Mazarkis Williams: The Emperor's knife

Eyul waited a moment before answering. He raised his eyes to the emperor’s face, careful not to glance towards the neck or wide sleeves of his tunic, where the pattern-marks might be glimpsed. Something in him didn’t want to see the future written on the emperor’s skin. “Circumstances demanded that I protect the vizier, Your Majesty. We were attacked-”

“You did well.”

Eyul had no choice but to pretend he didn’t hear the mocking tone. “One did get away, Your Majesty.”

The emperor pivoted to face the vizier. Though the two were of a height, Tuvaini looked small as he met the emperor’s gaze. Beyon’s shoulders crowded Tuvaini, his arms twice as thick. Tuvaini dipped his head, calm and measured, while Beyon rocked forwards on his feet.

Beyon took a step closer. “How did they get into the fountain room, Tuvaini?”

“I don’t know,” Tuvaini said with a frown.

Between the streets and the fountain stood dozens of guards who would need to be bribed or killed in order for three Carriers to pass so deep into the palace. Eyul knew the guards. He overheard their conversations as he passed unnoticed through the halls. He knew their ailments and complaints, their gambling debts and smoking habits. They could be bribed, but not by Carriers. And yet there had been no deaths. Something was missing.

Eyul felt the emperor’s gaze on him and met it with his own.

The emperor said, “What do you think, Eyul?”

Eyul bowed. “I apologise, Your Majesty; I would call it magic if I could.”

“Did you see, at least, where they came from?”

“One from either side of me and another through the fountain. I expect they were hiding behind the tapestries. How they got there-” Eyul’s shoulders drooped at the memory of being taken off guard.

“Waiting for you.” Beyon stopped, and stood for a moment without speaking. “Someone attacked the royal vizier,” he said at last. “Many will die for this. Start with the Red Hall guards. See what they have to say before their throats are cut.” His shadow flickered as he moved towards the steps. The royal bodyguards turned, weapons rattling, to follow him off the back of the dais.

Eyul straightened and fingered the hilt of his Knife. The decision should not surprise him; Eyul had taught the emperor himself, that brutal morning, the value of killing. He wished daily that it could have been a different lesson.

Tuvaini stood alone beside Beyon’s great chair, twisting the ring on his finger. “All of them, Your Magnificence?”

“What?” Beyon turned to look at Tuvaini, the fresh silk twisting under his boot. A slave inched forwards, a new runner in his hands.

“All of the Red Hall guards, Your Magnificence, or just the ones on duty that night?” Tuvaini’s face held no particular expression.

“Find who’s responsible, Tuvaini.” The emperor turned to Eyul, standing so close now that Eyul could have cut his throat with the sacred Knife before the bodyguards had time to run between them. His lips were pressed tight, his eyes shining.

“It’s been too long since you last fed your Knife well, hasn’t it, assassin? How many guards in the Red Room? Six? Twelve? That should keep you for some time.”

Eyul cleared his throat. “There will be a great deal of blood, Your Majesty.”

“Your Majesty,” Tuvaini interjected, “I don’t think the guards-none of them is marked-”

The emperor swung about as his bodyguards elbowed Eyul out of the way.

Eyul was shocked by Tuvaini’s audacity in mentioning the marks. He couldn’t see the emperor’s expression, but the stiffness of his stance, the way he balled his hands into fists over and again, told him that the next words would be sharp.

“If you know something, then come out with it.”

Tuvaini lowered his chin. “We will question the guards, Your Majesty.”

Eyul crumpled into his obeisance as the emperor turned towards the doorway. A second later Tuvaini’s forehead banged against the dais. So he did scare you, Vizier. Eyul held his position for twenty breaths. The emperor was light on his feet; only the rustling of the slaves, busy placing another runner, finally signalled to Eyul that he might rise.

Tuvaini knelt beside the throne. “I will take care of the guards.”

“But the emperor-”

“Told me to deal with it. He only assumed I’d use you. I need you to go to the Cliffs of Sight.”

“The hermit.” Eyul shook out his cramped leg.

“We must learn more about the Carriers.” Tuvaini stood and brushed sand from the sleeve of his robe. Rubbing the grains between his fingers with a disgusted look, he said, “My cousin is marked. Go to the hermit. Ask him.”

Distant cousin. Eyul held his tongue on that point. “Shall I ask the hermit how to fight the sickness?”

“Have you been paying no attention, fool?” Tuvaini came down the steps and walked towards Eyul. He smelled of coffee and black cardamom. His face was narrow where Beyon’s was wide, his lips thinner, his eyes surrounded by more lines. Still, the family resemblance was there, and the look on the vizier’s face sent a shiver down Eyul’s spine.

“Fool,” Tuvaini repeated. “Ask him what it means for the curse to gain an emperor.” The vizier placed a hand over Eyul’s Knife. He spoke the rest in a voice so low that Eyul had to lean close to hear him, close enough to feel the heat of Tuvaini’s breath against his cheek. “If he has an answer, learn it; then kill him.”

Let them chase me! Mesema knew her steed, better than she knew any human, man or woman, kith or kin. Tumble didn’t have the height of the Rider horses, but he had their stamina, and more besides. He could turn in an arm-span. In the gullies where the Hair Streams cut through the high grass she could lose even the best of her father’s Riders, no matter how many he sent.

Mesema watched the horseman crest the ridge and ride down the windward slope. At first her anger blinded her: anger at her father, at the Cerani, at their damned prince who couldn’t take a bride from among his own people, anger at the fact they’d sent only one Rider to catch her. But she wiped it from her eyes and looked more closely. She knew few outside the Felt would see it, but this was no Rider; the man and the horse moved separately.

“Dung!” Mesema spat into the wind. She cursed her father’s cleverness.

Banreh couldn’t ride as a Felt. He couldn’t talk to the horse as a man should; his shattered leg left him dumb. To outride Banreh held no honour. To leave him struggling in the gullies would only shame her.

Mesema rode to the West Ridge. She kept Tumble to a walk, allowing Banreh to close the gap. Even so she reached the ridge before him.

From the crest Mesema could see a vast swathe of her father’s lands. From mountain to distant mountain the grasslands rolled, green and empty.

Banreh came alongside her, slow and easy, as if they were inspecting the herd.

“From the West Ridge your grandfather’s grandfather would watch the grass in the season of winds,” Banreh said. “The Hidden God would show him pictures in the ripples.”

“I know this.” Mesema directed her anger at him, but trying to be angry with Banreh was like trying to light wet kindling. Even so, she kept her eyes from him and studied the grass.

“What do you see there? What does the wind paint for you?”

Mesema narrowed her eyes. “Ripples chasing ripples.” That’s all there had ever been for her. She turned from the vista and faced him.

Banreh looked pale, blond hair coiled in sweat-darkened ringlets above his brow. The chase, such as it was, had taken its toll on him.

A momentary guilt clutched at Mesema’s heart, but she remembered the Cerani prince and thrust all concern for Banreh aside. “There’s nothing to see but grass. No mysteries, no magic. Just like this marriage. There’ll be no Rider racing to my longhouse in the moon-dark. It’s just salt and silver, trade deals.”