The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Thirty-Three

Mesema sat with the women for a lunch of honeyed river-fowl seasoned with yellow pollen. They sat together on the cushions, sharing the food from common platters. The eldest, wives of Beyon’s father and grandfather, helped themselves first. They murmured among themselves and paid no heed to Mesema or Beyon’s wives. After they had their fill, Atia, the tall, dark First Wife, took her food, followed by Chiassa, Hadassi, and finally Marren. Lana did not take her share until everyone else had served themselves, though she had the status of an Old Wife. She was so small and timid that Mesema wondered how she had survived so long in the palace. But then she remembered Beyon kissing Lana’s forehead, and how much straighter Lana had stood in the emperor’s presence. Beyon’s affection had protected her all these years.

Mesema did not feel that Beyon’s attentions would yield her the same benefit. Something had happened in the palace, signalled by the arrival of the High Mage. The women whispered nervously among themselves, but nobody quite knew what to make of things: Beyon had not returned, and Mesema feared that his marks had been discovered. If that were true, then all the women connected to him had instantly lost their status and protection, even if they did not know it yet. She longed to go to Sarmin again and ask him, but she had not found a time to slip away, and perhaps it would not be so easy to walk the palace unattended again. She wished she knew how to open the secret door in the hall.

Atia was gazing at her over a platter of fruit. In the lantern light her brown eyes looked orange, like fire. “So many important thoughts for a horsegirl.”

Mesema swallowed. “Blessings, I did not mean to be rude.” “Blessings,” echoed Chiassa with a smile.

“You would be rude,” said Atia, turning her attention to a plump fig, “if you welcomed Beyon into your room before he has been to each of ours. You are to be last in his attentions, do you understand?”

The Old Wives stopped their murmuring. Lana laid a hand on Mesema’s arm. No one reached for a plate or cup.

“Yes,” said Mesema, “I understand.”

“Atia would have you wait for ever, as we do,” said Marren with a wink.

Chiassa gave a high-pitched giggle. Atia’s cheeks turned red, but the silence was broken and the women resumed their meal. Mesema looked from one wife to another in confusion. If they wanted Beyon to visit them, if they cared about him, why did they use the resin? Why did they help his mother work against him?

Because they are afraid, as I am.

“I don’t wish to offend you. I would like to be friends.” Mesema set down her meat and rinsed her fingers in a bowl of rosewater.

“When she’s not riding horses with the emperor, anyway,” Hadassi muttered.

Mesema sighed to herself. She never should have mentioned Tumble.

“What?” said Atia, nearly choking on her fig. “Riding horses? I won’t allow it.”

Lana spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Keleb has showered wisdom upon the emperor, heaven bless him. Don’t you think that Beyon should decide such things?”

Mesema smiled at that narrow, timid face. She already thought of Lana as an aunt or grandmother. “It’s all right, Little Mother,” she said, grasping Lana’s hand. “Walk with me.” She stood and curtsied at the women. “Blessings of the day.”

“Blessings,” Chiassa said again, though the others just stared. As they walked, the women’s whispers fading behind them, Mesema studied the women in the niche-pictures. They were all the same: pretty, docile. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she was disappointed: pretty and docile weren’t going to help her survive. She needed allies.

“Lana, I’m curious. Does Beyon have no sisters?”

“He does, but their marriages were arranged long before his father’s death. They have been gone for many years. Nessaket made sure the contracts were honoured.”

Nessaket. The Empire Mother spent most of her time outside the women’s wing. Mesema wished that she could do the same. “Lana, have I met everyone in this wing? It’s just us, the Old Wives, the young wives, and Nessaket?”

“Yes.” Lana almost said more, but fell silent instead.

Picking her way through secrets, again. Before Mesema could ask another question, they turned into the ocean room and she saw her trunk waiting by the bed, its unstained wood and simple brass fittings too plain for its surroundings. She dropped Lana’s hand and rushed towards it.

“Your things?”

“Yes.” Mesema pushed the trunk open and pulled out the blanket on the top. It was heavy and thick, too warm for the desert, but she placed it on her bed anyway, still folded. Next was her wedding dress, which made a soft jingle as she lifted it. She felt a lump in her throat when she remembered the women stitching around the fire. The women here didn’t sew; they only prettied themselves and whispered.

She could see now that the dress wasn’t colorful or revealing enough to wear in the palace. She put it aside with a little sigh.

She ran her hands through the rest of her few possessions: Woollen stockings—why had she thought she might need those? Copper hairpins. A necklace made of river-shells. Riding gear. All these things belonged to a girl, not a woman. A flash of blue set her digging and she pulled Eldra’s arrow-fletching from the bottom. Her eyes filled with tears.

“What happened?” Lana stepped forwards.

“Nothing. I just—”

But Lana looked behind her and hurried away, leaving Nessaket standing there instead. Mesema buried the feather and closed the trunk before pressing her head to the carpet.

Nessaket wasted no time. “The prince is dead. The emperor is deposed.”

Beyon—they found his marks! Mesema sucked in her breath. Sarmin was not really dead, she knew this. Did Nessaket?

So easily she casts off two sons.

“Rise. We will honour our alliance with your father.” Meaning there would still be war. “And we will find a place for you.”

What? Mesema straightened her skirt as she stood. Her thoughts raced ahead of her, leaving her mind blank. Where are you, Beyon? Her finger told her nothing. She pressed it against her skirt.

Nessaket had already turned away and was looking out into the corridor. “Stay in your room until evening.”

“May I ask why, Your Majesty?”

She barely glanced back at Mesema. Something else had her attention. “There are assassins and Carriers about. Stay in your room.”

Mesema’s heart skipped a beat. She’d seen Sarmin’s blood and Beyon’s marks, but Nessaket’s words shocked her, nevertheless. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“No matter what you hear.” And she was gone.

No matter what I hear? The Empire Mother was expecting something— was she part of it? Part of what?

Mesema sat on the bed and gathered a cushion to her, the one with Sarmin’s dagger inside. Her mother had thoughtfully packed needles and threads in her trunk. She could sew the pillow up a little bit, if her hands weren’t trembling so. She wanted to run through the halls, out to the courtyard, find the stables, get on Tumble…

If I can find the river, then I can find my people…

And so would the pattern. After a time she rose, walked to the window and peered through the carved wooden screen. The women of the palace could look out upon the soldiers, but none of them could look in. The women belonged to the emperor.

The emperor. So was there no emperor now? The soldiers moved about as if nothing strange had happened. White-hatted men were loading a waggon train. Mesema thought some of their horses looked familiar. Of course. Her eyes followed a chestnut mare being led through the courtyard. Those horses belonged to Arigu’s men.

Arigu was here, in the palace. He hadn’t fled—had he exposed Beyon? Or was it Nessaket? Or someone else?

If Beyon is exposed, then what about me? She pulled the pillow close. Always with the selfish thoughts—she was born under the Scorpion’s tail, after all. Sarmin was selfless in comparison.

Male voices murmured in the corridor—not Beyon’s, not Arigu’s; nobody she recognised. She crept across the room and opened her door a crack to peep out. A soldier stood between two graceful fountains, glancing uninterestedly at the colorful walls. She cringed as his dark eyes slid over her, but she remained unseen. He moved forwards, and eight men came behind him. He turned and whispered orders, pointing at several closed rooms. The men went through the doors.

Mesema watched the leader, hoping for some clue to what was happening. He tapped his finger against his belt, as if tracing a beat to a song. She wondered what it might be. She’d never heard a Cerani song, but now she thought maybe they had drums just like Felting ones. Doors reopened; his fingers stopped moving and he made a fist instead. He closed his eyes.

Hadassi’s angry voice pierced the air. “What is the meaning of this? My husband will kill you for entering this wing!”

“You’re not allowed in here!” Marren sounded more annoyed than angry.

A third woman screamed, and everything went silent except for the sound of footsteps on carpet. The men returned in twos, each hauling one of Beyon’s frightened wives between them. Mesema moved from the door and crouched on the floor close to the wall, her breath suddenly ragged in her throat.

“I demand an explanation,” she heard Atia say. “We are the wives of the emperor.”

The leader spoke. “The emperor,” he said, “is dead.”

Mesema knew that was a lie; her finger traced Beyon’s movements somewhere on the other side of the palace. But his wives had no way of knowing this. She kept her head low to the floor and peered out again, the daggerpillow still clutched between her hands. The wives stared at one another until, in a single moment, they all reached the same thought.

“None of us is pregnant,” said Chiassa, touching her straw-colored hair. “He had no heirs.”

Mesema remembered the green vase. She wondered where Lana might be right now. Had Nessaket warned her as well?

“We’re not here to kill you and the unborn,” said the leader; “we’re to take you downstairs. That’s all.”

“The assassin will kill us, then.” Hadassi tried to jerk her arms away from the soldiers who held her as Chiassa screamed and fainted.

Mesema drew her arms about herself and tried to still her trembling.

The leader sighed. He looked sad, and yet impatient. “Come, now.” But Hadassi had finally struggled free and now she ran towards the end of the hall. Mesema wondered if she was making for the secret door. The two soldiers who had held her chased behind, one laughing as if it were a game. He caught Hadassi just as she passed Mesema’s room and grabbed her by the hair. “We’ll make it quick, then,” he grunted, and something warm and dark splattered Mesema’s face. What—? She wiped it from her eyes as the dark-haired woman lay spasming, face-down on the floor. The soldier moved away. A metallic, salty taste filled Mesema’s mouth. Blood. The soldier had drawn his dagger over the woman’s throat, and the blood…

Mesema screamed, squeezing the pillow between her hands, creating a snow of feathers.

The soldier swung around, astonished at first, and then amused. He held the dagger, still dripping, at his side, not ready to use, but not sheathed either. Mesema kept her eyes on his face.

He prodded her door wider. “It’s the savage girl, crawling on the floor with feathers.”

“Maybe that’s how they say welcome.” The soldier’s partner arrived at his side, stepping over Hadassi’s twitching body. “If you know what I mean.”

“Hey—” Another of the soldiers leaned forwards. “Wasn’t she with him? The emp— Beyon?”

“I heard she was in his tent.” The killer’s eyes were dark, almost black.

His partner licked his lips and waved his dagger like a fan. His green eyes darted back and forth as he studied her skin. Banreh had told her the ones with the light-colored eyes were given by their families as payment to the empire. She wondered where he had come from, whether he missed his family.

“What should we do with her?” All eyes turned now to their leader. He studied her a moment, frowning. She already knew what sort of man he was; he wouldn’t kill her if he didn’t have to.

“We’ll take her to the general.” He shot a glance around his soldiers. “All of them are wanted alive.” He pointed to the man clutching his dripping dagger. “You’ll find yourself answering to me for that later, then to the general, and if you live long enough, the emperor’s Knife might find you. Spill royal blood and there’s a price to pay.”

Sarmin stared at the ceiling. Something called to him, a warmth, a resonating mark in the world, and he reached out with his mind, rolled it through his consciousness as he might roll an olive across his tongue, tasting it. He breathed it in. It repelled and yet thrilled, as much as Grada’s mind, Mesema’s voice or the taking of Tuvaini’s dagger. It went down his throat like sweet-wine and set his skin buzzing. Blood. When he recognised it he found even more: the after-images of violence and brutality. A sick power ran through him: spilled blood called to the bed he lay on, harm to harm. He could draw lines, if he wished, and create a pattern outside the Master’s design. A pattern drawn in blood, as big as the whole palace, might hold the strength to fight back.

No; it was not yet time. He could not draw the Master’s attention so early. He would work carefully, slowly, sketching it behind his eyes and keeping it secret until everything was ready. Until enough blood had been shed.

The leader grabbed her, his hand on her arm, and dragged her up and out. She tucked the pillow under her other arm, holding it closed, keeping the dacarba inside, though she knew she couldn’t fight them if it came to that. She wished she had grabbed Eldra’s blue feather. Two of the men carried Hadassi. Hadassi of the golden skin. Mesema’s feet slid in her warm blood. The leader held Mesema’s elbow so tightly she felt he would crush it. The soldiers marched all the women down the grand stairs, where it smelled of roses and the banisters gleamed with gold. They turned into a corridor, then another, and another, the corridors all blurring into one. Mesema’s stomach twisted in fear. She stumbled, but the soldiers’ leader kept her upright.

Arigu waited in an orange room, sitting behind a dark wooden table scattered with parchment and writing implements. She remembered those eyes, hard and all-seeing, and the way his mouth twisted as if he were tasting something unpleasant. He looked at the arrayed women, his eyes lingering over Hadassi’s limp form and then Mesema and her bloody clothes. His eyes fell on the torn cushion. Then his gaze returned to the commander.

“There were four wives, Rom, not three plus a horsegirl.”

“That one tried to run.” The leader gestured towards Hadassi. “We wanted them alive.”

“Regrets, sir.”

“I hope for your sake the emperor does not make an issue of it.” “Thank you, sir.”

Mesema puzzled over Arigu’s words. The emperor? Did he speak of Beyon? “As for young Mesema…’

She met Arigu’s eyes. Unlike these other men, Arigu might wonder what

she held in her pillow. He would wonder if she knew anything, if she would try to spoil his schemes. She kept perfectly still.

But Arigu’s mind was apparently on other matters.

She took a breath. Mesema, once the centrepiece of all Arigu’s ambitions, no longer mattered. He must believe the prince dead, and had other plans afoot. I’m invisible to him now. She felt free. “Her countryman will deal with her,” Arigu said.

The soldiers pulled Mesema forwards and she tripped as the light-eyed soldier opened a door at the back of the room. She tried to turn and look at Beyon’s wives, but the soldiers held her too tightly. They traversed another, narrower, corridor that smelled of wet shoes and leather, opened a wooden door and pushed her through.

A lantern illuminated another wooden table, smaller and cleaner than Arigu’s. On it lay a single parchment, half-covered in writing. A cold wind blew through a window in the facing wall, moving the parchment like a leaf, but a round red stone kept it from flying away. She knew the stone. She could kiss that stone. Its owner leaned out of the window, his face tilted towards the moon. As the soldiers pushed Mesema forwards he turned, surprise in his eyes.

She ran, dropping her pillow, crying, “Banreh!”

He took her in his arms, his golden hair falling softly against her cheek, and she breathed him in. The soldiers left the room, and closed the door behind them.

“What happened to you?” He drew back and looked at her gown.

“They came to the women’s wing and killed one of the emperor’s wives.” Her voice sounded weak to her when she said it out loud. “The blood went all over me.”

He frowned. “I heard the wives were to be taken, but I never dreamed you’d be involved.”

He knew? She let go of him and wrapped her arms around herself instead. “Banreh, how did you get here?”

“Don’t you remember? Arigu said that if anything went wrong I should meet his man by the river. And I did.”

“But the emperor sent you back with my gifts—”

“Mesema—” The same old tone now, scolding and patient both at once. “—he’s not the emperor any more. He had the marks—you know what that means. An heir was found, a new emperor, one who will work with us.” Banreh pulled two stools over and eased onto one, wincing as he stretched out his bad leg.

“Us?”

“The Felting.”

Mesema settled onto the other stool, folding her hands together in a formal pose. Careful, now.

Banreh put a finger against her cheek. “Listen—what worries you? Both brothers are dead, so there is to be no royal marriage. You can go home.”

Home. It came back to her in a rush: the fields, the scent of wet wool, the soft voices of the women at their craft; the way she knew what people meant when they looked at her. She could go back across the desert and leave the pattern behind, leave Sarmin on his sickbed, leave Beyon. She would return to her life, work the wool, marry a plainsman. Maybe her father would even let her marry Banreh.

If only it could happen that way… If she fled, the pattern would follow her. It would come after her mother and father and little nephews. The pattern was greedy; she could feel it in her bones. The mage who drove the pattern wanted as much as any man who started a battle, whether it was land, riches, or something else. The difference was that this was a battle most people couldn’t fight. She could, though; Sarmin had showed her that. She could stay here and fight.

Banreh moved his finger over her jawline and Mesema shivered. All he ever had to do was touch her and she melted like the spring snow. She couldn’t let that muddle her mind.

She cleared her throat. “Banreh, I wouldn’t go if they sent me.” He smiled, not understanding.

“I’m staying here to fight against the pattern.”

“Fight against—?” He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Have you been drinking too much of that sour Cerani brew? You sound mad.”

She blinked and steadied herself. Arguing with Banreh was never easy. “Listen. By staying, I can help the emperor.”

“You mean His Majesty Tuvaini?” He used the voice of her teacher, not the voice of her friend.

“I speak of Beyon.”

“I see. I know you were with him—you had no choice. He was the emperor. But you must forget about him now and go home. If they ever suspect you might be carrying his child, they’ll kill you.”

“We didn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Banreh creased his brow at the pillow on the floor. “These people tolerate no heirs but themselves. Do you know what Beyon did when he became the emperor? He killed all his brothers, right out there, in the courtyard. Some of them were just babes.”

Mesema swallowed, though her throat felt like stone. Sarmin had told her his brothers had died, but not that Beyon had ordered it. Beyon was Cerani, and the Cerani were brutal; even their palace god was cruel. She had seen the great walls of the city and heard the voices of the thousands who lived within those walls. She had seen the riches of the palace and the beauty of the women inside, and as she held the picture of the empire in her mind, she knew cruelty kept it all safe. She remembered how Beyon had wanted Banreh’s head. Perhaps it would have been better for him, and for the empire, if he had taken it. She understood: Herzu’s statue stood in the palace not so they could beg for mercy, but because the empire needed Him.

Banreh’s fingers tightened around her own, and she rested her forehead on his warm hand. Cruelty did not come without its cost. It had made Sarmin sick, Beyon lonely. What would it make of her?

“Go home,” he whispered.

“I—” A twinge drew her eyes westwards: Beyon. It sank through her, skin and bone. He was moving closer.

“What is it?” Banreh looked at the wall. She shrugged and looked away. “What?”

“I can’t see through walls, Banreh.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I saw that look on your face. What does it mean, Mesema?”

She couldn’t show him her finger—she could never show him. Her eyes stung with tears.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She gathered the silk of her skirt in her hand, remembering how her body-slaves had transformed her from a horsegirl into a Cerani bride. What was she now?

“It’s him,” said Banreh, his eyes bright with understanding.

She shook her head no. “Banreh, just kiss me, because I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

His face went still. “But I thought we—?”

“Banreh.” She took his hand in hers, her other hand, the one still unmarked. “You have taught me well—better than you know, perhaps. Let me go now and do my duty.”

He put one hand on her shoulder. The other hand still clasped hers.

She sniffed. “Arigu said it was up to you—”

“This isn’t about Arigu!” He was angry, at last.

“It isn’t about us, either. I wish it were. Oh, how I wish it!” Mesema swallowed. “We are Felt.”

Banreh put his forehead against hers. “We carry on.”

“We are Felt. We carry on.” A chant. A prayer. Their lips met.

She backed away quickly, not wanting to let go, taking in his stained hands, golden hair and green eyes for the last time—

His green eyes that went past her, to the wall, widening with alarm. “Mesema!”

She picked up the cushion and clenched her teeth. It kept her chin from trembling. “I must go.”

She took another step backwards and her shoulders met with something hard: a man’s chest. A strong man’s chest, but not Beyon’s; Beyon was too far away. Another hidden door in this palace where no wall could be trusted! Before she could run, a thick arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her through a narrow, dark gap. She smelled fire and spice and damp and rot. Banreh darted forwards, faster than she had thought he could, a sword somehow in his hand, but her captor kicked shut the door and it slammed in his face. Banreh pounded on the wall between them; he shouted for her, and he shouted for Arigu’s men. Feathers brushed against Mesema’s cheeks as she pulled her knife free and found her captor’s flesh. He grunted, but held her hard as he moved through the darkness, her feet barely brushing the floor. The sound of Banreh’s pounding grew distant.

The man stopped and for a moment they stood together in the midnight of the hidden passage. His strong arms released Mesema and she blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the dark. If only she could see her way, she could try to run—but she could not even make out the man who stood before her.

“Careful.” The voice came soft, and unexpectedly kind. “There’s a drop.” She turned to face its owner, careful to keep her balance; the echo told her of vast, empty spaces. A small flame shed light, and their eyes met in the glow. She had seen him before: hair like iron, skin like leather—the servant of Herzu she’d passed in the corridor. Then, violence had risen from his skin like heat from the desert sand. Now his eyes were calm, and he flashed his teeth at her in something close to a smile.

She spoke through the tightness in her throat. “What are you going to do to me?” She calculated how close she’d have to get to stick him; he’d stop her before that.

He looked her over, his eyes lingering briefly on the knife in her hand. “I wasn’t planning on doing anything to you.” He lifted a lantern from a hook on the wall and placed the small flame inside. As the light grew stronger she could make out stairs, bridges, and black chasms all around her. It was fitting that the palace, with its golden ceilings and bright mosaics, would contain a place so dark and twisting. It would have to.

“Why did you bring me in here?”

“The emperor has requested you.”

Mesema’s captor did not appear to be in a rush to move on, though she could hear pounding and the yelling of men in the distance. Arigu’s soldiers were of little concern to him; surely she, with her pretty little weapon, constituted an even lesser threat. “I want to go back, tell my countryman—”

“That will not be possible.” He tore some fabric from his tunic and wrapped it around the wound high on his leg.

She watched the blood seep through the cloth, dark in the lantern light, a warning against the future. Her fingers tightened over the gemmed hilt of Sarmin’s dagger. Her vision of standing over the emperor, knife in hand, bloomed in her mind like pain. “I hurt you.”

“Not too badly.” He tied a knot and smiled again, as if they had reached some agreement. “Follow me. Step where I step—there are rockfalls.” He turned, but instead she sank to the floor, where the stone felt cool and solid against her forehead. She did not want to harm anyone. She tried to remember the moment she had thrust that dagger into the man’s thigh, but it had slipped away from her; she remembered only that it had felt right. Would it feel right when she killed the emperor? Mirra! The prayer broke from her unexpectedly.

“Are you well?” He sounded uncertain, though he didn’t seem the uncertain type.

She ignored him and inched forwards. Her elbows met empty space and her head dropped over an abyss. Darkness spun around her, and she could no longer tell whether she looked up or down. She saw nothing, felt nothing when she ran her fingers through the air. Is this what the pattern feels like? The void pressed around her. Is it like this on the inside, with no memories, no fear, no desire? The idea tempted her. She dangled the dagger over the edge. If she dropped it into the chasm, then she could never use it again.

The old warrior caught her wrist and she started. She hadn’t even noticed him moving closer, crouching beside her.

“Tuvaini’s dacarba.” He made a sound somewhat like laughter and twisted it from her grasp as easily as taking a toy from a baby. “This could come in handy.” He put it in his belt and gathered her up.

It was Sarmin’s knife, but she didn’t correct him. “Listen. Don’t give that back to me.”

He looked down at her. She felt small and warm in his arms, and his fire-and-spice smell brought smoking besna leaves to mind. Some barely remembered spring evening in the longhouse, far away in both distance and time, came back to her, together with the sensation of being cradled in the dark.

“No need to decide that now,” he said. “The prince must have given it to you for a reason.”

He’d startled her for the second time. “How do you know the prince gave it to me?” The smell of blood on her clothes overcame his scent and her nostalgic moment was lost. She wriggled in his grasp: this was not her father, and this was not the longhouse. This was a strange man, a killer, and she’d been lost in his arms thinking of her childhood. Something in his strength and his stillness had comforted her, something she never would have believed possible when she saw him the first time outside the temple of Herzu.

“I know every weapon in this palace.” He put her down and frowned. “Hurry, now; I have other things to do after this. Too many things. Step where I step.”

Before long she wished he carried her still. The way was dark, the arched bridges narrow and the stairs crumbling, and on either side of their path lay the chasm. A loose stone slipped under her foot and she counted four seconds before she heard its soft thud below her. At times she wished she could crawl rather than walk, but the man moved so fast that she knew she’d soon lose him, and she didn’t want to find herself alone in the darkness. She wished they were going to see Sarmin and not Beyon.

They descended a flight of stairs. There was a wall on her left, and she leaned on it with relief before following him down another flight, and another, until at last they stood on some sort of platform. The man scratched something on the wall and a door swung open. Beyond she saw bright colours, sunlight, and something that looked like a bed.

Her captor produced a length of cloth and wrapped it around his eyes. “Here we are,” he said.