The Emperor's knife

by Mazarkis Williams

  She grew impatient. A man did not hesitate when something must be spoken.

  At last Arigu said, “I am going ahead to the city.” He addressed Banreh. “My men will protect you as far as the river. There my man Aziz will meet you and lead you into Nooria.”

  “Sneaking around like horse thieves,” Mesema sniffed. Arigu ignored her, addressing Banreh again. “If it is too dangerous for you to proceed to the city, Aziz will take you to my estate by the sea.”

  There was fear in the general’s eyes. The assassins had frightened him, and with good reason. The emperor would have his revenge. Mesema’s skin prickled. She realised she might not live to meet her prince, but what of the prophecy about her son? The Hidden God does not live in the desert, her mother had said. Perhaps He hadn’t seen everything.

  Arigu pulled away, kicking his horse like a savage and galloping over the sand. Mesema watched until he was a dark speck against the horizon. She didn’t like him, but she dreaded to see him go. It meant the end was near-the end of her journey, very likely the end of her life. She followed Banreh into the carriage, feeling the heat but no longer caring.

  “Arigu’s men rode to the body. A bandit, they said.” Banreh didn’t wait for her to sit. “They looked like soldiers to me, or guards, Cerani.” He frowned. “But if the emperor knew of us, wanted us dead, he would send five hundred men, or a thousand, not three.”

  Miles passed in silence and in heat. As the wide wheels turned in the sand, Banreh mentioned something about her language lessons. She ignored him, staring out of the window instead.

  “Mesema.”

  She watched the sand anxiously for a sign of the pattern, or further assassins.

  “Mesema.” Banreh touched her arm.

  His strength poured into her through that connection. She took his wrist in her other hand. “Banreh.”

  “Are you well?”

  She shook her head no.

  He watched her, his green eyes thoughtful.

  She wanted his thoughts. She wanted his calm. She wanted everything about him. “Will you kiss me again, Banreh, as you did before?”

  He pulled his wrist from her grasp and pressed himself against the other side of the carriage. “I cannot.”

  “Yes, you can. And nobody will know or care. Arigu’s gone. Eldra’s gone.”

  “I will know. I will care.”

  She knelt on the carriage floor, her arms over his legs, hands clasped as if in prayer. “This could be the last day we ever spend together. If that were so, wouldn’t you want to hold me?”

  He ran a hand through her hair, a different look on his face now: the look of a Rider just come in from the hunt. “Of course I would. But this is not our last day.”

  She ran her hands up his chest and kissed the front of his shirt. Hard muscle lay beneath her fingers. Strength, but trembling, even so. “Please, Banreh,” she said, rising up on her knees, touching the back of his neck with her hand. He exhaled, a shaky, breathy noise, and she knew she had him then. He pulled her in with his strong arms and pressed his lips against hers.

  She held to him, skin against skin. His chest firm, his neck soft, his cheeks rough. His lips fell over her arms and face; his fingers pulled at the lacings of her shirt. This was as it should have been. They should have made a plainschild.

  “Lie with me, Banreh,” she whispered in his ear.

  He slowed his kisses. His hands let go of her laces and went still. “No,” he said. He pushed her back and leaned against the side of the carriage, away from her.

  “No?” She threw her arms around him and kissed his face. “Why not, Banreh?” His soft hair tickled her cheek.

  “Mesema, you know why not. Stop. Stop!” He pushed her away and before she could say anything else, he hit the roof of the box with his fist, requesting a halt. He opened the door while the carriage was still moving.

  “Banreh, what are you doing? Don’t leave me!”

  He jumped down into the sand. It hurt his leg, she knew, even though he didn’t show it. He pushed the door shut and limped away from her. He would ride, then, with the other men. She would be alone. The carriage moved forwards, uncaring.

  Mesema wiped at a tear. Banreh couldn’t go against her father’s wishes, not even for love, not even if this were the last day of his life. She hated him. He was no more than a thrall, and Eldra had been braver. She reached in her pocket for the blue feather, her reminder of Eldra’s wish. She rubbed the feather against her cheek, wondering if she’d live to fulfil her promise. The not-knowing felt like torture. She wished she could jump out of the carriage like Banreh, run to the palace and the emperor, find out for certain.

  At last Mesema pulled herself together. She sat up and settled on the bench. It was no use feeling sorry for herself; she would wait with dignity, like a woman. She sat with her own thoughts through the dark night, until the sun rose and the caravan came to a halt. When she climbed out of the carriage that morning, she held her back straight and her head high. Marry or die, she would do it like a princess.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "A caravan.” Eyul studied the parallel tracks in the sand. “We’re close to the buried city,” Amalya said. “Horses, twenty or thirty of them, and a carriage.” Military, without a question. Whether they were White Hats or Blue Shields, Beyon’s Imperial Guard, he could not tell.

  “Too close.”

  He looked at her now. She was shivering, her hand clutching the pommel. “Then we will go wide around them.”

  Eyul mounted his camel and steered it westwards, away from the road. The Scorpion looked down upon his back, while the Maid pointed to the palace with one starry finger. They steered their camels in and out of shadow, the dunes guarding their path.

  “Do you think it is safe to sleep without your Knife?” Amalya asked after a time.

  They passed between the dunes in silence. Eyul closed his eyes and felt the weight of the weapon at his side. “I will sleep with my Knife, then.”

  “You are the emperor’s Knife, the Knife of Heaven,” she said. “Your weapon is the holy connection between you and Beyon.”

  “Beyon would not care for there to be a connection between us,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Did the Tower really know so little of the palace? “Because I cut the throats of his five brothers. The eldest had reached ten years of age. The youngest was in his silk wrappings. I killed them all.” There; he’d said it. She wanted him to keep his Knife; this is what it meant, for Beyon as well as Govnan.

  Amalya did not speak for a long while. They moved, side by side, the sand blowing like fog around their camels’ knees. When dawn broke over the mountains, Eyul pulled up to bind his eyes.

  Amalya looked towards Nooria and said, “ Tahal killed his sons. You were nothing more than his instrument, no more worthy of blame than the Knife that made the cuts.”

  Eyul drew out his bandages and listened.

  “I’ve been thinking of when you joined the assassins. You said they looked for mercy, but I think they were looking for something else, too.” Her voice sounded regretful. “They gave you a choice: kill or lose a hand. Some would have tried to get out of both, but not you. You accepted those as the only options.”

  “But they were.”

  “No, there are always more options, Eyul. They needed to be sure you were-”

  “What?”

  She moved as if to speak, then shrugged.

  They needed to be sure I was obedient. He pulled his bandages tight. He wasn’t one of Beyon’s dogs, to run hither and yon fetching rubber balls. He looked her way, but the fabric made it impossible to see her face. “I am loyal, but no lackey.” He dismounted.

  “No? You’re still following orders. As long as you think it’s for the empire, you obey.” She climbed to the sand, disappearing behind the blur of brown that was her camel.

  He played for time. “You said the emperor and empire are one and the same.”

  “But you said
otherwise.”

  He pulled the tents from their bindings.

  “You must decide for yourself, Knife-Sworn, whom to heed.”

  “Maybe I’ll find my own way.” He threw down some water-skins and the dried camel dung for cooking.

  “Not if you can’t see beyond the choices you’re given.” She stood facing him, not moving. He imagined the look in her eyes, patient but firm.

  He moved away and began to assemble his tent. He was still learning how to do it by touch alone. So she didn’t think he was capable of making the right choice? Next she would try convincing him to stick close to Beyon, to be truly his Knife, as he had been Tahal’s. She didn’t know the emperor was marked, didn’t realise what a farce that would be.

  Why had he not told her? Eyul could see her shape moving around the fire, hear the water pouring from her skin, smell the pepper rising into the air. She stopped her work, turned her face his way.

  He asked a question. “What did Beyon want with the hermit?”

  “The emperor did not want the hermit,” she said. She bent over the fire and lifted the pot to hang over it. “He wanted you. He wanted to know if he could trust you.”

  The tie snapped and the poles fell in opposite directions.

  “You came to spy on me? For him?”

  “I came to assess you.”

  You are as brave and obedient as I have been told. Her words. He felt naked under the sun, as naked as the boy in that prison so many years ago. “Then tell me, Amalya of the Tower, did you find me wanting?” He wished he could see her expression.

  “I told you,” she said after a moment, “you are loyal to the empire, but not to Beyon.”

  He picked up the poles and began his task a second time. He would make her the fool this time. “You do know Beyon is marked?”

  She caught her breath. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the pattern has marked him. Half the palace knows.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Now I’m a liar?” He grunted with false amusement. “He had his bodyslaves killed to keep them silent. And their executioner. Where do you think the links in that chain will lead? Now Carriers walk unchecked through the centre of the palace, attacking the vizier himself. Beyon can’t be trusted.”

  Amalya’s voice wavered. “It’s impossible. The Tower has many enchantments, protections over the emperor. Govnan-”

  Eyul tensed at Govnan’s name, dropping another tent pole. She continued her protest: “Govnan has done everything he can to protect the emperor, even placing patterns of his own around the palace walls.”

  Placing patterns of his own? Eyul cleared his throat. “The vizier already searches for an heir. The-”

  He heard a sizzle; untended water boiling over and falling into the flames.

  Amalya didn’t move. “Have we failed, then?” Her voice sounded thin, scraped by sand.

  He didn’t think she wanted an answer. He stretched the tent cloth over the poles. His mouth tasted sour. He felt as if he’d stuck himself with an arrow. Amalya had believed in Beyon, believed in the Tower’s ability to protect him. He finished erecting his tent and walked around her to pick up the second set of ties. He could see through the bandages that she sat before the fire, shoulders slumped.

  When both tents were up, gleaming in the morning sun, Amalya began to finish her work. Steam from her pot wafted past Eyul’s nose, speaking of the barks, peppers, and flowers of her homeland. Her scents. He wondered if he would ever smell that lively, fertile aroma again once he left the desert. He settled down in the sand and watched her silhouette, cut out against the sun, though it sent a bright pain behind his eyes.

  She looked over her shoulder. Somehow she always knew when he was watching her, even when her back was turned. Eyul stared down at his fingers, blurs against the lighter-coloured dune.

  “I’m glad you told me.” She stood and turned to face him; her shadow fell across his lap. “Have you seen his marks? Is that how you became a Knife with no emperor?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then how are you sure?”

  “I was there when the Low Executioner swore to the word of Beyon’s body-slaves. The vizier was with me.”

  “And then he was attacked?” Amalya knelt facing him. Though he struggled to, he couldn’t see her expression.

  “Soon after. I protected him…” He remembered the Carrier who’d circled Tuvaini at the fountain and then run away.

  “When did you last see Beyon?”

  “Just before I left.”

  “So did I.” She paused. “He didn’t seem any different.” This was true. “What are you thinking, Amalya?”

  She waved her arm. “I’m not sure. Give me some time.”

  “The line of the Reclaimer has come to an end.” He took her hand. He remembered what she’d said: that loyalty was the easiest of virtues to subvert. She had been right. “I know every well and oasis between here and the western mountains.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked, studying him. “That we should run away?”

  “Are you saying the two of us can save the empire?”

  She came to him then, close enough to embrace. “What would we do in the west, you and I?” Her breath fell across his lips. He put a hand on her neck and traced her cheekbone with his thumb.

  “I don’t know. Go fishing.”

  She laughed. “Fishing?”

  He smiled at himself, but he was more interested in the feel of her skin under his fingers. “It was the first thing that came to my mind.”

  “Well,” she said, resting her head on his chest, “it’s a long way to go for a fish or two.”

  “You’re the only woman I’ve ever invited to come fishing with me.” The only woman he ever would.

  “I’m flattered. But there is nothing for us in the west.”

  “There may be nothing for us in Nooria,” he said.

  She raised her head to him. He longed to see her eyes. “There is hope. Beyon remains well. Hope failing, there is death.”

  “Shall we go to Nooria, then, and die?” He traced the line of her waist with his hand, from her ribs to the flare of her hips. Was this what he had wanted all along? Had he ever tried to do what he could for Beyon?

  She leaned into him. “We will go to Nooria and learn our fates. Together, as we are.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Their lips met and held, smoke, pepper and sand. He turned his head to look out over the dunes, but she said, “We’re alone.” She released his weapon belt and let it fall.

  “I could be your father.”

  “You don’t look like my father.” She kissed the edge of his chin, where his beard grew in sharp and rough. “And your body is strong and lean.”

  “Try living in it.”

  “Be quiet,” she said, pushing up his tunic. Her mouth traced a jagged scar on his chest.

  He let out a hard breath and pulled her closer. She ended on his lap, hand running through his hair, lips dancing over his neck. He pushed the fabric of her robes aside, his hand finding the curves of her skin. Her fingers moved over him, too, running across his old scars and healing wounds. He whispered her name, as he had so many times in the hermit’s tent.

  Amalya pushed him onto his back and placed her knees to either side. She touched her hand against his mouth. “You are just like a man.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Come into the tent.” Amalya scooted away from him and through the flap. Her sandals fell off her feet and lay, small and dainty, in the sand, one on either side of his belt. Eyul fingered the beaded leather. So delicate. He wondered why they hadn’t already broken.

  She called out for him. “Eyul?”

  “Here I am,” he answered, dragging his belt with him through the flap. She knelt in the sand, her eyes bronze in the diffuse light. He tossed the old leather aside, Knife and all.

  “Make it good, Knife-Sworn,” she said. He did his best.

  Afterwards, as they lay en
twined, her head against his neck, she said, “There is another heir.” Her voice sounded breathy, sleepy.

  “Beyon’s brother.” He ran his fingers over her thigh.

  “Govnan says he’s a powerful mage.”

  Eyul frowned. Tuvaini had said nothing of this.

  “We could go to the prince, tell him everything.” She lifted her leg to rest on his hip bone. “Perhaps he can help us, help his brother.”

  “He’s mad,” Eyul said. “The vizier has already tried to rouse the prince to his duty, to no avail.”

  “But he was alive when you left.” Not a question.

  “The Empire Mother sought a wife for him in the Wastes. Once he makes an heir…” He knew the vizier intended for him to kill Sarmin. He fell still as he let the idea rush over him, let its bitterness sink in. “It is bad luck to kill the mad.”

  “Everyone wishes to command the emperor’s Knife, but that right belongs to just one man.”

  “Which man is that?”

  She didn’t answer, instead running her finger over his lips. “Emperor Beyon doesn’t know about this woman from the Wastes?” “Not unless the vizier told him.” Which was unlikely, Eyul decided. He thought of Tuvaini, and how he would react to the things Eyul had learned.

  “The hermit thinks Beyon can be cured.”

  “So that’s what you meant, before.” She shook her head. “I don’t trust him.”

  Neither did Eyul, but the hermit had restored some of his sight and saved

  Amalya’s arm. Eyul believed the hermit could help Beyon. All he had to do was kill Govnan, and the hermit’s way was clear.

  Amalya’s injured arm lay between them. He touched the bandages, yellow with sand. “Is your wound still clean?”

  She twisted away from him, looking up at the roof of the tent. “We’ll change the bandages later.”

  “Later,” he agreed, kissing her again, and there was no more talking.

  Tuvaini took the folded letter from his pocket once more. The handwriting looped across the page, curved and voluptuous. I would like to speak with you concerning the temple of Herzu. Come to my rooms this afternoon. No signature. Perfume on the paper. She’d been confident he would know who had sent it.