Knife Sworn tak-2

by Mazarkis Williams

  “She brought the snake, and killed the envoy, too,” said Rushes, motioning towards the edge.

  “Yes, child; you have done well,” said Nessaket. She hissed as she pulled the silk tight around her wound. Assar would need to look at this.

  The girl shook herself, as if waking. “Your Majesty! The Mogyrk slaves are going to do something. They said fire was the signal. When they see it, they’re supposed to go to the courtyard behind the Little

  Kitchen.” She kept talking, faster now, as if time itself would run out on her. “They are looking for precious things to take with them. I-”

  “Mogyrk slaves?” Nessaket blinked with confusion. How long had Mogyrks been fixing her food, carrying her silks? The world shifted under her feet. At least the ghosts and spies she could see. The concubines had surrounded her, but the slaves surrounded everyone.

  “The Mogyrks,” growled Mesema, stalking forwards, “This is all their fault! Show me this courtyard!”

  Nessaket held out a hand to stay her. “I know you have the will for it, but not the strength. Stay here with Pelar.” She motioned towards Rushes. “I am going to send the guards up now. You watch Daveed.”

  Rushes held the baby tight, her blue eyes round over his dark curls. “Where are you going?”

  Nessaket looked again at Pelar, Beyon’s son. Tahal’s death had changed her, and Beyon too. Neither of them had even been what they could have been, not while the grief and anger held them. I will be a better mother this time. It was too late for Beyon, but she could protect his child. “I am going to talk to that austere,” said Nessaket. “I am going to stop this.”

  Nessaket found two guards in the dungeon’s anteroom, two of the four who watched over three hundred Fryth prisoners. It was Sarmin, she knew; Sarmin had emptied the dungeons completely, assigning the soldiers to other tasks. Now that the dungeons were full, there were not enough men to manage it. Both men fell into obeisance at the sight of her and her four guards. “Rise,” she said, “and tell me where to find the second austere.”

  A grizzled guard stood, his jacket too small for his fat belly, his eyes both curious and kind. “I will take you, Majesty.”

  Nessaket followed him between the crowded cells, looking at the faces of the Fryth behind the bars. They called to her in their language, begging for water, perhaps, or for their freedom. Mogyrk worshippers as they were, she should not feel sorry for them; and yet she felt drawn by their hungry eyes, the desperate tone of their calls. She quickened her step, as one hurries past a bad odour or a cloud of smoke.

  The guard indicated the austere’s cell and she dismissed him. Adam stood inside in his red robes, straight, shoulders square, as if he had been expecting her.

  “Austere Adam,” she said, “I am sorry to meet you again under such conditions.” She looked past him at the bare cell.

  “Treachery is as treachery does,” he said, with a lift of his right shoulder.

  She made to argue, then put it aside. To admit they had not actually meant to kill Kavic might be worse than to let him think they planned it. “I come about the disease that spreads nothing into a person,” she said, “I understand Mogyrk has done this to us.”

  “The Pattern Master Helmar is responsible,” he said, “not Mogyrk. Mogyrk is nothing but love, safe harbour, protection.”

  “I am a woman of the world,” she said, “and you do not need to speak such platitudes to me. Tell me how to cure the illness.”

  He laughed. “There is no cure. You will be eaten slowly, your colours, your memories, your feelings, and then your body, piece by piece. It is foretold. There is no way that it can be prevented.”

  “Lies!” she said, grabbing the bars, “I will have you tortured until you tell me!” Shouting rang out at the guards’ station. She heard metal on metal, quick movement. Fighting. Who attacked? Slaves? Yrkmir? Her guards stepped away to investigate, hands on their sword-hilts. She had brought only four, and left the rest to watch over Rushes and Daveed. She turned back to Adam, and he smiled. He stood in his red robes, straight, shoulders square, as he had on the night she met him.

  “You should find somewhere to hide, Your Majesty,” he said, “for my people have come to free me.”

  Her guards rushed around the corner, meeting some threat she could not see; she let go the bars and walked to the edge of the corridor, peeking around the bend. Six slaves were fighting the guards with kitchen knives, lanterns, clubs. Slaves. She had not heeded Rushes’ warning. This was the Longing. This was Mogyrk. Nobody understood how things should work any more. For a slave to fight a guard… The five who had attacked were quickly defeated, but more slaves came, running down the stairs with whoops and jeers. The room became a jumble of movement to her eyes, but it seemed there were five slaves for every guard, holding fire pokers, wooden bats and kitchen knives, their faces lit with a determination she had never known was there.

  A young man stepped out from the fighting, calm, as if taking a morning stroll along the banks of the Blessing. He held a key in his hand and with it he opened the cell doors. He had a lovely face, the colour of tea, and his hair curled round his forehead with a soft gleam. The freed prisoners ran, towards the fighting, the stairs and the palace, but the young man looked down the long row of empty cells and saw her. He smiled, moving close, and when he spoke, his voice was like honey. “Empire mother,” he said, “this is the will of Mogyrk.”

  So entranced was she that it took her a moment to process his words. “Mogyrk?” she asked, as he raised a club in his hands. “What-” The wood came down, and all went dark.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  RUSHES

  When the guards came Empress Mesema stood, walked to the stairs, and left the garden without a word. She was pale, trembling, not the clever lady Rushes had heard about from Demah. It was Pelar’s sickness. Rushes wanted to tell Mesema that the emperor might have been someone else when he took Pelar, that she shouldn’t be angry at Sarmin; but she was gone, disappearing down the stairs, and she missed her chance.

  I killed Jenni. I should feel sad, she thought, the loss of a life, but mostly her heart beat fast and her skin felt cold. She had been so frightened when she saw Jenni holding the knife against Nessaket and the baby, and the moment when she ran had been filled with such determination, such will, as if the Pattern Master still lived inside her.

  She stood, and all the guards clustered around her like flies on old meat. She froze in fear, but then she remembered that they were protecting Daveed and they meant no harm. She let them lead her down the stairs and through Farra’s room into the hall, towards the crib that waited under Nessaket’s window.

  She moved at a slow pace, so that she did not crash into the backs of the guards. She felt tired. She could not remember the last time she had slept. When she got to the room she sat down as the guards searched the room and Daveed’s bedding. They searched for mundane threats; they were no proof against ghosts and the pale-sickness. Finally they took position in the corridor and in every corner.

  She put Daveed to bed, and waited. Nessaket had gone to speak with the second austere. She wondered if Mylo would be with him, speaking of Mogyrk’s arrival and all of his other plans. She dozed. A scent tickled her nose, bringing her back to her mother’s smallhouse on the plains. They used to gather around the cooking-fire during the winter, warming their hands over the stew. But it was wrong; this was not a palace scent. She stirred herself alert, stood up and checked Daveed. He was asleep in his silks, his cheeks red and round. But half the guards had left the room-unthinkable-this was all wrong. She ventured towards the corridor and looked out. People were shouting, running. Smoke spilled into the corridor from one of the Old Wives’ bedrooms. Fire is the signal.

  She gathered Daveed and hurried towards Mesema’s room, a trail of guards behind her, but a sudden spill of flames, like water rising from a fountain, blocked their way. She smelled lantern-oil; this fire was no accident. She felt the heat against her skin and backed away into the
guards behind her. “Fire,” she said, stupidly. They took off their jackets and beat at the flames, but the burning carpet created a terrible smoke and Daveed woke up and began to cough.

  “Shush, shush, little one,” she whispered, coughing herself, turning towards the Great Room. She would head for the big doors; surely they would be safe if she could get to the other side. But what of the empress, and little Pelar? No time to think of them. Must get out. She ran, a dozen concubines running with her. But the doors were blocked. The guards struggled to pull them open, panic in their voices. “Open at once!” they shouted, “The royal princes are trapped inside!”

  Someone on the other side shouted, “Mogyrk’s will!”

  The guards kicked and clawed. Smoke billowed into the room, hot in Rushes’ lungs, burning her eyes. Barely able to see she stumbled against the wall. The baby coughed again and she clutched him to her chest, heart beating fast. We must get out! Screams echoed around her. A hot wind blew against Rushes’ cheek, accompanied by a rush of flame. She jumped back asthe fire burst from the jewel-coloured cushions. It was then she saw Gala, pale as winter snow, run through the room, mouth open in a skeleton’s grin, laughing like a demon from Herzu’s hell. Not just Gala; something rode on her back, drove her through the crowd of screaming concubines like a war-horse. A ghost. This was what they had been waiting for-for Gala, and others, to be empty enough for them to ride. The horror of it filled her lungs as much as the smoke, stopping her breath.

  The guards drew their swords and moved in on Gala, coughing and wiping at their eyes. Only one remained with Rushes and Daveed now, one faithful protector, but against fire he could do nothing. She had to save Daveed. The moving shelves! She hurried to them. “I can take the prince this way, down to the Little Kitchen,” she told him, taking out the shelves as she spoke. He helped her climb in, knees up, Daveed cradled against her chest. “Release the brake and lower me,” she said.

  “I can’t protect the baby in the Little Kitchen,” he said, suddenly doubtful of the plan. He was an older man, fatherly, and she wondered if he had children or grandchildren, if he protected them as he protected Daveed.

  “Quickly! He will burn!”

  He frowned, finally nodded agreement and closed the door, leaving her in darkness. It reminded her of Gorgen, in the pantry, and she clamped her lips together to keep from screaming. Just a minute or so. It would take only a minute to get down to the Little Kitchen. She prayed that Empress Mesema had found a way out, away from the flames.

  The guard lowered her in jerks and bounces, every time feeling as if she would fall and break her bones and the baby too. But then she was there, pulling up on the door that Old Hagga always stood by, where Mina used to put the trays, and she slid out onto the floor of the Little Kitchen. She gave a sigh of relief and gathered Pelar against her breast. His coughing began to subside, and he looked around the room with interest. That was a good sign he was feeling better. Her eyes on the baby, Rushes took a step forwards and nearly crashed into Mylo.

  Mylo smiled at her, but not with the beatific smile she had come to know. This smile was the smile of a wolf or a grass-cat. “Good! I knew you’d figure it out,” he said. “and you brought me something precious. Is that Prince Pelar?”

  Rushes backed away, holding Daveed to her chest. Mylo was supposed to be in the courtyard, or locked in the dungeon along with his priest. “No. It’s Daveed.”

  “Where’s Pelar?”

  “With his mother.” She looked around. “I thought you would be in the courtyard.” I thought I would be safe in the Little Kitchen. But no place is safe.

  “Soon,” he said. “Give me the baby.”

  “I’ll carry him,” she said.

  He lifted a club, sticky with blood. Whose? “Give him to me.”

  “No!” Others wandered into the kitchen now, some curious, others angry, kitchen knives and fire pokers in their hands. Hagga was not here. Had they hurt her? She turned back to Mylo. “Why-”

  The blow came, sharp and quick, a cracking against her skull. Daveed! But she did not drop him. The last thing she felt as her knees buckled and her sight grew dim were gentle hands, lifting the silk bundle from her arms, and Daveed kicking, protesting, beginning to realize he was not safe any longer. The lesson came too early for him. Not fair… Daveed!

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SARMIN

  “Aie can also be true?” Sarmin scratched more of his pattern into the wall, scoring the plaster in white lines. “What help is that?” The truth of his own pattern ached around him, each stroke cutting something more substantial than the surfaces about him, a flat light leaking through them to bathe the room in that glow which settles before the worst of storms. “A lie can also be true?” He saw the pattern everywhere now, each exposed brick a mesh of earth symbols, fire symbols, the coded geometry of its construction, the ancient waters where silt settled, the imprints of the men that shaped it. His bed no longer held form but shaped itself from patterns enumerating trees, branching, folded, self-referencing, remembering days when twigs and leaves had danced to please the wind.

  For the year since Helmar died on the Knife Sarmin had drawn no pattern, made no study of the magics.

  “These enchantments are your heritage, my emperor,” Govnan had told him. “The skill for such seeing is found so rarely-a gift of your blood.”

  “What good ever came from Helmar’s work?” Sarmin had asked, and the high mage had no answer.

  Sarmin had never craved the power of the Petal Throne, let alone desired to claim still deeper control with patterns new or old. Helmar’s need to rule a nation of puppets, a world slaved to his will… it had always seemed the miserable ember of lost ambitions, of a hope turned sour.

  Sarmin closed his eyes, unsteady with exhaustion. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his forehead. For the thousandth time the image of Pelar swum before him, lying white and unmoving on the flagstones. He shook it away, shook away the pain, opened his eyes to focus on the symbols before him. He’d been wrong; patterns could speak of more than men, but whatever they spoke of they told only a story, not the truth. The pattern of fire held heat and light but the vital essence of fire, the wildness, vitality, endless variety, all that lay too deep for the pattern to catch.

  Sarmin found he could write the stories of many things within his patterns, but he could craft no symbol for the nothing. The end of all things lay in the heart of the desert, and now because of Helmar it devoured the palace and threatened everything Sarmin loved. And though the pattern had brought this curse to their doorstep, not in all of its language were there words to speak of what attacked them.

  “Gods help me.” He saw Pelar again, still as pale, still as small.

  Ta-Sann knocked and entered, a silver tray in hand. Sarmin would admit no servants now. “You must eat, my emperor.”

  “Eat?” The tray spilled patterns, fire signs chasing water signs coiling up where steam should rise, the life of a fish written limp across a plate, corrupted with other stories, stories of salt and spice, even the tray itself a dense mesh of symbology speaking of the deep places where ore is mined, the furnace in which the silver sweated from the rock.

  “For your strength, my emperor.” Ta-Sann himself glowed with the essay of his life written through him, making a ghost of his flesh, his loyalty, memories, wants, all coded there in threaded lines woven into bones.

  “I have no strength.” Only the stone held no pattern, simply a stone, black and uninspired, scooped no doubt from some turn of the Blessing where the river piles up its discarded toys. The stone and the nothing held no pattern, the unwriting from the desert.“Nothing I do here matters.” Sarmin spat the words and rolled back against the wall, shoulders pressed flat against it. “Helmar’s patterns are false. Their language is too crude, too blunt. Men cannot be written into it. Not all of a man. Not the core. Not what matters most. That was not my brother.” He stared at Ta-Sann as if the man had contradicted him. “That was not my bro
ther. Beyon loved me.”

  Sarmin had last looked from the Sayakarva window on the previous evening. The nothing appeared as a stain against the eye, a blot on the imagination, seated in a sinkhole of sand and dust, whiter than bone, where once Sarmin’s fathers had lain in their splendour. Soon the outer wall would fall, the courtyard where Eyul killed Sarmin’s brothers would erode into rotten pieces, the nothing would touch his tower and it too would topple. Panic ran in the corridors, djinn haunted each shadow and stole the unwary, empty men and empty women wandered without purpose or will, corrupting all they touched, and slaves ran through it all, blood on their hands, fire in their wake.

  “The empress-”

  “I cannot go! I will not watch my son drain away. Do you understand that?” He found himself shouting.

  “My emperor.”

  “I didn’t ask you to say “my emperor”. I asked if you understood what I said.” Sarmin advanced on Ta-Sann, his body alight, rage flaring through him, throwing the shadows of fire signs across the walls. Something in the sword-son’s patience exasperated him-as obdurate in its way as Helmar’s damned stone.

  “Does Govnan do anything for Pelar? Are all my mages useless? Every single one?”

  He slapped a hand to Ta-Sann’s chest, solid like the timbers of the throne room doors. The sword-son flinched despite himself. Sarmin saw only patterns, this thing, that thing, written out, twisted, coiled, interwritten, interwoven. He could hook his fingers about any piece of it and pull the symbols forth, rob Ta-Sann of some vital part of who he was.

  Sarmin spun away with an animal cry, rage, frustration, Helmar’s stone raised high like a weapon, ready to open skulls.

  “The food-” Ta-Sann pursued his path with dogged determination.

  “Damn your food!” Sarmin spun again, roaring the words, the stone leaving his fingertips before regret could close them. It flew straight and true, with deadly speed, a single black dot, a single point of simplicity in a room of swirling pattern-stuff.