The Emperor's knife

by Mazarkis Williams

  He passed the guards, who bowed, and the slaves, who prostrated themselves; he paid no attention to either.

  The doors to the throne room stood open. Tuvaini had liked the great doors very much, in Emperor Tahal’s time. It felt right for the gods to smile upon Tahal, who had earned the throne with both strength and spirit. But when Tuvaini realised the doors favoured all emperors indiscriminately, he became disenchanted. Under the aegis of those carved gods, the Boy Emperor had thrown tantrums in his chair, refused to listen to his adviser, and even struck his mother when she tried to whisper in his ear. That was when the nobles had first drifted away from the city, pursuing power in their own provinces, unhindered, while the boy pursued maturity in his.

  It would be a long time coming. Even now, as Tuvaini approached, Beyon played a loud game with the slave children and his mangy dog. “Catch the ball like that,” he said, as a little brown-haired boy laughed. “Then- quick!-throw it and turn-”

  The boy threw the ball towards a little red-haired girl; her hands darted out to catch it, but she missed. Squealing with laughter, she raced the shaggy dog for the prize.

  “Get it, get it!” the boy called after her. But the dog got the ball, and Beyon and the slave boy collapsed with laughter.

  “Your Magnificence.” Tuvaini made a quick obeisance. Beyon looked at him like a man coming awake, his eyes clearing, his smile fading. “Tuvaini,” he muttered. In a louder voice he said, “All right, children, have some honey-nuts-here; here-and now back to your master and the chores he has for you. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

  The children plodded away from the dais, their heads low, their shoulders bowed.

  “Do you know, Your Majesty,” said Tuvaini, “that their master might well beat them for their presumption, interacting with you?”

  Beyon raised his eyebrows as Tuvaini put on a look of concern.

  “Then I would have their master killed,” said Beyon. “It is not for him to judge.”

  “As you say, Majesty.” Beyon rarely had any other solution. It bored Tuvaini, but also he depended on it. “But remember, these slaves will grow up one day, and they will expect special favors from you.” Or me.

  “Unlikely.” Beyon patted his dog and stood up, his gaze taking in the empty room. “By the time they’re grown, they’ll understand how things are. They’ll be all hollowed out.”

  Are you all hollowed out, then, my emperor? Tuvaini cleared his throat. “Then why bother, Your Majesty?”

  Beyon didn’t answer. He squeezed the red ball between his fingers. “The little red-haired one-her parents sold her. They came from the Wastes. She told me they were clanless, and had too many children and no food. They got a good price for her pretty face.”

  Tuvaini thought of Lapella and looked out across the tiles.

  Beyon continued, “How do you think they choose which ones to keep and which to sell? Do they choose the oldest? The youngest? Or do they decide which of the children is more useless to them?”

  “What is useless to one family,” said Tuvaini, “may be of great use to someone else.”

  “That comes later,” said Beyon, waving a dismissive hand. “I am interested in the choosing: how can you see potential in a child, or the lack of it? How can they be sure they made the right choice?”

  “I suppose there is no point in dwelling on it once it’s done. That road leads to madness.” Tuvaini smiled to himself.

  “It’s madness from any direction you come at it, to discard your own children.” Beyon looked down at his hands, turning them over to examine his palms. Tuvaini had noticed this habit in him of late. Perhaps there were some small marks appearing there.

  Soon, now. Soon.

  Tuvaini looked back at the doors, making sure there were no waiting supplicants. “Your Magnificence,” he said, “I came to speak of serious matters.”

  “Oh?” Beyon sat down on the throne. He always looked too big for it, too broad in the shoulders and hips. His dog settled at his feet and pricked up its ears.

  “You remember I spoke to you of Lord Zell, Magnificence, and his concerns about pirates beyond the western shore. He complains the White Hats of his province do nothing, and would raise his own army as in days of old. I have written strong words-”

  Beyon waved a hand. “Lord Zell and his blusterings bore me. Send your letter.”

  Tuvaini made his next move, the words coming from his mouth as if he had practised them a hundred times. “My words would carry more weight if delivered by a hundred Blue Shields, Magnificence.”

  “I won’t send my own guard. I need them.” Beyon shifted upon the throne and sighed. “Who is the general there? Send Arigu to replace him.”

  And there it was. In less time than it took to eat a date, Tuvaini had reminded Beyon both of his vulnerability and his dependence on Arigu. The emperor was in position. All he needed to do was set the tiles to falling. “That is the other subject we need to discuss, Magnificence.” He paused for effect. “I have heard whispers: General Arigu plots with your brother. Prince Sarmin means to sire an heir, to rule in your stead. Movements have already been made in this direction.”

  Beyon went still and said nothing.

  “Arigu asked permission for a brief return to Vehinni Province, but my family confirms he never arrived there. Instead he fetches Prince Sarmin a horsewoman from the north. The prince means to marry her without your permission.” Tuvaini stopped talking and cast his eyes down. Let him chew on that.

  After a silence, the emperor said, “Arigu has wanted to see the Grasslands for some time now. But something is missing from your story.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know the whole story, Your Magnificence.”

  “You’ve always been too kind to my mother, Tuvaini, but Arigu takes no action without her standing behind him. I suppose she is tired of this son and wants to try the other.”

  Tuvaini said nothing. He hadn’t meant to implicate Nessaket. He’d expected Beyon to lose his temper, to be rash, to behave as Beyon had always behaved.

  Instead the emperor leaned back in the throne, breaking into a smile. “My mother is clever, but she is not clever enough. You are my faithful servant, Tuvaini. She didn’t plan on you, did she?”

  Tuvaini steadied himself on a pillar.

  “I shall frustrate her in the getting of this heir, and amuse myself in the process. When is this woman expected?”

  Tuvaini forced the words from his mouth. “I believe very soon, Magnificence.”

  “Then I shall go to the desert and fetch her. I will present her to Sarmin myself, as a gift from the emperor.” Beyon laughed. “And when the child is born, my bitch of a mother won’t even see it. She’ll have no leverage with either of my heirs.”

  Tuvaini felt a pressure at the top of his head, heavy and sharp, like the tip of a sword. A pain shot from his scalp to his heels; a strike from Herzu himself, who held agony in one hand and loss in the other. Tuvaini welcomed the pain. He relaxed, breathing deep, and let it fill his veins with steel, strengthen his mind with a warrior’s keenness.

  He opened his eyes and saw Beyon, the Boy Emperor, staring back at him. He looked foolish and scared. “And the general?” Tuvaini asked.

  Beyon shrugged. “He will make an oath, or die.”

  This boy was no emperor; he was worth nothing. Beyon murdered powerless guards but allowed treacherous generals to live-and why? Because they were powerful; because he needed them. Because he was weak. So weak, he had the marks; so weak, he would die, soon, alone and outcast.

  Tuvaini made his obeisance. He was already deciding on his next move. Herzu had touched him, and so blood must be shed. If he felt a slight hesitation, a moment of pity, imagining a girl’s blood in the desert sands, he put it aside. The gods and the empire forced his hand. It must be done.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eyul woke to the whispers of men and the sound of dripping water. A cool rag rested on his forehead. The air felt still and warm against his skin; he guessed
he lay inside a tent.

  “He wakes,” a nomad said.

  The last thing Eyul remembered was dozing in the saddle. Amalya. He tried to sit up, but hands, more than two, pressed him down onto his blanket.

  “You put something in my water.”

  Someone else spoke. “You wouldn’t have let us take care of the woman if they hadn’t. We had a hard enough time of it as it was.” The voice was cool and rich. A river in the sands.

  “You sons of whores! If you-” His hand went to his hip. The emperor’s Knife was gone. He reached for his eye bandages and tore the first layer away, but once again, hands stopped him.

  “Such impatience.” The voice felt familiar. “Not the temperament for desert travel.” Water dribbled into Eyul’s mouth and the man continued, “Your friend is alive.”

  Eyul ceased his struggles. “Where is she?”

  “Elsewhere.”

  “I need to get to the hermit.” Laughter rang out around him.

  “You don’t know my voice, assassin? You have arrived. And once you are well enough, you will have a choice to make.”

  Eyul lay on his back and allowed the hermit to tend to him. First the old man rubbed a harsh-smelling salve on his burned hand. Then he washed the wounds on his face and leg with cold water. Eyul considered the hermit’s words. An assassin didn’t make choices.

  “Does your role still fit you like a tight slipper, Eyul? Do those boys still haunt your dreams?” The tone was conversational. Eyul didn’t reply. He remembered the last time he’d come to see the hermit. The hermit couldn’t stop the nightmares, but he’d offered his water pipe, and that had eased Eyul’s mind for a time.

  Fabric rustled as the hermit finished his ministrations. A waft of air told Eyul that one of the nomads had either come in or gone out of the tent.

  “I regret what happened in the desert. I was powerless to change those events.” The hermit’s voice was still close.

  Eyul considered this a moment. “You saw?”

  “I saw,” the hermit said.

  Eyul tried to gauge how many people were listening. The nomads could hold their silence for hours if they needed to, a skill gained from years of hunting sandcats or ambushing hapless merchants. They could sit motionless in their dun-colored robes until their prey was tricked into foolishness. His mother, from the sands herself, used to sit by his bedside with the same rocklike silence.

  “A taste of what you’ve come for,” said the hermit. “The Carriers share a common vision: what one sees, they all see. Each Carrier is a piece of the whole, a part of a larger pattern, and the pattern itself is like a river, or a song, flowing into itself, writing itself, making itself heard.”

  “The pattern is of nature?”

  “No, the pattern is man-made; that is for certain. But that is not to say it doesn’t have a life of its own.”

  Eyul listened again, but heard nothing but the hermit’s slow breathing. He would not ask Tuvaini’s question; the hermit could not live past answering it, knowing the pattern had found Beyon, and Eyul doubted now that he could kill him.

  “Who is the enemy?” Eyul made a new question.

  “Ah, now you are riding ahead of me.” A whisper of sand, and then the hermit’s voice came from above him. “You will learn more after you’ve made your choice. I give no information for free, Eyul, especially to those who’ve come to kill me.”

  “I am not here to kill you.” Eyul spoke the truth.

  “Disobedient in your old age?” The hermit didn’t wait for an answer. “I require the wizard’s protection. Leave her with me and I will tell you what you need to know.”

  Eyul rolled his head from side to side. “That’s not my decision to make.”

  “It is now,” said the hermit. Cloth rustled, and Eyul caught another gust of fresh air. He was alone.

  “Amalya,” he said out loud. Nobody answered.

  Mesema kicked the sand beneath her slippers. It still held the night’s chill, though the sun threatened in the east. She could see why Arigu called this land the White Sea: its waves, some cresting higher than ten horses, rippled away into the western darkness. The Bright One blinked above them, making his last few steps towards the moon before the sun chased him away.

  Eldra brushed Mesema’s elbow with her fingers and offered a fig. They stood together, taking small bites, facing the west. Once, Mesema had seen Eldra as a woman and herself as a girl, but now when she looked at their shadows she saw the same curved hips, the same narrowing at the waist. They were of a height, and sand-coloured curls fell around both of their faces. A stranger might take them for twins. A Red Hoof and a Windreader; it was no longer so strange.

  “Tell me about your prince,” said Eldra.

  Banreh had asked Arigu about the prince, but he hadn’t received an answer. Perhaps Arigu didn’t know him, or maybe he kept silent for another reason. She told herself it didn’t matter-only the child mattered. “You know as much as I do,” she said.

  “Maybe he has the nose of a rat, or the wool of a sheep,” Eldra said with a giggle.

  Mesema had to laugh too. “I shall close my eyes.”

  “There’s only one part of him that needs to work right.” Eldra nudged her with an elbow.

  Mesema drew in her breath, feigning shock. “Eldra! You are truly wicked!” “Does that mean you won’t speak well of me to Banreh?”

  Mesema tried to smile at that, but her cheeks felt stiff as old leather. She turned away, buying time. As she struggled for something to say, something sparkled at the corner of her eye. She turned to catch it in her sight, and heard the desert groan, low and resonant, bringing a tremble to her legs. “Eldra…’

  The dunes shifted and whispered. The sand fell off them in sheets, spilling into the valleys between, revealing shapes of glimmering silver in the fresh sunlight. A pattern lay across the sand, a geometric weaving from dune to dune, beginning at a point she could not see and ending just where her slippers cast their shadows. Triangle, underscore, circle, dash, square: this was the same pattern she’d seen in the grass at home, when the hare had made his mad run to safety.

  Something urged her feet forwards along the hare’s path. Curiosity, dread, rebellion: it was all of a piece as she walked away from Eldra and into the mystery laid across the sand. Follow this arc, this line, turn here where the circles intersect… Yes.

  She heard someone shouting her name-Eldra!

  Wait.

  The hare had dashed under these two parallel lines. Turn here where the circle is not quite complete; pass through the diamond.

  Here Mesema stopped, confused. Where had he gone next? Through one of these smaller shapes, into the paths that hid, small as lace-point? She knelt and stared into the depths. Perhaps he had.

  “Mesema!”

  Banreh ran up behind her; she knew it was him from the sound of the sand under his boot where he dragged his right foot. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back, away from the hare’s hidden ways. She was surprised by the strength of Banreh’s arms. He had pulled her well away from the edge of the pattern, almost to the camp, before she even had a chance to protest.

  “What are you doing?” he said, tightening his grip and pressing her back against his chest. “Are you mad?”

  “You’re the one who said to look for patterns.” She relaxed against him, tilting her head back against his neck, and he let her go.

  “But look-”

  She followed the motion of his hand, and in the distance, at what must be the centre of the pattern, a building shone in the sunlight, the tallest Mesema had ever seen. Its white stone rose in a series of jagged points that cut away at the sky, and at the centre was a tower, rising even higher into the blue, straining towards heaven. As she looked, the shapes and lines that had surrounded it flashed and disappeared.

  Mesema kept close to Banreh, feeling his warmth, smelling the ink on his hands. “What is it?”

  Banreh didn’t answer.

  Eldra came to them,
her feet light on the sand. Her eyes showed no fear; instead she smiled at them. “The traders-who-walk speak of these pointed houses. They are holy places for my people.”

  “Did the pattern bring it here? It-It wasn’t here before. Was it?” Mesema shivered, though the heat grew all around her. Perhaps it had been behind a dune.

  “It’s a gift,” said Eldra, glowing now with excitement. Mesema gathered her lips around another question, but Arigu suddenly pushed between them, tall, and wide as the front of a horse, blocking the light of the dawning sun. He grabbed Eldra by the arm, his big hand crushing the fabric of her sleeve.

  Eldra stumbled backwards, kept from the sand only by his iron grip. Then he hit her, and she fell.

  The whole camp gathered about them now, taking in the scene, muttering among themselves. Banreh knelt by Eldra and touched her cheek. They exchanged soft words. They looked so intimate, with their foreheads almost touching, Banreh’s hand now on Eldra’s shoulder, that Mesema drew her mind away. She tried to focus on another conversation, but all the other voices distorted in her ears.

  Mesema turned to the general, putting her hands on her hips. “Apologise!”

  Arigu looked down at Banreh. “Scribe: tell your charge I will do no such thing. We cannot stop here in this place of sickness.” He turned away and shouted for his men to break camp.

  “Only a coward hits a woman!” she called after him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Banreh watching her from his place on the sand.

  Arigu stopped and pointed to where the pattern had shimmered on the dunes. “Did you see that pattern?”

  “Of course-I’ve seen it before. I’m not frightened!”

  His mouth twisted as he took a step towards her. “You’re lucky I don’t hit you, too, Princess. Do you know how many soldiers I have lost to that pattern? How many good men have died with those marks on their skin?”

  “Died?” Surprise won over Mesema’s anger.