Mazarkis Williams: Knife Sworn

“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.

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.