The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Thirty-Nine

"Beyon remains missing, Your Majesty.”

Tuvaini let his gaze slide across the throne room. The royal guards stood motionless at their stations. From the throne the place looked very different this morning: an acre of woven rugs, worked velvet, gold thread, the glitter of gems from statuettes and trinkets in the wall niches, Cerani history stitched on tapestries and stretching back into a faded past. The luxury of Tahal’s day had replaced Beyon’s ascetic taste, but having it all back, owning it all, pleased him less than he had imagined.

“And has Master Herran no report of Eyul since yesterday?” “Nothing new, Magnificence.”

Eyul had killed Beyon’s wives and run into the secret ways. There could be no doubt he turned traitor. He’d kidnapped the horsegirl, too, if Arigu’s men were to be believed. Tuvaini could only hope he’d perished somewhere in the darkness, by accident or Carrier, and good riddance. But if Eyul were dead, where were Beyon and the girl? It made him uneasy.

Arigu had marched away. He’d left three days ago, his men forming a long desert train. They would go to the Wastes and organise the horsemen there. The savage chief would have to accept that his daughter had died during the succession, an unfortunate accident. A misunderstanding. The war would begin soon, the fight for a greater empire. It was too late for him to refuse.

“Have you sent to the Islands for my personal guard?” Tuvaini asked. “I have, Your Majesty.”

Tuvaini would breathe easier with the unquestioned loyalty of slave-bred sword-sons around him. With the sword-sons you got what you paid for, and he could pay for a lot.

“Send for Nessaket. I would have her attend me.” He liked the sound of that. Let her wait on him and wonder when their marriage might be.

The grand doors opened a crack to admit the herald.

“Astronomer Kleggan has arrived. He seeks audience with Emperor Tuvaini, seventh son of the Reclaimer, Lord of Cerana, Master of the Islands and King across the Sea.” The last title represented his claim to Yrkmir.

Tuvaini raised his left hand, and the herald returned to escort the astronomer to the throne. He was both dark and fair in the way of the Westerners, and walked with a conqueror’s stride, proud.

“Majesty.” The astronomer prostrated himself.

Tuvaini sat back in the throne and opened his hands. “I have sent for you to read my future.” He closed his eyes for a moment. He saw Sarmin’s face, pale, mad, and at his shoulder, Beyon, honey-gold and fierce, with the look of eagles. Two of the lives he had paid for an uncomfortable throne and Arigu’s wars. Something was wrong—there was some piece forgotten, or unlooked-for.

Around the circumference of the throne room lanterns flickered as if a wind had circled the chamber. Tuvaini looked up and studied the room. Something was wrong. Something was coming.

A tremour ran through the palace, vibrating through Tuvaini’s soles, through the throne, rattling the jewelled statues in their niches.

The grand doors opened again, and again the herald stepped through. This time he was unsteady, his head bowed.

“A man from the desert seeks audience with Emperor Tuvaini… seventh son of—”

“A commoner from the desert?” Azeem turned in disbelief. “What insolence is this?”

Tuvaini kept his voice calm and low, though ice ran through his veins. “What manner of man?”

For the longest time the herald said nothing, then he started, “Lord—” The herald coughed, or wept, Tuvaini couldn’t tell. Then he raised his face, and across every inch the pattern blazed in blue and red. “Someone old, Majesty. Very old.”

The great doors of the throne room swung inwards. The carvings of the gods fell in splinters as if invisible knives pared them away, and in their place was the pattern. The herald fell to one side and a man entered, tall and vital but wrapped about with something ancient, unseen and powerful.

Tuvaini clutched at the armrests of his throne. His voice dried in his throat.

The man wore desert robes, and his long hair fell across it, whiter than the cloth. Where he walked, the weave of the rugs changed as the pattern followed in his wake.

Unchallenged, he reached the middle of the chamber, stopped, and smiled.

Tuvaini found his voice at last. “I know you: you are the hermit, theman-who-sees. Why have you come here?” His words broke the silence, and the royal guard drew their swords.

“I have come for what is mine,” the Pattern Master said.

A dozen threats hurried across Tuvaini’s mind, but in the end he asked simply, “And what is that?”

At the doorway more guards were massing, among them the priest of Herzu and the tall figure of General Lurish.

“Why, the throne, of course,” the Pattern Master said.

Tuvaini felt his lips twitch. He stood and took a step to the edge of the dais. “And by what right would you stake such a claim?” Better to gain some time, let more soldiers gather, and await the arrival of the Tower mages.

“By the right that you have established for me”—the Pattern Master raised his voice—“Grandson. Great-grandson, I should say.”

A laugh broke from Tuvaini, but a cold hand rested on his chest. “Any fathers of my grandfathers are dust. My own father was seventy years old when he died.”

“Even so,” the Pattern Master said, “I am of the line: a second son put aside until the true faith of Mogyrk came and opened doors for everyone.”

The High Priests of Mirra and Herzu had shouldered through the guardsmen at the door now, and there were others, summoned from their temples by the commotion. Behind them Tuvaini could see the young wind-sworn mage who had slighted him at the tower.

“You lie!” And if he did not, Tuvaini would make it a lie; he felt no kinship with this desert man.

The Pattern Master spread his hands. “I would not expect my word to put me upon the empire’s throne. There are paths to the truth, paths known by the holy and the wise. I am prepared to accept the judgement of your priests and mages, sworn before their gods and their duty to the people of Cerana.”

Tuvaini took a step back and felt the hard edge of the throne pressing behind his knees. His plans ran like sand through his fingers. He knew then what Beyon had felt in that moment before he fled. Tuvaini saw his enemy’s plan as though it were laid upon a Settu board before him. The Pattern Master had made his Push, and the tiles were falling.

“Have you an objection to their judgement?” the Pattern Master asked. “Perhaps you wish to summon the council once more?”

Tuvaini shook his head. He reached out, touching the air before him, searching for anything, any straw to clutch.

“Your heir,” he said. “If it is true, then I am still your heir.”

“How fortunate, then, that you have no brothers.” The Pattern Master smiled and advanced on the throne.