Mazarkis Williams - The Emperor's knife

Sarmin started coughing.

Mesema could barely lift the chair now; she gripped it firmly and took runs at the wall instead. And she killed them all, angels and demons alike, and the dust settled over Eyul like a shroud.

Sarmin looked at the devastation. The faces were gone, their patterns, gone-not because of a magical working, not because of bloodshed, but because of a chair.

“Let’s go,” Mesema said, throwing the chair aside.

“They told me I would die here.” Sarmin shook his head, dust falling from it.

Mesema shrugged. “Maybe you will. But nobody said you had to wait here to find out.” She held up Eyul’s Knife. “How is evil destroyed? With the emperor’s Knife.”

This was what Eyul had tried to tell him. He took the twisted hilt in his hand. This was his gift from Eyul and from his father. This was all he had, now. This, Grada, and Mesema. As he followed her he thought he heard his brothers cheering.

“I am very disappointed,” said the Pattern Master.

Tuvaini held his sigh and fingered his empty dacarba-sheath. He still wore it, to remind himself of everything he had given up. “What has disappointed you, Your Majesty?”

The Pattern Master appeared to have gained something in the last few minutes; he looked stronger and younger. He had about him what Tuvaini’s mother called “the glow of children.” He leaned forwards now in his throne, glaring. “Prince Sarmin is alive.”

“Impossible!” On the other side of the throne, Nessaket nearly jumped.

“I was assured of his death before I arrived here-and yet it appears you failed.”

“Govnan said-” Too late, Tuvaini realised his mistake. Govnan.

Of course. The old man had protected his precious mage-born. Tuvaini spoke with bitterness. “He is most likely taking refuge at the Tower with the High Mage.”

“I think not.” The Pattern Master stood and paced to the edge of the dais. He was so like Beyon that Tuvaini caught his breath. “There is enough in the prince’s old room to keep him there.”

Tuvaini found that ridiculous. He had spoken to the prince-he knew that the prince wanted nothing more than to leave that soft prison. But he remained silent.

Five Carriers entered the room and silently approached the throne. They always came in groups of five. They stood near Helmar, still saying nothing. It unnerved Tuvaini that they did not require speech to communicate. It made it difficult to spy; he felt crippled, robbed of a sense.

One of the Carriers handed Helmar a bundle the size of a loaf of bread. Helmar held it to his forehead in concentration. Then he threw it down and cursed in his Yrkman way, “Devil’s hells! That’s not the one.” Tuvaini felt a thrill of pleasure at the Master’s frustration.

The Master kicked the bundle over to Tuvaini. “The assassin is dead. They say this belongs to you. You didn’t happen to kill Eyul and take his Knife?”

“No.” Tuvaini unwrapped his gift. Inside the dirty linen lay his own dacarba, its bejewelled settings now crusted with blood. Eyul. He had been Tuvaini’s faithful companion for many years, and despite his betrayal he still missed the man, his direct way of talking, his quiet observations. Now he would never see him again. “Where did you find this?” he asked.

“In Sarmin’s room.” Helmar tapped his chin absently.

“Sarmin is dead.” And nothing has changed.

“No.”

Tuvaini sheathed his dacarba, feeling a burst of excitement. His weapon felt good on his hip. Sarmin might be alive, and the Knife was missing; he didn’t know why that made Helmar angry, but it was enough that it did. He glanced at Nessaket, who stared ahead, shaking. Helmar had not objected to her presence, but her behaviour now was strange. She would make it difficult for Tuvaini to decide what to do next.

I want to protect her-why do I want to protect her, even now?

Tuvaini’s gaze flickered out over the assembled court: nobles, servants, soldiers, and slaves all bearing colourful marks, all of them eerily silent in their courtly poses. Several reclined stiffly on cushions, belying their relaxed positions. Others stood with goblets held to their mouths, though they never sipped their wine. One held, motionless, in the pose of a court dancer. Helmar had placed them all like dolls and he, like a child, played king before them.

All of a sudden, as if pulled by some hidden string, the Carriers turned as one to the ruined doors, a communal question in the tilt of their heads. The doors swung inwards.

Nessaket rose from her chair and stumbled forwards as Prince Sarmin entered the room, trailed by a yellow-haired woman.

Sarmin stopped just inside the throne room. It hadn’t changed at all since his father’s time, since before he’d been put in his tower. It was strange to think that nothing had changed, that courtiers sat on the same pillows he had jumped on as a child, that one of them might sip from the same dented goblet he’d dropped when he sat in his father’s lap. Even his mother stood by the throne, just as she always had, with Tuvaini on the other side.

But the resemblance was only skin-deep. The courtiers all showed marks now, and the faces they turned to him were blank. No scheming or negotiation happened here, only obedience.

And his mother hadn’t ever cried like that in Tahal’s time. He wondered what had upset her so. He gave her a small bow.

The Pattern Master paced on the dais. He both looked and did not look like the old man Grada had killed. That had truly been Helmar; the ancient body he wore from his days trapped in the prison that became Sarmin’s. He wore a new body now; perhaps the body of a relative, for he had the same hair, the same copper eyes. He was younger and stronger-had the Master sacrificed his own son or grandson to the Pattern?

He smiled now at Sarmin. “You’ve brought yourself, and the mage-girl, too. I thank you for sparing me the trouble.”

Carriers crowded behind them. Mesema clung to his side. Two moved forwards as one.

Helmar’s eyes fell upon Mesema, and a cold rage rose within Sarmin. He spoke, trying to draw the man’s attention. “You are like me, Helmar.”

That surprised the Pattern Master.

I must keep him talking, keep him distracted.

“How so?”

“We were both trapped in that tower. We were both lonely. Now we want things. We’re greedy.”

“I don’t need to want,” said the Pattern Master. “Everything already belongs to me.”

“Not me. Not her.” They had crossed half the distance now. Sarmin didn’t reach for Eyul’s Knife, not yet. “Tell me, Helmar, did you leave that room? Did you step out, or were you dragged?”

The Master’s open mouth quivered, but no words came.

“Were you taken?” Sarmin asked, “ripped from it? Did you leave something there-some of you? Something precious? The thing that made you whole?”

The glow of rubies drew Sarmin’s eyes to the dacarba at Tuvaini’s hip. Tuvaini inclined his head. His eyes sent a message, but what message, Sarmin could not tell. He kept walking, Mesema quiet at his side.

“I will wear your body, and she will bear my child.” Helmar had gathered himself, but his voice lacked its old conviction. His eyes flicked over his captive audience. Tuvaini for his part turned to Helmar and frowned. Ah, so you didn’t expect him to make his own heir. Tuvaini was his heir only until a better one came along. Sarmin knew what that felt like.

Sarmin had crossed three-quarters of the way from the doors to the throne. Mesema straightened her shoulders and let go of his arm, as they had planned. He’d felt her trembling: he knew how frightened she was, and his pride in her courage chased his own fear away as she stepped forwards, head held high. “I will bear your child, Master, if you let Sarmin go free.”