The Court of Broken Knives

by Anna Smith Spark

  All true. All quite correct. He’d worked that out for himself, in the dark, trying to sleep, listening for the sound of an assassin’s knife. If March had killed him, he would be some kind of Imperial hero, tragic and mourned, the Emperor clinging on to his wise words. The very absurdity of the attempt instead made him look ridiculous. He’d squirmed himself, talking about it. As thought it was a failure on his part. As though it was somehow embarrassing. Listen to this man, oh people of the Sekemleth Empire! Pay more in taxes! Stamp out corruption! Build up the army and feed the poor! He has a plan to make us great again! It will all be worth it! It will! Just ignore the fact that he can’t walk down the street without his own bodyguards being magically burned to death!

  What was that I said? thought Orhan. That one child’s life is worth half a hundred other lives? That it would be different if it were my own child?

  Darath said: ‘So, we go after him then?’

  Ah, God’s knives, thought Orhan. What has become of us? ‘We’ll have to, I suppose.’

  ‘Poison? A quick knife while he sleeps? Poison would be easiest, surely?’

  What has become of us? Orhan thought. What we did was supposed to be the end of it. A change, a remaking of Empire. A good thing. Now it’s begun, and it will just go on and on and more and more people will die until everything has slipped away into bloodshed.

  You knew this would happen in the end, he thought. Just hoped otherwise.

  ‘Poison,’ he said.

  Darath astonished him then by saying, ‘What about Elis’s wedding?’

  ‘Elis’s wedding?’ God’s knives. It would have to go ahead. Everybody pretend everything’s all right with the world. Elis’s wedding, Bil’s child …

  ‘So does March die before the event, or after it?’

  Orhan thought suddenly that he was going to be sick. How have we come to this? How have we come to this? What have I done? It all just happened, so easily.

  ‘After. It will have to be after. Tie things together before pushing everything apart again. If I live that long … If March doesn’t try to again …’ He felt the blood rush to his face. It hadn’t been like this, before, plotting the death of an Emperor and all his servants. All they’d known of death was stories, and the white-clad men in the Court of the Fountain, empty and ready to die. Abstractions dying behind a curtain, a beautiful woman with blood-red hands. His own father dying, sick with fever, stinking, sweating, everyone relieved that it was so quick at the end. But once you had seen, it was so full of shame.

  Darath said, ‘I’ll handle it.’ He squeezed Orhan’s hand. ‘Don’t think about it. You’ll just wake up one morning and it’ll be done.’

  ‘Don’t use anything too nasty.’

  ‘I’ll handle it, I said.’ A nasty gleam shone in Darath’s eyes, like the way he’d looked at Orhan after they’d broken up the last time, meeting at a party with a pretty thing in a diamond collar on his arm. I broke his heart, Orhan thought. I took him back and got him stabbed in the gut. And now this, because I’m too high and mighty to do it myself.

  He pulled on a jacket to cover the sore red burns on his arm. ‘Let’s go to the Temple, then.’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  A thaler bought an awful lot of candles. The Great Chamber of the Temple blazed with them, gold on the bronze walls. Even the black stone of the floor was golden. Orhan’s skin, and Darath’s, and the light reflected in Darath’s dark eyes. They ran over the altars, the wall sconces, the floor, serried ranks of flame. Perfumed with cloves and cinnamon and rose, the smell of sun and warmth and living in the old symbolism of the body’s senses. The most expensive candles possible. But still, a thaler bought an awful lot of candles. The heat made Orhan’s eyes water; he could see Darath was sweating.

  The High Priestess knelt before the High Altar. Her hair hung over her face, her hands were raised to her mouth. She looked so tiny. So fragile. Orhan stared at her until Darath shoved him away. One life.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Darath whispered to him. ‘It’s what she does. Was born to do. Stop.’

  She did draw the red lot, thought Orhan. If the God hadn’t wanted her … The God chose her. Just as the God spared me. Another priestess came up to the girl, said something to her. She moved her head, replied something, got up and walked away. He caught a glimpse of her face, pale and pinched with big eyes. It will be all right, Orhan tried to tell himself. And if it isn’t … One more life, he thought. What’s one more? The Treasury ledgers were terrible but he had some hope of improving them. Made some changes already. More to come. The letter to the Immish High Council had been answered almost respectfully. He’d had a very good idea about including better houses for the destitute and starving poor when rebuilding some of the streets damaged in the uproar. Listen to this man, oh people of the Sekemleth Empire! He has a plan to make us great again! It will all be worth it! It will!

  Tam was dead. March was going to die. If March didn’t kill him and Darath first. What was one more life? Hers, or March’s, or his own? The city might yet be made better. And others might yet have better lives.

  Human skin and honey. It sickens you, but it’s what’s needed to go on.

  Other worshippers stared at them. Stared more when Orhan handed over a gleaming gold coin, voiced his desire to make offering in a loud, clear tone that carried around the muffled silence of the chamber, echoing on bronze and stone. The priestesses milled about him gasping and mouthing platitudes. Murmurs all around them: rumours of what had happened last night would be everywhere. So outré. So … bizarre. Louder, bolder murmurs when he explained that he had been saved from death at the hands of an assassin only by the great mercy of the God who smiled down on him. Darath smiled at him: you’re learning, Orhan. Showmanship is all.

  In the golden light, so bright there were no shadows, Orhan knelt down before a small altar and prayed. ‘Great Lord Tanis, I come before You, to ask Your blessing of my life.’ A rational man. But a thankful one. It’s good, he thought, even with what I’ve done, it’s good being alive.

  ‘We live. We die. For these things, we are grateful,’ Darath repeated beside him. The scent of the candles was so strong, spice and flowers and the sweet honey of the wax. So he had knelt here before, with Bil, giving thanks for her child. So he had sat and given thanks for the life of the man he’d tried to kill. Strange and strange again, all the ways of the world. God forgave him, it seemed. Or did not altogether despise him, anyway. The first time since that night that he had set foot in the Temple without shuddering. The golden light danced around him, the movements of the worshippers making the candle flames flicker. A young woman heavily pregnant, a young man with the scars of the knife, an old couple with thin shaking hands like the branches of a dead tree. Priestesses, masked in silver and lapis, shapeless as rain clouds in their grey robes. He’d killed several of those.

  No, not killed. Killed suggested action, danger, personal involvement, playing a role. Better to say he’d ordered several of them dead. More callous put that way, and more true.

  He took Darath’s hand as they walked back through the thin high dark passageway out into the world beyond. When Bil’s child is born, he thought, I will love it as if it were my own. The thought made him suddenly deeply happy. Bil will have a child. I will be a father. I will raise a life. Only a few months now. A child! he thought.

  Grey Square was hot and muggy. Crowded, too. The city seemed noticeably more pious with all that had happened. The kite seller had moved there, the tinkle of copper bells followed Orhan as he walked past. Another man was selling waxed silk balloons in bright colours that floated up into the sky when a tiny candle was lit beneath them. Very pretty, they must look at night. Flying things up to the heavens seemed a new fashion, a childish distraction from the chaos that had almost engulfed them, an attempt to reach the numinous glories of the light whilst trapped in human decay.

  Orhan bought a blue balloon for Bil. Nice and symbolic. She’d like that.

  They skir
ted the Court of the Fountain, heavy with street merchants and whores and all the music of the city that shifted around them, the crowds parting almost unthinking before them in deference to great men. A few people still cheered for Lord Emmereth, the saviour of the city. Darath snorted but squeezed Orhan’s hand. In the Street of Closed Eyes, a man was breathing fire, watched by a small circle of children and stupefied drunks. He wasn’t very good: the fire was barely coming out more than a hand’s width from his mouth. His torch smelled oily and rank and his clothes were shabby. Imitating a dragon. The tell-tale marks of hatha cravings around his smoke-sore eyes.

  ‘Always wanted to be able to do that,’ said Darath. He turned to Orhan. ‘Let’s go and do something pleasant, then.’

  ‘I should go to the palace. Work.’

  ‘No. You almost died last night! You should enjoy yourself a bit.’

  Orhan looked at him, and laughed, and took his hand.

  They went to Darath’s bathing house, swam in the cool water of the shade pool. The room was kept in darkness, its walls and ceiling gilt in silver, the water heavy with rose oil. Larks and heart doves in cages buried in the walls. The hot pool next door was heavily salted so that one floated on the surface of the water. It stung sweetly on Orhan’s injured skin. Thick steam pumped up from the floor was scented with frankincense, the atmosphere so humid it was hard to see clearly and the water upon which one rested seemed to merge into the heat of the air. Finally the cold plunge, icy sweet. Afterwards they sat in a rooftop garden walled in lilac trees, listening to a boy sing. A servant girl brought milk curdled with vinegar and spiked with brandy. The twilight bell rang across the city. Ferfews began to fly and to call. Great green moths circled their heads, drawn by the flicker of the lamps.

  Night comes. We survive.

  Orhan thought: I may just have saved the Empire.

  Or at least I’ve done the best I can.

  A dark clear night and the stars were out, looking down on them.

  Lord of Living and Dying, Great Tanis Who Rules All Things, thank you.

  Thank you.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Illyn Altrersyr’s troops reached Third ten days after Marith did. Great chains had been raised at Toreth Harbour to keep out the ships, but the people of Escral turned on the Relast men sent to do likewise. Two died, the rest were imprisoned. Five great ships with sails the colour of clotted blood swept down into the harbour there only a few hours afterwards. A day’s march from Malth Salene, and no time to call for aid. They reached Toreth with the dusk, and the city reluctantly opened her gates to her king.

  Thalia saw them in the morning light, drawing up before the walls, pennants fluttering in the wind. Cold winter sunlight shone on their armour. Another hard frost, painfully beautiful: the dark shapes of men and horses stood out harshly against the silver white of the world, looking false and unreal.

  Marith was closeted with Lord Relast, had been since the message came in the grey cold of first light that his father was present in person and the men of Third were uneasy with it. The set of his face as he left her had been terrible; when he had been told his father had come, he had laughed.

  I wish I was back in Sorlost, Thalia thought. That this was all a dream. He’s a beautiful boy, he shines like the moon. Kingly. And myself a queen. A golden throne and a crown of silver … But this! This! She looked at the men outside the walls. A bit late now to think she might leave.

  Just after noon, there was a stirring in the men outside the walls. Voices shouted, too far away to make out the words. She craned her head out of the window, trying to see what was happening. Figures milled around in a tight knot of action; someone brought up horses, raised a standard with a deep red flag worked with gold stars.

  A tap at the door. A servant entered, flushed and out of breath from running.

  ‘My Lady,’ he said hurriedly, ‘My Lady, My Lord Prince desires your presence in the great courtyard. He said as quickly as you can.’

  Thalia picked up the black cloak. Desires your presence? An order. His face, once, in the desert, afraid to go near her, afraid she might push him away. And so now we come to this. Your woman, the dragon had called her. The holiest woman in all Irlast, and no one would ever say he was her man. A trophy. A thing to display. Look, look, Father. Look what I’ve got.

  They walked through the corridors, the serving man dancing impatience, wanting to go faster. I will not run for him, Thalia thought. People bustled aimlessly around them, fear in their eyes, drawing back as she passed.

  In the courtyard, Marith stood in the midst of a mass of armed men. He was dressed in a shirt of fine silver armour, a sword at his hip, a deep red cloak spilling out behind him. In the bright clear pale light of the winter sun he was as beautiful as dreams, as shining as frost, with a shadow behind him that stank of pain and despair and death.

  The serving man led Thalia through the press of people to his side. For a moment she thought that she should kneel.

  ‘You are to come with me,’ he said shortly. His eyes sparkled, a boy’s glee in which maggots writhed. ‘We’re to ride out, to meet him. I want you to see them. I want them to see you. Ti will be so jealous.’

  A groom stepped forward with horses, a great white stallion saddled in red and gold, gold ornaments at its head and mouth, a honey and cream palfrey with a side-saddle in black velvet and silver gilt.

  ‘She’s very tame, My Lady,’ the groom said gently. A kind man, sensing her fear. ‘No harm come, mounted on her. And I’ll be with you, see, walking at the rein.’

  Lord Relast gestured impatiently. ‘We need to go out, My Lord Prince. They’ll be waiting.’ Deference fighting terror in his voice.

  Marith nodded. He mounted eagerly, smoothing his cloak back behind him in a great streak of deep red. Deneth Relast and Aris did likewise; the groom helped Thalia up and arranged her skirts. Ten men around them, also mounted, armed and helmeted, their horses caparisoned with leather around their heads to make them look almost like skulls. Ten men on foot, with long spears. In front, standard bearers with a green and gold banner that must be Lord Relast’s, and the dark red of the Altrersyr.

  They moved forward slowly, at walking pace. A sudden cry, sharp as the gulls’ screams, caught Thalia. She looked up and saw Landra and her mother and sister standing on the wall. Lady Jora was weeping: it must have been she who had screamed. Landra’s face curled with hatred. Savane, still barely more than a child, clapped her hands to her mouth in awe.

  They came out through the great gates of Malth Salene, onto the road that led down into the town, bordered in brown heather and the last of the gorse. The sea roared below them, churned white. The sun shone brilliant in a sky clear as liquid. The shadows rose up before them as they went.

  Men came forward to meet them, beneath the same dark red banner, armed and mounted in the same style. A tall man in their midst, dark-haired and dark-eyed with skin as white as the foam. A young man beside him, dark-haired and dark-eyed also, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The two groups stopped, regarded each other in silence. Horses nickered and shifted. The waves roared. The seabirds screamed.

  Marith rode forward, right up to them, drawing his horse up almost nose to nose with the king’s.

  ‘Father. Ti.’

  Illyn Altrersyr regarded him. Tiothlyn started to speak, but his father’s hand raised and the boy fell silent. A cold, sullen look on his face. So like and unlike Marith’s face.

  ‘Marith.’ Illyn Altrersyr’s voice was bitter, grating like metal on stone. Weariness and love and despair underneath it. A man who knew as clear as the rising sun that he had lost something precious, and that there was nothing he could have done to avoid it, but that he should still at least have tried. He studied his son’s face a long time, while the banners snapped and creaked in the wind and the horses stirred.

  ‘You failed to kill the Asekemlene Emperor, then?’ King Illyn said at last. ‘Dragonlord, I hear you are, and a killer of babies.’ His eyes flic
ked to Thalia. ‘This is the woman, of course. The Priestess.’

  ‘Dragonlord and dragon killer, Father. Mage killer, too. And, yes, killer of babies. Women. Old men.’

  Tiothlyn stirred again, trying to speak. Again, his father silenced him with a motion of his hand.

  ‘Why?’ Illyn asked. For a moment, Thalia thought he was referring to the Emperor, or the dragon, or herself, then she saw where his face looked. She turned in the saddle. Saw the body of a man, richly dressed in silks and furs, raised up on spears above the carved wood of the gates.

  ‘Because he bloody deserved it,’ said Marith. ‘Bloody stupid bastard that he was.’

  ‘He was my mother’s brother and a loyal servant of the crown,’ Tiothlyn shouted. The horses snorted and twisted their heads, stamped their hooves. Men shifted in the drawn-up columns, awaiting something. The look on Illyn Altrersyr’s face was unreadable. His eyes moved from Marith’s face to the man’s body and back again. He would have forgiven him, Thalia thought then. He would have taken him in again. He was proud, to hear of the dragon and the things done in Sorlost. Really, as drinking boasts go, it’s pretty impressive, you know. He loves him. Of course he does. He’s his father.

  But it’s all done and over now, and neither can go back.

  Marith perhaps sensed something, also. He raised his hand and rubbed at his face, weak and weary.

  Then he drew his sword.

  There was a sudden shouting, metal flashing in the light. Screams in the air loud as thunder. Shadows vast in the low sun. Thalia cried out in panic as the men around her began fighting, swords out, blood spurting up. Her horse tried to back away, the groom at the lead rein shouting something and then the groom was cut down. Thalia clutched at the reins, trying to make the horse turn around, get away. All there was was blood and dark and screaming, so loud it drowned out her vision, horses screaming, men screaming, the world screaming like a dying child.