The Emperor's knife

by Mazarkis Williams

  “You’ve seen the pattern, but not the death?” He stepped closer, his nose twitching as if he smelled bad meat. “What are you, then?”

  Mesema waved her hands in denial. “I saw a pattern on the grass. That’s all.” Maybe the pattern was not the Hidden God’s, just the hare, showing a safe path through.

  Arigu calmed. His sharp eyes studied her. He looked thoughtful, and for a moment he reminded her of Banreh, only less kind. “And what were you looking for, out there on the sands?”

  She swallowed. “A path.”

  Eldra was sitting up now, steadied by Banreh’s arm, and Mesema looked away. Watching them touch made her stomach twist around.

  Arigu wasn’t finished with her. “A path to that building?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “Good. That kind of building has caused more trouble in Cerana than even the pattern.” Arigu motioned her forwards. “Come, girl. Let me look at your arms.”

  “Why?” she asked, confused, even as she moved towards him.

  “I need to see if you have the marks.”

  She held out her arms and Arigu folded back the sleeves of her tunic. She noticed that his hands were trembling, but his fingers were light on her as he examined her skin. He was gentle, for a big, gruff man. “Well,” he said after a few minutes, “you don’t have the marks.”

  “And if I did?”

  Arigu ignored her question. “You said you saw the pattern in the grass. Did somebody put it there?”

  “Just the wind.”

  “And you never saw it before that?”

  “No.” Mesema brushed her sleeves back into place.

  “Would you remember what it looked like? If someone asked you to make a picture of it?”

  “The bigger shapes, maybe.” The path is important, not the pattern.

  Without another word to her, Arigu turned to Banreh. “Come with me,” he said. He pointed at Eldra. “Don’t touch her,” he called out to his men. “Let me deal with her.” He tapped Banreh’s shoulder and the two walked together, away from Mesema. “I have to ask you-” he began, but they passed out of her hearing.

  Mesema knelt by Eldra. “Did it hurt?”

  Eldra nodded, still cradling her cheek. “I want to go to the church.” “You can’t. We’re moving on.”

  “Mesema, who can outride a Felt? I’ll be there before they can even-” “Listen. The pattern kills people. Arigu just said so. If the church is part of that…” She remembered Banreh dragging her away, remembered seeing the church for the first time. How had she not seen it before?

  “The Cerani lies.” Eldra rose and brushed the sand from her skirt. “And the pattern is not the church; our faith is older than patterns.” She walked to the carriage, her posture straight and sure. Mesema was relieved that she went to the carriage and not the horses. Eldra’s words were just words; she wouldn’t ride off to the strange church alone.

  In the distance, Banreh nodded to Arigu and limped back towards them, step by step. His face remained patient and still, even as sweat dripped from his hairline and soaked the collar of his tunic. She stood up to face him as he drew close, lifting her chin and putting her hands on her hips.

  They looked at one another for a long moment.

  “It is as I told you; you must learn to curb your tongue,” said Banreh. “Because I see things?”

  “Partly. They have never heard of windreading before. But mostly, Cerani women don’t speak as you do.” He gathered himself. “Arigu says the pattern is a soul-stealer. Those marked by it become its servants. Those it can’t use, it kills.”

  “How can a pattern make such decisions, Banreh? There must be-” “There must be what? Do you know something more?”

  Did she? Mesema lost her grip on the tiny thread she’d been following in her mind. “No.”

  “Well, then. Keep your thoughts close.”

  Mesema twisted her hands together. “I understand. Banreh, where did that church come from?”

  He looked puzzled for a moment. “I suppose it was behind a dune and then the wind moved the sand…” He stopped, then said, “I have to tell you something.”

  She waited, watching Banreh massage his hip with one hand. He paused overlong, his eyes still cast down. Something bad, then.

  “Tell me,” she said at last.

  He looked at her. “The emperor doesn’t know you’re coming. Until he dies, you must keep your betrothal a secret.”

  “But I’m to go to the palace!”

  “No, we will wait in the city.”

  “For him to die?”

  Banreh sighed, and said, “Yes.”

  Mesema took a breath. She’d known it would be hard, coming to the desert and living among the Cerani, but she hadn’t expected treachery. She stepped forwards, putting a trembling hand on Banreh’s shoulder. “Banreh-Arigu doesn’t mean to kill the emperor, does he?”

  “No, the emperor is already dying.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “But why keep it a secret? Imagine, if you married someone and my father didn’t know…” Mesema caught her breath. “My father was deceived.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “My father was deceived, and Arigu’s only warning us now because it’s too late for us to turn back.” She spoke, though her throat felt hollowed by sand.

  Banreh kept silent, staring at the church in the distance.

  “Arigu has been disloyal, Banreh, and caught us up in his game. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

  “As you say, it is too late for us to turn back.”

  She couldn’t read his voice. “Is that why Eldra is here? In case we make a run for it and get lost in the desert? So she can be the Felting bride if I run? We look alike.” Mesema gathered her hair in both hands and pulled.

  Banreh hung his head. “When the emperor dies, you will be a queen, as Arigu promised, and your father will be satisfied.”

  “And the war can go on, because nothing is more important. Not even this pattern that kills.”

  Banreh looked over his shoulder at the packed horses and the waiting soldiers. “Come. It is time for us to move to a new camp.”

  Mesema wiped at a tear and turned her back on Banreh. The dunes stretched out before her, their valleys offering shadow and secrecy. Without thought she started running, between one dune and the next, the sand shifting under her slippers, until her legs were shaking with effort. At last she fell against a soft, shadowed slope, gasping for breath. The sand cushioned her back and coiled around her feet like a rug. She was well hidden from the soldiers, and the pattern.

  Mesema closed her eyes and listened for Banreh’s uneven gait. When he came around her side of the dune she said, “You will never let me run away from it, will you, Lame Banreh?”

  “When Arigu chose you, your great-uncle looked into the grass.”

  Mesema made a snort of disbelief. She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to see his face.

  “The wind showed us the future. You are to create a new leader, and with him, more glory than we have ever seen.”

  “Glory that comes from fighting?” Mesema sighed. “You have used your honeyed tongue on me once already, Lame Banreh. I listen more cautiously now.”

  “Then hear this.” But he said nothing for a time.

  Mesema kept her eyes closed, listening to the falling of the sand.

  “Mesema,” he said at last, “I would not let you go unless I believed it.”

  “Go to Nooria?”

  “I meant, go away from me.”

  A sob escaped her, but she caught the second one and held it. “If you don’t hold me right now,” she said, “I will never forgive you, Banreh.”

  Movement, and she felt his arms around her, the damp of his sweat and the roughness of his tunic. She laid her head against his chest. “This is the last time,” she said. “I will be braver in the future.”

  He said nothing, only smoothing her hair.

  “Damn my great-uncle and damn
the grass,” she said after a time.

  His voice fell soft against her ear. “It’s time to go.”

  “Yes.” She stirred against him.

  He kissed her where her hair met her forehead. His lips were soft, but the touch of them burned her.

  “Don’t.” She opened her eyes and stood up, arranging her hair with her hands. The feel of him radiated through her, even now that the sun bled its full heat into the air. It would have to last. She took a breath and felt the hot air fill her lungs.

  The high, pointed tower of the church peeked over the ridge of a dune. She shivered, remembering what Arigu had said about his dead soldiers. She couldn’t fathom how the deadly shapes related to Eldra’s religion. Perhaps the church worked like a sword: a power, to be used by good and evil alike. Mesema understood swords, and she could only grow to understand them better as time passed. But if the god was a sword, the pattern was something else again. Where a sword cut and laid bare, the pattern bound and kept hidden. Much like Arigu.

  She didn’t trust Arigu. Worse, something kept her from saying so. Instead she turned to Banreh, motioning towards where she knew the Cerani general waited, putting aside the thudding in her stomach. “Let us leave this place,” she said.

  “I think there is someone behind the Carriers,” Tuvaini said. “A man.”

  Lapella made no indication that she had heard him. She lay across the bed, turned away on her side, her smooth curves bare for his inspection.

  He ran a finger along her hip. He knew she listened. Lapella would always listen to him. “And those who fall ill hear his voice and become his creatures.”

  She moved, a slow, oiled motion, turning her face to the pillow, her hip to the bed.

  Tuvaini watched her, watched the lantern gleam on her skin. He knew she held tight to his words. She thought he was giving something to her, sharing secrets, making a bond.

  “He has touched the emperor, this man.”

  Lapella stiffened at that, her fingers knotting in the sheets, then she drew a deep breath and relaxed.

  “He plans for the day he will speak and Beyon will follow his will.” Tuvaini pictured Beyon’s face. He wondered when the light in the emperor’s eyes would die. The Carriers were already preparing the ground for their advance, buying favors within the palace walls, even from Tuvaini himself.

  Lapella moved to receive him, though still she did not speak, even as she lifted herself.

  Tuvaini thought of the enemy’s purchases. Entry through the Red Hall to kill the emperor’s Knife. Access to Prince Sarmin, through the secret ways. Tuvaini had sold them both when the price offered exceeded their value. Though the first time, with Eyul, he hadn’t known the target.

  Lapella sighed beneath him and he twisted his fingers within her hair, pulling her head back.

  The man behind the Carriers-the enemy-he might walk the palace even now. He had failed once already, and he would fail again.

  There had been a moment when Eyul had been locked in combat with one of the Carriers, a moment when it had seemed their intention had changed. The Carrier pretending to attack Tuvaini hadn’t moved to finish Eyul, though Eyul was injured; instead, it ran. Eyul lived. Beyon and Sarmin lived also, occupied with the prince’s wild bride.

  Tuvaini need only wait for his moment.

  The enemy had failed, and he would fail again. A wild bride, with wild ways.

  He would fail again.

  Tuvaini, spent, pushed Lapella from him. Sweat ran across his ribs. “He buys favors, but he doesn’t know what he has paid.”

  Lapella lay silent, gleaming, soft motion in her hips.

  He could hear her breathing now. “He will take Beyon, but I hold the keys to Beyon. And when I choose, Beyon will be undone.”

  “What then?”

  At last she speaks.

  “The empire will be great once more.” A strong empire would defeat the curse at last. Once the Pattern Master showed his hand Tuvaini would strike, and the Cerani would no longer live in fear of his design. They would reach for magnificence, as they had in the Reclaimer’s time. There would be art and song, and trade to be had. The light of heaven would fall once again upon the throne.

  Lapella rolled to face him. Already he wanted her again: her ripe curves, her dark curls, the faint scars of the wounds that made her his, the way she bit her lip when their eyes met. She ran a finger down his cheek and a lump came to his throat, surprising him. “I’m afraid for you,” she said.

  He rolled over and entered her once more, pinning her hands against the pillows. This time would be even better. He liked to see himself in her eyes. “Worry for the Carriers and their Master.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eyul dreamed of the young princes. He dreamed of blood running across shining tiles, reflected in a child’s dead eyes. In his dreams, the young Beyon spoke to him in the courtyard, though in life he had not.

  “Why are we always here?” the child Beyon asked him once. “We are not here. It is a dream.” Eyul closed his eyes to shut away the blood. “I am ill, and so I am always dreaming.”

  “I’m tired of this dream,” said little Beyon. “I’m tired of dreaming altogether.” “I’m sorry, my friend; I will try to wake.”

  It took days. When at last he opened his eyes, Eyul could make out the blurry faces and hands of those who tended him. As day passed dry thirsty day, he dreamed less and moved about more. Soon he was able to see to his own needs in the morning, so that by the time the female nomad arrived with his tea he had shaved and bathed in the sand. A man could not remain an invalid too long in this harsh land. He wondered if they’d have killed one of their own as helpless as he had been.

  Eyul decided he was ready, though he was not sure of the days; at least six had passed since the woman first brought him tea. He dressed in a fresh linen tunic and waited for her, sitting cross-legged on the ground. After a time she pushed aside the tent flap and entered, tray in hand. The light of the desert shot through his eyes, leaving a spiderweb after-image. He covered his face, but the sun had already driven its nails deep. Through the pounding in his head he could hear the woman pouring tea, respectfully ignoring his weaknesses. From prior experience Eyul knew she didn’t speak Cerantic, but she understood one word, and he gritted it out through his teeth: “Hermit.”

  “Arapikah.” Coming. He uncovered his eyes and tried to meet her gaze, but her face remained blurred.

  He tried a second word-“Amalya?”-but the woman shook her head and moved towards the flap.

  This time Eyul turned his face away.

  He took a swig of the strong, dark tea and let the dimness of the tent soothe his pain. He would have to depend on his tongue today. His words would come out blunt and transparent, but there was nothing to be done about that. Tuvaini was the master of words, knowing when to thrust, when to parry, and when to leave himself open, while Eyul was the Knife, always pointing.

  He protected his eyes and looked away as the flap shifted once more.

  “Eyul,” the hermit said, as if praising a dog. He was not what Eyul had been expecting. Ten years ago, the hermit had been thin and wasted, with a beard grown past his knees. Then, as now, he’d worn nothing but a loincloth. But this man was more muscular and cast a heavier shadow. He was older than Eyul by at least a quarter of a century, but the way he sank into a squat, with no stiffness or hesitation, spoke of a man far younger. Eyul squinted past the hermit to where shadows played against the fabric of the tent. Two nomads, standing guard.

  The hermit smiled. “I suppose you are anxious to get back to your master. Time is running out. Will you make that deal?”

  Time is running out for you, perhaps. “Amalya carries a Star of Cerana. She’s not mine to barter.”

  “I see.” The hermit ran a finger across his mouth. “Is she Beyon’s, then, or the vizier’s, or do you mean she is her own person?”

  “I mean she is not mine.”

  “And that’s the essence of it.” The hermit’s eye
s were all that Eyul could make out of his face, and they were so coppery bright that it hurt to look at them.

  Eyul thrust his fist into the sand. “I want to see her. If she’s agreeable, then I’ll make the deal.”

  “I have anticipated you.” The hermit’s eyes turned to the flap. “Arapiki!”

  Eyul turned his head to the side again as the desert sun filled the opening, making a show of reaching for his empty knife belt. Island-pepper tickled his nose, and beneath that, blood. Amalya. She settled on her knees between them. Again he wondered how long he’d lain drugged and blind in the tent. Amalya’s generous curves had gone to angles. One arm lay inside a sling. He searched, but her eyes remained in shadow.

  He would not leave her here.

  The hermit watched both of them. “It doesn’t matter who asked the question you carry. I have the answer, and I need this wizard. Will you trade, Eyul of Nooria, son of Klemet, Fifty-third Knife-Sworn?”

  Eyul turned to Amalya. He couldn’t make out her expression. “What say you, Amalya of the Tower, of the Islands?”

  Movement, as if she wet her tongue in preparation to speak, but in the end Amalya only nodded. Eyul watched her for a long moment, but heard nothing beyond the wind against the sides of the tent.

  “I have to hear you say it, Amalya.” He didn’t speak to her the way he wanted to, because the hermit was there, listening. His words felt rough, sand against skin.

  “I want to help the emperor,” she said at last. She kept her head bowed.

  Eyul turned to the old man. “No.”

  The hermit’s white teeth showed in a smile. “Then you have come here for nothing. What will your master say?”

  “I need only my Knife.” Eyul smiled, relaxed now with the rightness of his decision and the presence of Amalya beside him.

  “Then I will propose another deal.” The hermit turned and said something through the cloth of the tent. In that brief moment of privacy, Eyul turned to Amalya, hoping for a sign, a word, or a look. But she remained motionless, her head bent low. The hermit turned back to face him. “Your Knife is on its way. It’s… an interesting blade.”