“He loves to sleep.” Rushes jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice. She had not seen her when she ran in. She leaned out and looked at her: small, with short dark hair, probably a nursemaid. When the guard turned she snapped back into the darkness, hoping he would not see her bright hair. He passed by without looking.
The woman sang a song to the babe, about ships fighting on the ocean and a child who floated away. Rushes listened, caught by the fate of the child on the waves, but also by the spray of salt water, the snap of the sails, and the clash of swords on a rocking boat. When the song was finished she remained with her eyes closed for a time, relishing the images, forgetting that she had sneaked into the empire mother’s room. But soon she remembered how foolish she had been Perhaps the nursemaid would take pity on her, help her to get back to the Ways. She in turn could warn the nursemaid about the snake. No-one need to know she was here, dirtying the silk rugs. She thought a moment before nodding to herself. It was the best plan. The tiny woman, a servant herself, might understand.
She crept out, skirting the lantern, keeping to the shadow. As she neared she realised the nursemaid was sleeping, chin against her chest, one arm extended over the prince. Rushes paused, wondering whether to wake her. She might cry out, and then the guards would come.
Movement drew her eye to the window-screen, a shimmer of brown-onbrown, a curve where there should not have been one. A snake slithered through the holes in the wood; it must have come through from the balcony. Its head extended over the cradle where Prince Daveed lay sleeping, his chubby arms extended to either side.
She knew snakes; she knew them from the long grass and the summer heat of childhood days. She remembered her father sticking a long branch beneath a boulder and lifting a snake from its middle. “Keep your distance,” he had told her, his indigo eyes intent on the danger, “Use as long a stick as you can find.” Then he took it away from their little hut, where it could not cause them any harm.
Rushes looked around the room. The only thing that resembled a long stick was the fireplace poker. The silk-clad all had fireplaces, though she had never seen one used. She lifted it and tested the heavy iron. She could not hold it extended for very long, so she would hold it and wait for the right moment. She crept back to the cradle and watched the snake’s slow movements. It was only one third of the way through. It had not seen her, or did not think her a danger; she remembered one threatening her father, the way its scales seemed to shiver, the angry position of its mouth. This one was relaxed. She waited. Prince Daveed moved his head, just a little, and she tensed her fingers around the iron. She tried not to think what would happen if the nursemaid should wake up and scream, or if Nessaket returned and began to shout. If only I had that luck-stone.
At last the snake bobbed its head and slithered down to the edge of the gilded cradle, but half of it remained wound through the window-screen. She prayed to Mirra it would come all the way through before anyone moved and frightened it. She extended the poker, slowly, beneath the snake’s middle, feeling the ache in her arm muscles, afraid of dropping it and waking the baby.
With a quick movement the snake dropped and just as quickly Rushes lifted the iron poker. I will be bitten. It will slide off and escape. She ran to the balcony, threw the poker and shut the door. She heard a dull thud as it hit the wooden screen and then a clatter as it fell upon the tiles. Without pausing to judge whether anyone had heard she hurried to the screen and fastened the shutters. She backed away and leaned against the fireplace, counting her breaths until they slowed.
“Very good, Red-rose.” The emperor stood behind her, his white robes glowing in the light from the single lantern. She stifled a yelp of surprise and forced her feet to stillness; she would not run, though every part of her wanted to do so. She shivered, recalling his touch. He knew everything — about her brother, Beyon, Gorgen-all of it. He had gleaned it all from her eyes that night. It made her feel sick, butterflies crawling along her skin.
In her fright she forgot her obeisance, but he did not notice, jerking his head towards the balcony. “I will kill it,” he said, drawing a dagger from his belt, a twisted one, and ugly. He opened the doors, stepped out and disappeared into the night. She heard a scrape of metal on stone and he returned, grinning in a cold way, like the Fryth priest. “It is dead.”
At last the nursemaid woke, looking around the room in confusion as she blinked the sleep from her eyes. The emperor leaned over her and gave her a kiss, but even in that affectionate motion Rushes detected an air of scorn. “Little Mother. You may leave.” She gave Rushes a curious look before bustling from the room.
“I think we can do without her guarding skills,” he said, to nobody in particular, looking down at his brother Daveed. “Look at this one. He is not so strong. Pelar will be the strongest.” He lowered his voice. “Pelar is my son.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Rushes wondered why he shared it so intimately, like a secret. Everyone knew Pelar was Sarmin’s son and heir. She wondered how he had killed the snake so easily-Emperor Sarmin, who had lived most of his life in one small room with neither snakes nor any other animal.
“I killed that filthy kitchen boy,” he continued, the grin returning to his face, “I found him in the pantry and I snapped his neck.”
Cold claws held Rushes’ heart. “Gorgen is dead?” She thought of Gorgen, standing by the fire, talking, taking off his belt to give her a whipping. He had been terrible and fearsome, but always alive, with thoughts and fears and wishes of his own.
Rushes remembered the overfull rice sack, the kick she’d given. She went over it in her mind: the acrobat’s memories, the feeling in her legs, the run for the dungeon, and then the emperor’s fierce look in the lantern light, the set of his shoulders when he left her. “Your Magnificence!” Her knees failed her, and once kneeling, she fell into her obeisance at last. Turning her face to the floor allowed her to hide the horror that must be written there.
“I said that I would protect you. I kept my word. Not like my brother.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” But it had been Emperor Beyon who promised to protect her. She swallowed. She had imagined something, built on the ghost of a memory, but it was preposterous. Impossible.
He took her right arm and lifted her out of her obeisance. Emperor Sarmin was thin and wasted, but he loomed over her with shoulders as wide as his brother Beyon’s. Rushes clenched her teeth against a scream as he reached into her robes, but it was a smooth-edged stone, the luck-stone, he pressed into her hand. “He wants this,” said the emperor, “and I can’t let him have it. Throw it into the deepest part of the Ways where he will never find it.”
Who? Again she thought of the Mogyrk priest and his cold smile. “Yes, Your Magnificence.” Her shaking hands wanted to keep it, to keep holding it. She put it into her pocket and it felt heavy, a reassuring weight at her side.
“I have kept my promise to you. Will you keep your promise to me, Redrose?” His dark eyes threatened. She remembered that look.
“Yes, Magnificence. I promise.” But in truth she was not sure; oddly, with Gorgen dead and the emperor as he was, the palace felt more dangerous, not less. She curled her fingers around the stone. It made her feel safe.
He touched a hand to his forehead as if it hurt. “One moment-I will return.” At the door he said something to the guards, who looked in and saw her at last. Their expressions changed from dismay to surprise when the emperor commanded they allow her to stay.
Rushes watched Prince Daveed sleep and turned the stone in her pocket. It grew warm against her skin. The emperor did not return, nor did the empire mother. Eventually someone would send her back to the Little Kitchen. Would they ask her about Gorgen? She could not tell anyone who had killed him, nor would anyone believe that Emperor Beyon lived on in his brother’s body. She had not been believed herself until he reminded her of his promise, though she had recognized him in the dungeon. Emperor Sarmin did not know her real name-Red-rose-nor had he ever promised to pro
tect her.
But he had changed. When he spoke with her she saw his anger and his determination, even to keep his promises. But he used to carry sadness in his eyes, and speak with kindness. That was gone. She wiped a tear away. Perhaps those parts of him were already in heaven. She remembered his gray skin, the blood pooling in his lap, the pattern around him shining like light through a window that pierced the world. Perhaps those parts would forgive her for her role in his death.
She waited so long for the emperor to return that she began to doze herself, and forgot to be frightened. When Nessaket finally entered, her face twisted in anger, Rushes remembered enough to cringe. She had seen that look so many times and knew what came after, the crack of flesh on flesh, the feel of fists against soft places, but the empire mother stopped an arm’s length away and allowed Rushes time to fall into her obeisance.
After a minute in a tight voice Nessaket said, “Rise.” Rushes stood and the empire mother paced the small floor, hands clasped tightly behind her back. “My son the emperor boasted of his kill,” she said. “And he said you found the snake and rescued my son. Some would say that if you found it, then you are the one who put it there.”
“I would never do it, Your Majesty!”
“Do what, Rushes? You must say it.”
“Bring the snake, or hurt anyone, Your Majesty! Please, I am just a slave!”
Nessaket stopped pacing and stared into her eyes for a long moment. Rushes was reminded of the emperor in the dungeon, but this time, her secrets were not laid bare. It was just the two of them, face to face, and finally, Nessaket turned away and hit the high wooden screen. “You are telling the truth-I can tell.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Rushes did not allow herself to feel relief just yet, not when the empire mother seemed so angry.
“If it wasn’t you, then the snake-bearer has not been caught,” said Nessaket, pacing. “There are so many who want Daveed dead, it is difficult to sort who might have done this.” Nessaket walked back and forth, muttering to herself, a frown marring her forehead. Finally she stopped before the mirror. “First pika seeds, and now a snake,” she said, more to her reflection than to Rushes, and so Rushes kept her silence. As important as her information might be, she could not speak unbidden. Nessaket took in Rushes’ filthy clothes, her soiled shoes. “I know who you are. You’re the girl I sent to listen. Now they say your master was killed, and you were seen running away. Should I send you back?”
“I did run from the Little Kitchen, Your Majesty, and I know it was wrong, but please don’t send me back there. It’s beatings, and worse. I’d rather go to the dungeon, as dark and cold as it is.” Then she sucked in her breath, trying in vain to bring all those words back to her mouth.
Nessaket frowned. “I don’t care what you’d rather! But if you can show that you listened, as I have asked you, I will keep you here-for now.”
Rushes cleared her throat and curled her fingers around the luck-stone in her pocket, wondering where to begin. “Your Majesty,” she said. “I heard them talking about the snake in the Ways. A man, and a woman.” She didn’t know their names, or what it all meant, but she could remember their words, and their voices.
“Tell me,” said Nessaket, “and you will become mine.”
Rushes began.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NESSAKET
Someone had tried to kill Daveed, and it would happen again. They had not waited long after Pelar’s birth to make their move, and they would not stop until he was dead.
Nessaket sat with the pouch of pika seeds. One for sleep. Two to make sure there’s no waking. Five to kill. She had killled Lapella with five. She had not relished it. Yes, she had hidden in the shadows of a wall-niche and watched Demah deliver the candied dates, but not out of pleasure. It had been her plan and her responsibility. Eyul had said something to her once, long ago, when Beyon was just a boy. Killing becomes too easy if you don’t look. And so she had looked, all the while until it was over, letting herself into the woman’s room and standing over her as she died. Eyul had been right-killing had not become easy.
Dinar had stated the price of Daveed’s safety. Kavic’s death. Could she do it again?
The mirror showed Rushes hovering over Daveed. Could she ask Rushes to deliver the poison? Perhaps Marke Kavic would trust her, see her as a fellow Fryth, and eat whatever she brought him. They could make desert candies. Pika seeds were bitter, best hidden in honey.
Or perhaps she should save them for the concubine from the Ways, the one who had brought the snake to her balcony. The one who had obtained pika seeds, and meant to use them. She did not doubt the specifics of Rushes’ account. The girl had a good memory. Nessaket had tested her.
But which concubine, and who was her master? Rushes had described him only as cold. But just as the concubine was that man’s instrument, he might in turn be obeying the orders of someone more powerful. If she chose to protect Daveed in that way Nessaket might never be finished killing.
But she could stop the concubine using other methods. Exposure. Blackmail. Threats.
“Let Dreshka tend to the boy,” she said to the girl, “You should be in the Great Room, listening to the women. Find the one you heard talking in the Ways.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rushes did a quick curtsey and left her alone with Daveed. Nessaket looked at the cradle, so very small, the child within it even smaller. So vulnerable. If she should die…
Could I do it again? She imagined the palace in thirty years’ time, with her grandson Pelar on the throne and Daveed at his side, wearing priests’ robes. She tried to imagine her son in other ways, as a trusted advisor, or perhaps a general-but she could not see him alive in those positions. Not in thirty years, and not in twenty. A priest was the best role for him, the safest role. She poured the seeds out into her hand. Five shiny, red crescents. Just enough for one death, with no room for error. If she killed Marke Kavic, it would secure Daveed’s place with Herzu.
Nessaket wished she had given birth to girls instead of boys. Her life would have followed a different path, and all her children would still be alive. She would not be counting pika seeds. She would be combing hair, giving advice, living in a softer world.
Had she never counted Mesema as a daughter? Over time she had come to find the horsegirl tolerable, but Mesema was too hard around the edges, too clever and wilful. On her first day in Nooria she had walked into the temple of Herzu, bold as a lion, and laid a hand upon the god-statue. She’d enraptured Beyon before Nessaket had even had a chance to speak with her or guide her; she remembered he came into the women’s wing, nearly frantic that he couldn’t find her.
She’d enraptured Beyon. Why had Nessaket never considered that before? Mesema had been with Beyon in the desert. Had they made love there, out on the sands?
It was possible-more than possible. And if Pelar was Beyon’s son, then he, not Sarmin, was the emperor.
The shock of it put Nessaket on her feet. If it were true, then Mesema needed only to tell someone-Govnan, Azeem, Dinar-and the emperor Sarmin and his young brother would both be dead. Mesema would become the empire mother, and in controlling Pelar control the world.
And yet she took no advantage. Was she biding her time, waiting for some signal from her people or their Hidden God? It was difficult to know what to make of Mesema; she played by inscrutable rules, born in high grass, drawn from the wind with sky-washed eyes.
Nessaket replaced the seeds in the pouch. Whatever Mesema’s intentions, she had been faithful to their alliance thus far. She deserved a warning about this concubine.
Nessaket checked Daveed’s blankets. Lately she had become afraid that scorpions or fire-dust hid in the folds. There were many ways to kill a child and Nessaket could imagine all of them. She checked the balcony where the dead snake had earlier been laid out, and where a guard remained as proof against further attacks, and glanced to the roof, where Siri’s garden lay dead. The concubine traitor would have dropped the
snake from there, a violation to her old friend’s memory, but also a mistake. If the woman had stood there, looking down at this balcony, there might be witnesses, or a clue. Once Nessaket knew who the traitor was then she would decide what to do with her. She ordered the guards to set watch over Daveed and headed into the corridor.
Nessaket was exhausted. It was not the kind of tiredness that led to deep and restful sleep, but the kind that tore at her, pulled her down. The last time Nessaket had felt happy was with Arigu, and before that, when Siri was alive, when they spent long days on that roof garden, Sarmin running, little Amile laughing, every one of them trying to keep up with their beloved brother Beyon.
Half of Nessaket’s men rushed to make a circle around her as she walked to Mesema’s Tree Room. The other half stayed with Daveed. Once there she pushed past Pelar’s dozen guards to where Mesema sat with her books at a new, shining table. Sarmin had taught her to read after they were married; Nessaket thought it a mistake. “You should not read, my empress,” she said, “You’ll ruin your eyes and get ugly creases on your forehead.” Was it because her son was the true emperor that she did not care how she looked?
The empress shut her book and put it aside with a smile. “There are worlds in books, whole nations beyond our reach, with new gods and songs and stories. The only way to know them is to read of them, for we can never get there if it takes us our entire lives. I always wondered why Banreh loved his scratchings so. Now I understand.” Banreh was the new Windreader Chief. She spoke as if she were fond of him, and yet she pushed for peace-surely against his wishes. The girl was made of contradictions.
Nessaket motioned to the door. “Come.” They made a parade through the women’s wing, Nessaket and her half-dozen well-armed men, followed by Mesema, Pelar, and their own guards. They passed slaves and concubines, a confusion of faces to which she could give no names. Which one? Which one of you?
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