The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Thirty-Two

Eyul stalked the dark corridors, watching the guards, searching for the ones who looked indignant or grieved, the ones who turned away, their mouths tight, when the subject of burning the former emperor arose: the ones who showed hate in their eyes when they saw Eyul, believing him to be Beyon’s killer. His task was to find these men and tell them when and where to honour their oaths.

It was not easy; most were reluctant to share their true thoughts with him. He had to avoid the ones who were shaking and frightened, though even they might turn to Beyon’s side when the time came.

Beyon had not revealed his plan; he had only told Eyul to send half of the loyal men to Mirra’s place in the desert and leave the other half here, in the palace, ready to turn on their fellows and Tuvaini. So to every other man Eyul told the path through the secret ways to where the river ran down the mountain at the edge of the desert. After three days he had sent a total of fifty-three men through the dark passages. Not enough to take back an empire.

Perhaps, as the days went by, Tuvaini’s leadership would create more men who were loyal to Beyon. He wondered; Tuvaini could come across as a good man, concerned and pious, and he did care about the empire. It was just as Amalya had said. Caring for the empire meant different things to different people. Tuvaini felt that meant he must lead. Eyul felt that he must not.

How odd it was that Beyon had turned to him, of all the people in the palace: the man who had killed his brothers. And he had meant to do so even before Tuvaini’s betrayal; weeks ago he sent Amalya to sound him out. Beyon had never been a friend, but he had known better than Eyul himself what it meant to be the Knife.

In the last hours Eyul had told Beyon about the city that rose from the desert, and how Pelar’s demon had directed him to the temple. He told him about Tahal’s otherworldly visit. He told him of the dead girl in the sand, and how two palace guards had tried to kill him. He told him Amalya was dead, and that only four mages remained in the Tower.

He held back that he had killed Amalya; he held back the voices in the emperor’s Knife; he held back his meeting with the hermit, and the deal he had made to kill Govnan. He did not want the Carriers to learn these things should Beyon lose his battle against the pattern-marks.

He turned a corner and came upon another guard standing alone. The feather on his blue cap tilted forwards sadly as he contemplated his hands. Eyul settled back against a dark wall to watch him. Finding the loyal men took time, time they didn’t have. He wanted to kill Govnan now, but he must attend to Beyon’s tasks first; Amalya would have wanted it.

How he longed to draw the Knife across the old man’s veins, taste the blood as it sprayed in the air. His throat almost hurt with excitement to think of it. This thirst for a kill was something new. It was ugly, but part of his soul now. He would have his revenge, and then the hermit could work his magic.

Soon now, soon.

The Blue Shield guard looked up and registered Eyul’s presence. His lips curled in disdain.

Eyul moved forwards.

At dawn Tuvaini rose from his chair and called for his body-slaves. He looked through his window at the courtyard where a few White Hats leaned in the shadow of the wall, their heads bent in conversation. The tiles spread out bare and white from their boots to the palace door. A quick movement caught his eye, but it was just a slave-boy, running after a ball—one of Beyon’s favorites, always playing when there was work to be done. He would not want to throw his ball in the courtyard once the pyre was lit. If it ever were lit.

Almost four days, Eyul. Where are you?

Tuvaini extended his arms so the slaves could remove his robes and wash him with scented water. Their gentle, slow touch made him impatient. He was neither their child nor their lover. He kept his gaze on the soldiers until soft hands drew fresh clothes over his nakedness. He fingered his blue sash. All his silks were simple, unassuming. He needed a tailor.

Dressed and perfumed, he opened the doors to the adjoining room where Azeem waited, forehead to the carpet.

“Did Eyul report during the night?”

Azeem shook his head, eyes down. They had had the same exchange every morning.

“Rise, Azeem.” Beyon persisted like a stone in Tuvaini’s slipper. He poured some water and let its coolness soothe his throat. A night without sleep had left him parched and dizzy.

“I will see Donato, then I would see the potion-master. What is his name?” Tuvaini knew his name well enough; he had purchased from him poisons aplenty, but Azeem did not know that.

“Kadeer, Your Majesty.”

“Kadeer.” Tuvaini lifted a date from the golden breakfast tray and brought it to his nose. Biting into it, he said, “Yes, I’ll see him, too.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Tuvaini smiled. He could afford that much for Azeem.

“The Empire Mother waits upon your attention, Magnificence.” Tuvaini chose another date and bit its dark flesh. “Does she,” he murmured. Nessaket of the flowing robes and dancing hair waited on his whim. He let that roll around in his mouth with the sweet fruit. “Let her wait. Come with me, Azeem.”

He had walked the emperor’s path to the throne room countless times, first with Tahal, and then with Beyon. Azeem walked beside him now, playing his own former role as faithful servant. Tuvaini hoped Azeem would be more faithful than he had been. He warranted watching.

On the dais the throne sat, tall and gleaming. He ran his fingers along the cool armrests and looked out over the room. Slaves hung tapestries and leaned soft pillows against the wall. Closer, at the foot of the dais, Arigu knelt in obeisance, waiting for him. Tuvaini waved Azeem off to fetch Donato.

As the great carved doors closed behind Lord High Vizier Azeem, Tuvaini said, “Rise, General.”

Arigu rose to his feet, but kept his gaze low to the floor. Tuvaini smiled. Everyone, from his slaves to his generals, was wondering how much he would remain the same, how much he would hold to his former habits and promises. “Why have you come, old friend? Is there a problem?” Arigu should be on his way into the desert by now if he wanted to get to the horse tribes before winter.

Arigu raised his eyes, concern painted on his face. He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I wanted to express my regrets at the terrible loss of your cousin, and pass along my best hope that Beyon will be captured.”

“I pray the same to Keleb, good General.”

“Our gods are strong, my Emperor, stronger than any other that might try to insinuate itself in our land.”

A look passed between them.

“You speak of the Mogyrks.”

Arigu had the feel for the common people—he always had. It was something Tuvaini lacked, but he could appreciate the value of a little rabblerousing.

“I do. In the desert, Your Magnificence, I happened upon a Mogyrk church, and around it, I saw the pattern.”

“The same pattern that marked our emperor.” Tuvaini lifted his hands above his head, getting a feel for the drama. He met the eyes of everyone in the room, especially the guards, and raised his voice. “An assassin silenced Prince Sarmin’s heart. An assassin, brought to the palace by Beyon himself.”

“A Mogyrk assassin,” Arigu met his eyes again, gaining confidence as he interjected, “from Yrkmir.”

“A foe once distant in both leagues and time,” Tuvaini said.

“But now so close as this very palace, Majesty.” Arigu stepped forwards, ignoring the bodyguards who drew steel and blocked his way.

Tuvaini kept his face still. This was Arigu’s moment. He would let him talk.

“We had forgotten the dangers of that faith,” Arigu continued. “They worship the dead god. They brought the pattern-curse to the emperor and killed Prince Sarmin.”

A cold shiver ran along Tuvaini’s spine. Arigu’s words made him feel something was missing, a gaping hole he hadn’t noticed before, as if he might step off the dais into empty space.

“A Mogyrk assassin,” he said. He looked out across the throne room at the tapestries depicting the Reclaimer’s victory. Once they had felt celebratory to him; now they read like a warning. “We will have our revenge.” Where is Eyul?

“The army loved Beyon well enough.” Arigu placed his boot on the first step of the dais. “He had a warrior’s soul. But the army best loves the man who puts it to its intended use.”

Tuvaini brought his eyes back to the general. Arigu smiled inside his beard. Behind him the guards looked at one another, excited. The wisdom of Arigu’s performance impressed Tuvaini.

“Nothing pleases the people like holy war, Majesty, old friend.” Arigu pushed a bodyguard’s blade out of his way and leaned closer. “That faith flows around our borders, a stinking tide, waiting to overwhelm us.” He spoke softer still. “Yrkmir is at the heart of what is not ours.”

Tuvaini rose and addressed his audience of slaves, guards and stray administrators. “The Yrkmen came to our doors with their evil faith in the time of my grandfather’s father. The years have weakened them and made us strong, and in their jealousy they took our prince. Let us now pay them a visit in return. If we take Yrkmir, the gods will be pleased, and will open all roads to us.” He nodded at Arigu. “You speak wisely, General. We shall attack in the spring. Go now to the horse tribes, before snow closes the passes. Win their allegiance.”

Arigu bowed. “As you command, Your Majesty.” He straightened, and spoke again, in a different tone, his voice lower. “There is something else.”

Tuvaini put the assassin from his mind. “What is that?”

“The wives—Beyon’s wives. There is a risk they bear the marks.” He leaned closer. “Or an heir.”

Arigu echoed Tuvaini’s own thoughts. “You never know. Beyon was cursed indeed, but it is not impossible.” Tuvaini had wondered about Beyon and his wives. He’d never shown any attachment to them, though they were beautiful, the prettiest flowers within reach of the empire’s plucking. Beyon must have been proud of that.

“Your Majesty?”

“Use them—draw him out. You know Beyon.” Tuvaini shrugged. “He may do something rash.”

Arigu gave another bow, tighter this time. He backed away from the dais, almost bumping into Donato and Kadeer as he exited the room. Tuvaini was no longer interested in Donato and his analysis of the provincial markets. Arigu’s performance had both excited him and left him unsettled and dissatisfied. With Beyon and Eyul unaccounted for, there was the question of his own protection. Arigu had spoken true: the soldiers had loved Beyon. Tuvaini should have consolidated his position over the men before sending them off to war, but he had no choice: Winter advanced.

In other days he would have found Lapella and been soothed. He gritted his teeth.

Azeem settled into a chair at the scribing table, ready to mark numbers and take names, but Tuvaini would be unpredictable today, changeable. He would show those same traits that had always frustrated him in Beyon. His gaze turned to where Kadeer embraced the floor. “Rise, Potion-master.”

Azeem leaned back and placed his quill to the side. Doubtless he found Kadeer, with his twisted beard and stained fingers, to be repellent. Only the cowardly or the unfit would ever seek him out. Tuvaini had been both, in the past, but no longer.

“Kadeer,” said Tuvaini, “is there anyone ill in the palace? Anyone asking for a cure?”

Kadeer studied the dais with beady eyes. “Not for some time, Your Majesty. I’ve had the usual—”

Tuvaini cut him off. “Define the usual.”

Kadeer cleared his throat. “Nobody has asked for anything beyond the occasional healing elixir for rheumatism, twisted stomach, sleeplessness—”

“Sleeplessness.” One pika seed brought peaceful dreams. Five pika seeds brought convulsions, choking and death. For a moment the sight of Lapella on her bed, distorted and ruined, filled his vision. “Who has asked for sleep ingredients?”

Azeem leaned forwards now, his interest overcoming his repulsion.

“Your Majesty, I feel that—”

Tuvaini snarled, “Don’t play with me, Kadeer.” He saw the fear in the man’s little eyes and felt some comfort, but it was as a drop of water to a parched man.

Kadeer drew in his breath, one last hesitation, before speaking. “The Empire Mother has trouble sleeping at night, Your Magnificence. She frequently asks for relief.”

Tuvaini looked past him to the tapestries, to the door, to the corridor beyond. The room felt small and close. The incense made it difficult to breathe.

“Your Majesty?” Azeem’s chair screeched against the marble as he stood. “Are you well?”

Tuvaini waved a hand. “I am quite well. Thank you, Kadeer. You may go.” He sat in the throne. Kadeer backed away, bowing as he left, leaving ripples in the silk runner. Six slaves rushed forwards to straighten it.

Azeem cleared his throat. “Your Majesty.”

“What is it, Azeem?”

“Donato awaits your attention, Magnificence.”

Magnificence. He would never hear Lapella call him that. He would never hear her laughter again, nor the little sounds she made when sleeping. Mogyrks, war, Carriers… Lapella had never used those words. He stood. “I shall—” I shall be the emperor. I shall make war, defeat our enemies, crush the pattern beneath my feet. “—retire.”

Azeem fell to his obeisance. All was quiet. Tuvaini turned and left the room.