met his eyes and the message was clear.

Examining my claim, seeing whether the supplicant, the last of a bastard line, has true right to warm the Petal Throne. No matter.

“Then I shall retire.”

Azeem fell into his obeisance. For a moment Tuvaini almost looked over his shoulder for Beyon or Tahal, for the emperor, but instead he walked from the dais and towards the doors. Everyone hugged the floor at his approach except for the blue-hatted guards at the door. They stood to attention, ready to follow him wherever he meant to go. Their eyes betrayed worry and sorrow. While not many had cared for Beyon, it had been said his soldiers loved him. Tuvaini had never seen that until now. He passed them without comment.

He walked, lost in thought, following long habit to Lapella’s quarters.

Zell had been the obvious lord to invite first, but things would be more difficult from now on. He would consult Donato in the morning about

trade in the provinces. Whom he invited, how, and in what order would affect his plans for the city markets.

He passed the fountain and remembered Eyul’s fight with the Carriers.

How simple the man was. Tuvaini rubbed his tired eyes. He must reward the assassin and see to the finishing of Beyon’s tomb, empty though it would be. Work would be stopped by bureaucrats as a matter of course because of the succession. The wheels of empire, powered by the slaves of pen and scale, were designed to turn with little guidance, but Tuvaini would guide the wheels in this. The common folk must not know the Carriers had struck so deeply into the empire. It was important to renew work on the tomb, to make it great for the city’s unknowing eyes.

The familiar sight of Lapella’s door drew him back from his worries. Tuvaini wondered if she slept, and how long she waited for him every night before surrendering to dreams. He turned the handle as the guards took up position in the hallway. They must wonder what business he had in the servants’ quarters. Let them wonder. He smiled to himself, picturing her reaction when he told her that he sat on the Petal Throne at last. Tuvaini stepped into the night of Lapella’s room. A single wide candle burned on the windowsill, its flame nearly drowned by melting wax. He crossed the dark space and lifted it, his gaze drawn downwards to where Beyon’s pyre should be. The courtyard swam in darkness. “Lapella.” His whisper sank into the unseen edges of the room, unanswered. In her mirror’s dim glass he saw the gleam of the light in his hand, and how it lit the curve of his palm and the line of his jaw. He stared into the black spaces of his reflection and shivered. It was a cold desert night.

“Lapella?”

A dark pool yawned before him: Lapella’s bed. He took a step forwards and a twisted shadow flickered against the wall, a crouching demon. He drew back, crying, “Lapella!”

The room kept its silence. Tuvaini took a breath and listened to the distant sounds of the city. Foolishness, he thought and moved to the bed. She faced away from him, her dark hair spread out across her pillow. His relief escaped in a short laugh as he reached for her shoulder. “La—” No. She lay arched backwards, her elbow twisting down into the mattress, one leg folded beneath her and the other sprawled off the side of the bed. Tuvaini opened his mouth and made a croaking noise. He ran his fingers through her hair, thick and soft as always, and touched her cold cheek. “I—” His breathing filled the quiet room. “Lapella, wake up. I have news for you.”

He waited, but Lapella didn’t move. Her right hand stood in the air, a frozen claw. Her left reached towards an over-turned dish. He leaned across the bed, his stomach pressing against hers. Five plump dates rolled towards him as the blankets shifted. He lifted one, and the dark flesh yielded under his fingernail to reveal a mixture of crushed nuts, honey and candied flower petals.

Lapella never bought such things for herself, and they hadn’t come from him. He dropped the sweet and wiped his fingers carefully.

“I didn’t know this would happen.” He spoke into her small, perfectly proportioned ear. A golden hoop was strung through the soft lobe. Her eyes

were turned from him, and he was glad of that. “I’m sorry.”

He imagined the way she used to shrug at him, her way of saying that all the waiting and disappointment were nothing to her; that she didn’t mind bearing it all, everything he had to bring her. He searched across the dark room for the outline of Mirra’s statue. “Perhaps Mirra wanted you beside her and so she took you away.” He’d heard such sentiments expressed in the past and he knew they were words she’d like to hear. Inside, he knew that Herzu had taken her, and not out of love.

He returned to the window. “How would you have me feel?” He stared into the darkness a while. The courtyard showed no movement, no fire. The room grew colder.

“I am the emperor now,” he said to her. “Everything is going to change.

Nothing would have changed for you, though. I’m sorry.” He turned and looked at her twisted form on the blankets. Poison could pull a person’s muscles in strange ways. He had seen it before. “I must go. Goodbye, Lapella.”

The door felt heavy, his shoes, heavy. The corridor was too bright. The soldiers followed him, their boots noisy on the floor. It set his teeth on

edge. Eyul had always been silent when they walked together. Perhaps as emperor he would set up a new guard using only Herran’s men. His eyes prickled. He blinked, staring at the tiles to keep from seeing her twisted arm. Silly. He shook his head as if to rid it of foolishness.

He turned a corner. He had no idea where to go. He passed the women’s wing and kept on walking.

Mesema crept down the tower stairs, the three-sided dagger in her hand. The weapon frightened her. Its sharp blade had already torn through the top of her skirt. She paused at a landing, listening for voices, but she knew the tower was not guarded—at least, not by people. Something else tickled at her skin. The tower stank of fire—not cooking fire, or the kind that kept the longhouse warm on winter nights; this smelled like dead fire, the stench the Red Hooves left behind them after killing Jakar and forcing Hola’s daughter. It had filled the air during their funeral rites, this smell of blackened stone and dark tears.

Ash covered the last flight of stairs, a black powder so fine that it rose up around her sandals like a cloud. As she moved towards the door she heard faint voices.

“Another five—put your coins there—” Laughter.

“No. Again.”

Mesema pushed the door open by finger-widths, and when nobody raised

their voice in alarm she slipped out into the wide hallway. Bright lanterns lighting the wall at regular intervals made her feel exposed, though the corridor was unoccupied. The voices came from her left. Young men—soldiers, she guessed—played a betting game of some kind. They were using words Banreh hadn’t taught her.

“Hey, Sazz, what are you doing here?” one of the men called out. “Did you hear the emperor—?”

Mesema didn’t catch the rest. Her finger told her Beyon was in the palace, but always far away, no matter how much she moved. She peeked around a corner to find another empty hallway.

“You’re in the wrong place, my lady,” said a blue-hatted guardsman, quiet on his feet. “I’ll take you to the wives’ quarter, yes?”

She let him lead the way, past the barracks.

“—madness, to spend the whole winter in the north—”

“—say the girls there open their legs for nothing more than a smile. They’ll keep us warm enough—”

The soldiers stood with their backs to the corridor, paying no attention to her or her guide.

“I heard they all have behinds wide as cows.”

A second man laughed. “Then I hope we can tell the difference before it’s too late.”

Mesema’s ears burned, but she kept her head down and followed close on the guardsman’s heels. The corridor ended in a dark entryway, and she recognised the temple of the terrible god, Herzu. Her stomach clenched with hunger. She longed for the smell of rain and the sound of Banreh’s voice. The god would not let her pass without reminding her of these things.

The guardsman led her down a new corridor. On the wall to her left, thousands of tiny stones formed a battle scene: warriors of jade and onyx, raising swords behind their king. The king wore red, and his eyes gleamed topaz. On the other side of a great green field waited the enemy, their white robes flowing, their faces flat and indistinct. She kept the dagger across her belly, shielding the blade behind her arm, the point nearly at her elbow. Fighting the pattern was not the same kind of war, but already Eldra had given her life and Sarmin his blood. Would she have the strength to use her weapon when the time came? She picked up her pace to match the guard’s strides. She would have to be strong. She had promised Eldra, and now Sarmin had promised her.

They climbed stairs laid with the plush carpet of the women’s quarter. At the top the guardsman opened his mouth to speak, but a glance along the corridor stopped him; he threw himself into obeisance, and when she stood, confused, waved her down beside him with some urgency. Mesema turned her head ever so slightly on the carpet, squinting for a glimpse. She had spent quite enough time with her face pressed to the ground—a lifetime’s worth, in just a few days.

Five men approached the steps, a white-faced man in blue robes and four soldiers in blue. Each looked lost in his own thoughts, sad, confused. What had happened? They paid her no attention. The man in blue looked everywhere, but saw nothing. His eyes searched for something else. She saw his face for a moment. It was narrow, touched with some of Beyon’s features: the strong nose, the wide mouth.

The man passed and went down the stairs, the soldiers behind him.

Her guardsman stood with caution. “Go on, quickly—and don’t wander again. This is not a night for it.”

He left her without another word and hastened after the men.

On the far side of the landing stood a wooden bench piled high with cushions. Mesema had just one more hallway to cross, but suddenly she felt too exhausted to move. The bench reminded her of her longhouse bed. She could have curled up among those cushions and slept for a week, if her stomach hadn’t been twisting with hunger. Instead she grabbed a cushion, cut it open and shoved her dagger inside. The cushion was not stuffed with wool, as she had expected, but fine white feathers that rose in the air like snow. She hurried on, not pausing until she passed the grand staircase and saw the heavy carved doors. What would they think, to see the Felting woman in a torn dress smeared with Sarmin’s blood, carrying a ripped pillow? The sound of soldiers on the stairs gave her no time to think. She pushed against the wood and ran through into the women’s wing.

Lanterns cast low light, glimmering off the golden trim in the ceiling. Nobody sat on the cushions or wandered the dark corridor. All the women must be sleeping. Mesema rubbed her tired eyes. There were so many doors, she could barely remember which was hers.

Under the window, as high as her hips, stood a green vase with a golden lid. Perhaps she could hide her dagger inside until the morning? She leaned down to open it. A familiar scent tickled her nostrils and brought her back home to her mamma, sitting in the longhouse that last day. She reached in and touched the contents to be sure.

Her mother needn’t have given her the resin for stopping babies. They had enough of it here, at the palace. That was why Beyon had no heirs: they’d been denied him.

When a Felting girl showed herself barren, she became the property of her father and brothers for ever, forced to play whatever role they decided she should play. But perhaps for Beyon the opposite was true: if he played a role, then they would give him a child.

But he hadn’t, and so they had turned to his brother and fetched Mesema from the Wastes.

But who were they?

She sat next to the vase, the pillow dropping from her hands. She remembered Arigu’s deceptions, and Eldra’s death. She remembered how Nessaket had mocked her son the emperor, telling him he was slow—slow to understand that there was more to fear besides the pattern and its Master.

Beyon was not, as he claimed, the final authority in the palace. Others—the Pattern Master, his mother, Arigu—wrapped strings about him and pulled, and when they were finished with him, they would get rid of him, just as they had his brothers.

And then what would happen to Sarmin?

Mesema grabbed her pillow from the floor and hurried down the hallway, looking for her ocean-painted room.

Sarmin sat on his bed, running his mind across the pattern-threads like a musician would bow his strings. Meeting Mesema—his bride—made it difficult to concentrate.

He’d lived with his five books since he came to this room. They told him of the empire, statecraft, the gods, war, and how to behave at court, and now he had a new book, that made his skin feel hot. But none of his books spoke of love. He thought of the poets who had come to his father’s court. With the women cleared from the room they would sometimes speak of their hearts, though Sarmin couldn’t recall the words they had used.

He wanted Grada. He recalled the closeness of her, the intimate touch of her skin and her mind. Mesema’s lips invited him, but he knew Grada, muscle to bone. Was that love? He hadn’t been able to answer Mesema on that point. It disturbed him, a flaw in the design.

The diamond that was Grada’s soul hid in the Tower, but he felt it gleaming at him from across the city. He concentrated, moving lightly along the pattern’s threads, bypassing charms of ice and fire set to protect the Tower’s residents from intrusions such as his.

“Grada.”

“Prince!” Surprise and relief, followed by hesitation. “You need me?” A flash of a white room, simple clothes, more than she’d ever had, but nothing too rich, nothing that felt wrong to her.

He felt foolish. “No, nothing—”

“What of the pattern? Have you freed more of us?”

He sent a simple thought, a negative.

She fell quiet, occupied with something. Her hands moved and pulled— weaving, perhaps—but so late? He could move into her, watch from behind her eyes, if only it didn’t feel like invasion, him sliding into her as she had slid her knife into him. “It is late. Forgive me.” He began to turn away.

“Prince!” Her hands went still. “What have you learned?” With those words she lifted a weight of stones from his chest.

“I will tell you.” He told her of Mesema, of her pattern-mark, and of the church that rose from the sands. Sometimes he told her in words, other times he grew tired and instead offered images, scraps of ideas, and the tinge of questions that ran along the edges of his mind.

When he finished she was quiet, though her thoughts were turning. Then she opened her own mind and showed him her room, the door ajar and the ladder leading down, the streets of the city, loud and dark, and at last, the Low Door, the one he had never seen before, that led out to the desert sands.

“I can be a knife hidden in your sleeve. I can help you,” she told him.