Knife Sworn tak-2

by Mazarkis Williams

  “Daveed.” Sarmin closed the fingers of one hand around the baby’s thigh. Soft, and fat, and small.

  She thinks to protect him from me, but this, this touch, hearing him draw breath, the scent of him. This is what keeps him alive.

  “You forget, mother, Daveed is heir to the throne. My heir. I will not see him harmed.”

  “Today he’s your heir. Tomorrow?” She shrugged.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow is always a puzzle of many parts. Give me a daughter and Daveed stays safe. And that could be an end to it. I would be happy to raise a daughter.

  “You should be with Mesema, mother.” Sarmin watched his brother, refusing to meet their mother’s eyes.

  “She has women aplenty with her. In any case these horse-girls know more about birthing than any decent bride should. On the plains they open their legs to men and beast alike and drop bastards in the grass without a second thought.”

  “Mesema had no plains-children, Mother.” Sarmin took his hand from Daveed before anger tightened it. “She was taken too young from her family. She needs the Old Wives round her-she has laboured two days and a night.”

  “She has Old Wives-”

  “Only Lana is with her, and the Little Mother was never strong, less so since Beyon’s passing. Mesema needs strength now.”

  “My place is with my son,” Nessaket said, “I cannot leave him.” Sarmin turned to go.

  “The gods will strike you down the day you listen to those old men,” his mother said.

  No ifs. She already thinks I will break, that it’s just a matter of time.

  “The only danger to Daveed is your fear, Mother. Herran tells me of these plans to spirit my brother away to the estate of this lord or that lord, to use this passage, that guide. Fear breeds fear. The more you do to take the child from the palace the more the council mistrust your motives.” He sounded tired even to himself as he stepped towards the doorway. “Watch my brother well.” His hand still held the child’s warmth. He looked down at it, half expecting to find it bloody.

  Corridors led him and for a time Sarmin walked without direction. Bodyguards shadowed his path, dark as befits shadows, slave-bred swordsons from the Islands.

  If Mother knew that five men loyal to me guard Daveed for each of hers, what then would she think? He stopped before an archway. Beneath it Huna, last champion of the Parigols, stood outnumbered by Cerani, proud and many. Perhaps it’s in our blood to glorify our enemies and overlook the heroes of our own.

  “Magnificence!” A pale man running, wrapped in the blue silks of a servant, sashed in gold to denote command. “Magnificence!”

  “Paper!” For a moment Sarmin couldn’t remember the man’s true name. Even now it felt strange for Paper to speak after seventeen years serving in silence. “Charging at the emperor is a good way to lose height.” He spread his hands to calm the guards who had stepped in close. True to their training they relaxed only by the merest fraction, as if humouring him. Threats don’t vanish just because the emperor does not see them.

  “A child, my emperor!” Paper caught his breath and remembered himself. He fell into his obeisance. “The empress is delivered of a child, Mirra be blessed!”

  “Is she well? Is Mesema well? Are they both well?” A hollowness filled him.

  “Tired, Magnificence, but she is well. As is your son.”

  “A son?” How many gods had he asked for a daughter? “A son?” Beyon’s son. The true emperor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NESSAKET

  Nessaket sat and watched her son Daveed. An hour ago he had begun to cry for his milk, a strong, healthy cry that seared her chest, but she did not lift him from his bed. He remained where his brother Sarmin had put him, waving his tiny fists and punching his feet at the ceiling. Over time his wailing grew thin, until finally he turned his face to the blankets, sucking at the silks, making little noises of disappointment. Shadows gathered around him, settling into the folds of his blankets, the curves of his hands and the hollows of his eyes. With the darkness came a chill, but she did not cover him. Perhaps the cold would sink in, make him frail, carry him off to his dead brothers. Perhaps that would be a mercy.

  Before the little savage pushed forth her cursed boy, Sarmin had named Daveed as his heir and promised never to hurt him. But within an hour everything had changed. Now Sarmin had a son and Daveed was both more and less than he had been. More of a threat, less of a necessity. Her prayers to Mirra had gone unanswered. Tuvaini lay in his tomb, Arigu remained far away in Fryth and she was alone.

  A wail rose from deep within her, but she made her throat tight so all that escaped was a half-syllable, choked rather than spoken. Daveed heard 34 her and renewed his protests, outraged that she would sit so close without feeding him. His fury reminded her of Beyon, though her eldest would never have gone quiet. At least that was what she believed; she had never made Beyon wait, and so she did not know.

  Was it easier to die as a baby? She thought of her son Yusuf, who had yielded to the same fever that killed so many of Tahal’s children. It had rushed through like a flooding river, sweeping them all away and leaving Beyon as the eldest boy. How she had thanked Herzu then, making sacrifices daily, for pestilence was His province but Beyon had been spared. She thought perhaps he’d been chosen by the gods, and urged Emperor Tahal to protect and favour her son over all others.

  She laughed at that, all bitter edges, cutting across the baby’s cries. Yes; I should just kill him now. His brother is the hand of heaven, and the gods are careless. Even Tuvaini had managed the deaths of all Beyon’s wives during his short reign. Women she had hand-picked and trained from a young age-staked out in the courtyard for Eyul’s bow. The throne was purchased and maintained through death and blood.

  Nessaket raised the cushion and stared down at Daveed’s red, angry cheeks. He had Beyon’s eyes and that curl of hair at his temple. He did not resemble his father; for that she was thankful.

  There had been a time, before her husband had betrayed her, when she had loved and been loved, when she had looked to the future with happiness. When she remembered those days, it was to recall another woman, not herself. That woman had been hollowed out of her, bite by bitter bite, until all she felt empty. The same emptiness had forced Siri to jump from the roof of the palace after little Kashim died, the roof where she had kept a beautiful garden, where the children had played.

  She had watched Eyul Knife-Sworn drag his blade over Amile’s throat. Had Amile wondered, in those last moments, whether his life had always been meant to end that way? Whether his lessons and songs and embraces had been for nothing? Had he felt the betrayal, had he felt unloved? It weighed on her like a stone, making her arms heavy, the cushion heavy. She dropped it.

  It just covered Daveed’s little body. She leaned over the crib, letting the heaviness weigh her down, letting it press her hands against the silk. A lullaby came to her lips. Sleep now little child, your father tames the sands so wild, over dune and under star, your dreams will take you very far. Daveed struggled a moment, his little feet kicking at the tassels, then went still.

  “No!” Nessaket threw the pillow from the cradle. Had he died so quickly? But he blinked at her, angrier than ever, and let out a long, shuddering wail. “Oh, Daveed,” she said, picking him up, “oh, my child.” And so I still have something yet to lose. She gave him her breast, wondering if some part of him would remember this and hate her, just as Beyon had. Now she had betrayed all of her children, except for Yusuf. Dear, sweet Yusuf had died not knowing anything but her love.

  Daveed would not die. She would make sure of that now.

  I will be a better mother this time.

  Once Daveed’s stomach was full, his eyelids drooped. Nessaket placed him in his cradle and turned to the mirror. She saw herself in the silver, still a bit heavy from giving birth, her hair finally showing a streak of grey. “Dreshka? Where is my body-slave?” she called out, though she knew the woman always stood in the shadowed niches of the hall
way.

  “Your Majesty?” Dreshka hurried in and prostrated herself on the rug. “I need my hair done, and my face.”

  Dreshka came to stand behind Nessaket and picked up a brush. “How would you like your hair today, Majesty?”

  “Down.”

  Dreshka asked no more questions. Within a few minutes Nessaket’s hair gleamed and kohl lined her eyes. Now she saw at least a trace of the woman who’d seduced emperors and generals. Better. She stood, causing the slave to stumble backwards. She ignored Dreshka. It was best not to show slaves any consideration; down that path lay resentment and danger. “Sash,” she ordered, and Dreshka tied blue silk around her shoulder, making a sling. Nessaket lifted Daveed and tucked him in.

  Dreshka looked down at the baby. So easily she smiled. “Where will you take him now, Majesty?”

  Nessaket slapped her face. “How dare you ask questions of me.”

  The girl’s eyes watered and Nessaket clenched her teeth. Slave-girls made her feel upset. In the days of old, eunuchs had both guarded and served the women of the palace. Satreth the Drunk had outlawed the practice, calling castration needlessly cruel. Nessaket wished he hadn’t. She imagined the eunuchs as stoic and competent, yet easily led. The perfect servants. Dreshka fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the carpet. “I am a foolish slave, Your Majesty.”

  Nessaket left her and walked into the corridor, smiling sweetly at each of the grizzled guards. They were the closest to eunuchs that she could have. They fell into place behind her.

  Everywhere painted women perched on benches and cushions like butterflies. Generals, satraps and prominent merchants had all sent their finest prizes to Emperor Sarmin, but he had found no use for them. They watched her pass, eyes careful and cunning. Nessaket had not chosen them. They bore watching.

  At last they arrived at the temple of Herzu. She indicated for her men to wait, squared her shoulders and marched into the darkness. She picked her way through the confusion of statues and benches, sometimes looking up at the high, spotless dome. Its apex was hidden in shadow, but she knew what was there: a will and a purpose. Not a path to avoid suffering but one to live through it, victorious.

  At last she emerged near the altar. High Priest Dinar stood under the monstrous golden statue of Herzu, his broad shoulders blocking the candlelight. A sandcat lay at his feet, muscles twitching, its blood pooling on the tiles. A sacrifice. Sandcats were said to be twice as fast as a man and three times as strong, but she saw no man here save Dinar. She stood silently, watching the cat grow still.

  At last Dinar turned, and she met his dark gaze. She was the wife of two emperors, and twice Empire Mother. He would hear her out. “Your Holiness.”

  He bowed. She saw the speckles of blood on his scalp, on the backs of his arms. His right hand held a bloody dagger. “You bring the babe.” A question in his tone.

  “I would have him serve Herzu.”

  Dinar rose from his bow and motioned to a nearby bench. Together they sat. Dinar looked down at Daveed. “May I?” He held out his hands, covered with blood.

  Nessaket slipped her baby from the sling and handed him to the priest. Dinar took him from his blankets, studied his legs and arms, turned his jaw left and right, and checked his penis. “He is strong.”

  “Yes. He would make a good priest of Herzu.”

  “Tuvaini was a good servant of Herzu. His son must be blessed.” Nessaket said nothing. Dinar turned the baby on his lap and ran a redtinged finger along his spine. “You would give me the babe? Now?” She hesitated. “He needs my milk.”

  Dinar wrapped the blanket around Daveed. “I cannot take him.” Nessaket felt a wetness on her slipper. The creature’s blood had run across the tiles. She looked at Herzu’s statue, his terrible fangs, the heart of the sandcat in one golden hand, a dead baby in the other, and then at Dinar, his eyes cold, a ruthless smile on his lips. “Why?”

  “You come to me out of fear and weakness. A mother’s desperation. You insult me.”

  “Mothers can also be strong.”

  “Are you strong now? Were you strong when you tried to spirit him away to your family? Or does your mage son frighten you?”

  “Sarmin is no mage.”

  Dinar smiled again. “You were not among the Many, were you? Many things that had been secret were shared. We shared a terrible knowledge. Now we are afraid to remember.”

  “What are you speaking of?”

  “Cowardice. We have forgotten what was begun.” Dinar stood and walked through the sandcat blood to the altar. He ran a hand down Herzu’s muscled, golden leg. “By Sarmin and those before him. We long for the Many, but we forget the price.”

  Nessaket could not make out his meaning, but she knew it had nothing to do with Daveed. She stood, the babe quiet in her arms. “You refuse my son?”

  Dinar spoke with his back to her. “I refuse your intent. Be strong for the empire, serve Herzu, and perhaps I will take him yet.”

  “Sarmin-”

  “For now the emperor is a child of Mirra, soft and weak. He offers peace to a defeated foe and coos over an infant. He will not move against you.” Treasonous words. But she had spoken worse in this place of Herzu, when Beyon was emperor. And Dinar spoke truly. She could make her moves now, before Sarmin learned to play the game in earnest. She could be several steps ahead of him before he was finished admiring his new son. “What must I do?”

  “You know what to do. This peace is an affront to Him.”

  Nessaket gathered Daveed against her chest and left the temple, leaving bloody footprints in her wake.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RUSHES

  Rushes runs over the soft ground. She chases something quick and bright, a flutter of patterned wings, darting in and out of the grass, rising high, beyond her reach, and then down again before she can grasp it. It is yellow with a pattern of blue and red, a bright abandon of colour that calls back to her a time when she was younger, before the slavers brought her to the palace, before she became one with the Many. It pauses over a blossom, and she darts forwards to cup it in both hands. Its wings beat against her palms, frantic, its fear translating along the lines of her skin, infecting her, and so she lets it go. But the ground betrays her; her foot catches in the grass, and she struggles to keep her balance. Too late. She begins to fall.

  “Rushes! Wake up, girl.”

  Rushes opened her eyes to take in the room, just beginning to show itself in shades of gray, and Mother Hagga, leaning over her with a frown.

  “Sleeping when you should be lighting the fires. Gorgen-”

  Gorgen! Rushes leaped up and reached for her serving-dress, hanging on the wall above her pallet. If she hurried, she’d still get to the kitchen before he did. She didn’t want any trouble. You’ll get it, he always said. She finished tying on her clothes and ran to the water-basin. “Where’s Demah?” she asked.

  Hagga shrugged and reached for her own work clothes, but without any hurry. Mother Hagga had worked in the Little Kitchen for as long as anybody could remember, and did mostly as she liked.

  After splashing some water on her face, Rushes ran through the door and towards the Little Kitchen, holding her skirts up over her feet, taking the corners at a spin. She hoped Demah had already lit the fire.

  But when she got to the Little Kitchen the fireplace was dark, and Gorgen waited by the water-pump, his big shoulders drawn up against the cool of the morning. Tears formed in Rushes’ eyes and she edged towards the coals, listening for Mother Hagga, though she had run so fast, and Mother Hagga was slow. Where’s Demah? As one of the Many she might have called out for her, but not any more.

  Gorgen smiled. In this light his teeth looked just a shade lighter brown than his hair. She froze, one hand on the coal-shovel, but he didn’t move towards her, not yet. “You look so pretty, even first thing in the morning,” he said.

  Confused, she said nothing, watching his face for clues.

  He reached her in one stride, his big, calloused
hand raised, and she cringed. But he only ran a finger down her cheek, and this scared her more than a slap ever could have. She didn’t know what he wanted, or what she was supposed to do. To live outside the Many, deaf to the murmurs of those around her, was to live in doubt. “I remember your voice,” he began, but stepped back and fell quiet at the sound of Mother Hagga’s footsteps in the corridor.

  Rushes turned away and shoveled the coal. It wasn’t unusual for people to remember her voice among the Many. She’d been the only child in the palace who survived the Patterning. Also she was fast, and small enough to fit through little cracks and holes, so that it had been her who first found the body of Emperor Beyon, laid out in his coffin with the pattern shining all around him. It had been her who sent the image to the Many so that all could rejoice. When he was alive he promised that as long as he was emperor nobody could hurt her. And then she had become part of the Many, and celebrated his death. Tears burned her eyes; when the pattern broke the shame had found her and it had never left. It burned in her now, so she threw herself into the morning’s work. Sorrow slips through the empty places, the idle moments, and trouble can’t move a busy hand. That was what her mother used to say when the snow piled up outside and the two of them readied the wool for spinning, all alone in their smallhouse, with no clan or fields to surround them. Let’s keep our hands busy.

  “Here comes the priest,” Hagga warned in a low voice and then Rushes saw him, all in black, gliding past the kitchen door like a wraith from old stories. Every morning an acolyte of Herzu went into the dungeon and plucked out a prisoner who never came back. The stairway to the prison cells grew dark and silent.

  She must have stopped whatever she was doing, for Hagga hissed at her, “Get to it, child! You can be frightened later.”