The Emperors Knife (9 page)

Amalya turned away from him and went to her camel. She pulled her waterskin from a bag and took a long draught.

Eyul cleared his throat. “Do you think you can make it to the well? It should take us about two hours.” When she nodded wordlessly, he said, “Good,” and feeling the need to keep talking, “Well, no point in lingering here.”

Amalya mounted her camel. Her shoulders remained tense. Eyul picked up his bow and did the same. “This way,” he said. “With any luck…” He let his voice trail off. Nothing he could say would make him more like Amalya, a person unfamiliar with blood or its necessity. He started off down the crescent slope of the dune, turning leftwards. Waves of silent sand lay ahead.

Who had sent the Carriers? Nobody knew they were here except for Tuvaini and whoever had sent Amalya—and who had sent Amalya? Tuvaini would have chosen someone more ruthless, he felt, and Nessaket probably wouldn't have chosen a woman, believing all of them to be as duplicitous as herself. Only Beyon remained, but Beyon was not one for secrets or clever manoeuvres. If Beyon wished for an answer from the hermit he'd ride out himself, with a hundred warriors.

The question occupied him until the red stones of the well appeared, dark against the morning sands. They set up camp without speaking. Eyul set out the usual pile of dung, and Amalya unpacked her food, but when it came time to light the cooking fire, she sat back on her heels.

Eyul went to his saddle-pack for the flint and tinder, lit a flame and nursed it until the camel dung was smouldering. Amalya reached down and readied her pot, and Eyul walked a short distance away, standing guard.

Mesema leaned out of the carriage window, hoping for some wind, but the outside air only scorched her face and lungs. She retreated into the dark box she shared with Banreh. She was learning that the sun brooked no opposition here. All was bright and clear, and deadly hot. Only at night, when Arigu's Cerani soldiers sheltered in their tents, did she dare venture out onto the rocky terrain.

Banreh told her that they weren't really in the desert yet; when they got to the desert, he said, there would be naught but sand. They would sleep during the day and travel at night.

But she knew this had to be the desert. There couldn't be anywhere hotter than this.

“When you get to the capital,” Banreh said, sitting still as if the heat and his leg did not pain him, “they will give you silks to keep you cool, and there will be tiled baths where you can soothe your feet.”

“I don't want to get my feet wet,” Mesema said, annoyed he'd used the formal tone.

Banreh smiled.

And she heard it, off in the distance, the bright jingle of little bells. She leaned forwards, listening, as Banreh's smile froze on his face and his eyes grew sharp and wary. He reminded Mesema of the god-statues up on the Great Plateau: still, but sharp. Hooves sounded on faraway rock, faded, sounded again. They were coming closer. She tried to count the bells. Six, a dozen, riders.

“Red Hooves,” she whispered, putting a hand on the door.

Banreh grabbed her wrist. “They won't attack the Cerani. That's why you're in here.”

Mesema paused. She could feel her pulse against Banreh's fingers. Those fingers belonged to her father.

“Wait,” he said.

She nodded. The horses drew close now, so close she could hear their neighing and the murmurs of their riders. The coarse accents left no doubt: they were surrounded by Red Hooves, the least worthy of the Felting tribes, hardly of the People at all. She didn't dare look out of the window; instead she flattened herself against the wood, hoping no one would look in. Banreh's hand slipped from her wrist and wrapped itself around her shaking fingers.

“Listen,” he said, “you are a Windreader. Windreader spears are coated with the blood of Red Hooves. You have nothing to fear.”

His soft words gave her confidence. How strange that Banreh, who sometimes seemed so alien with his languages and his writing, knew exactly what to say in this moment.

“My brother was avenged a dozen times ten. His sacrifice made us ever victorious.”

“Ever so.” Banreh was not afraid. He looked her straight in the eye.

Mesema listened. She heard no clash of metal on metal, nor the shouts of injured men. The Cerani spoke to the Red Hooves. Their discussion sounded relaxed, almost casual. She could make out only a few words, but the ones she did hear made her shiver again.

“They're talking about a girl. Someone is going to give up a girl. Banreh, it's me!”

Banreh shook his head and slipped into the intimate tone.

“No, I don't think so.”

She clutched his hand. She couldn't stop thinking about the Red Hoof thralls in her father's camp, their resentment, their unspoken fury. She'd felt it every time one of them was near. It was they who frightened her. She could easily imagine herself in the same position, abused and hateful, in disgrace.

The talking came to an end and bells tinkled as the Red horses drew away. Somebody shouted, “Don't bring her back unless she's proven!” and someone, another man, laughed. A horse neighed, excited, ready to run. And then the Red Hooves departed in a clatter.

Mesema fell to her knees and threw her arms around Banreh's middle. He was solid, not soft as she'd expected, and he smelled of ink and sweat.

He patted her hair. “When you are married, you will be safe. No one will dare harm you.”

She didn't say what she was thinking:
I am safe now.

At that moment the Cerani named Arigu stuck his head through the carriage window. He sneered at their embrace before turning to Banreh and speaking to him in his guttural language. Mesema recognised two Cerantic words, but she politely waited for Banreh to translate.

As she settled back on the bench, straightening her hair, he told her, “A Red Hoof woman has joined our caravan.”

At sunset, Mesema walked along the stony ground to where two Felting horses stood side by side. One wore brightly coloured wool braided into its mane; the other showed hooves dyed deep red. The Red Hooves said their horses' feet were stained with the blood of their enemies, but Mesema knew it was only the dye from shelac berries—the Windreaders used the same dye to color their winter felt. She examined the Red horse. It was docile, so not a warhorse like Arigu's.

She ran a hand over her Tumble's flank. How he must hate this heat! Perhaps it was a cruelty to bring him to Nooria. She checked to make sure he had plenty of water. There was nothing else to do; the soldiers fed and brushed him, and Arigu wouldn't let her ride. Banreh said noble Cerani ladies rarely appeared in public, especially on the back of a horse, but he promised her the prince would let her ride within the castle grounds. It was written, he said.

She worried that Banreh put so much stock in his lamb-skins and symbols. Ink had no honour; ink had no history.

Mesema pulled her shawl around her. Ahead lay grey rock, dead land, except for the occasional scrubby bush. Their path stretched ahead, one plateau after another, lower and lower, until the mountains ended. It looked like water there, except for the colour, a band of white stretching out under the moon.

“The desert,” came a woman's voice beside her. “The place where no thing grows.”

Mesema didn't need to look; she knew from the accent that this was the Red Hoof woman. “My mother keeps a Red Hoof spear by our fire,” she said. “She pulled it out of my dead brother herself.”

“I pulled a Windreader spear from my sister's neck. After she died, I threw it out over the plains.”

“That's not true,” said Mesema. “No Windreader would kill a woman.”

The Red Hoof did not speak for a while. Then she said, “These men are Cerani, but we are both Felt, the children of the grass. Shall we not be friends?”

“What's your name?” Mesema looked at her now. She was lovely, with creamy skin, light curly hair and roomy hips.

“My name is Eldra.” Eldra wrapped both arms around her waist and shivered. She didn't have a warm jacket or shawl, but Mesema didn't care. A Windreader shouldn't care if a Red Hoof plunged right off the edge of a cliff. And who was Mesema, if not a Windreader?

“Why should I be your friend, Eldra?”

Eldra smiled. “I can tell you about my god.”

The god of the Red Hooves had come over the eastern mountains to oppose the Windreaders even in death. And their god was dead, if the thralls in her father's care could be believed. He had passed from this world long ago, so he could speak to his believers only through old stories and songs. He was a useless god, blind, deaf, and dumb.

In the lands of the People many gods were acknowledged. Gods of the herd and harvest, water and winter, all were given their due at the appropriate times; but only the Hidden God kept the fate of the People in His heart. Only the Hidden God watched over them.

“We will not be friends, Eldra.” Mesema turned and walked to her tent. At the flap, she looked back and saw Arigu dropping a cloak around the woman's shoulders. He talked to her a moment, gesturing with hands big as her head, before leading her towards his tent. With a shudder, Mesema crawled under her blankets. She still had time before she had to give herself to a Cerani man. Time to think, time to learn, and time to stay with Banreh.

Before she fell asleep, she made a prayer to the Hidden God, a living god among many. Her god did not fight for dominance, or to prove Himself to mortals. The Hidden God showed Himself only to those who looked for Him. She looked for Him now, in her heart and mind, because that was the only way she could carry Him into Nooria. As she closed her eyes, she felt the hint of a gentle wind on her face. It was enough.

Chapter Nine

S
armin crouched by the head of his bed. Here under the shadow of the canopy none of the gods could see him, and the Sayakarva window was far to his left and out of sight. He was more alone than ever when he huddled here. Any guard entering through the door would not find him.

Ten years ago, one such guard had raised the alarm. Sarmin had held himself still, giggling silently, listening to the men shouting to each other as they searched. Not one of them thought to step around the bed. Sarmin had enjoyed the ruse and had hoped the excitement would bring his mother to his room. He didn't show himself until his window grew dark.

By that time, all the men assigned to his door had been killed.

Now Sarmin settled his back against the mattress and brought his knees up to his chin. He wished to think about his bride in absolute privacy. He remembered his father's wives, all five of them, with their dark scented hair and their soft breasts. He used to sit on the lap of the one called Lana and listen to his sisters learn their songs.

He remembered his sisters. Their gentle, wary eyes and their sweet voices. He remembered how they loved Pelar, his wild-haired, jolly brother. The girls had petted him like a kitten.

He remembered Pelar's red ball bouncing, Pelar running, Pelar laughing—very different to the ghost who appeared before him now, the ball in one hand, his face solemn.

“No,” Sarmin said to his brother, “not now. Go away.”

A Felting woman. He tried to imagine what she might look like. His mother had been true to her word and sent him another book, this one full of women in contorted, uncomfortable positions. He couldn't see any of their faces, no matter how many pages he turned. Sarmin fell to one side, staring blankly at the wall.

Pelar bounced his ball.

The door handle turned. It felt early for that, but Sarmin didn't care. Lost in thought, he rubbed his cheek against the carpet.

Light. A new sharpness of sound. The door had been opened. Sarmin rolled to his knees and peered over the bed. A man stood at the edge of the room, looking to his left and right in consternation until his eyes met Sarmin's over the sea of pillows and sheets.

Pelar's ball hit Sarmin in the chest.

Broad cheekbones, a bronzing of the eyes, a stubborn curl to the hair over the left temple. His brother's shoulders were broader than Sarmin remembered, and he was thicker of stomach than before. And he was no longer a boy. His eyes had grown wary; his hands restless.

Beyon.
He looked well. Sarmin couldn't breathe.

No, not Beyon. The emperor. Lord of Blood. Lord of Dead Boys.

“My Emperor.” Sarmin crawled around the bed to make his obeisance, placing his hand on the soft leather of one imperial boot. Toes moved beneath the leather, and the boot slid from under Sarmin's grasp. Fabric whispered. The door hissed over the carpet. The latch clicked.

A silence followed. Pelar's ball hit the back of Sarmin's neck, quick jolts that drew his shoulders together.

“Come here.” The emperor's voice didn't belong in this room where everything was soft, where everything gave, even the vizier.

Bounce.

Steel for steel. I won't give.

Bounce.

He heard a crunch of stiff fabric. “Look at me.”

Sarmin didn't move; he would face his brother, but not the emperor.

“Look at me,” Beyon repeated. The voice sounded different now, lower. Softer.

Pelar's ghost took his ball and slipped away. The living crouched alone before the gods and demons.

Sarmin raised his head by hairs until he met his brother's eyes. They had once been merry, not like Pelar's, but easy and joyful. Now Beyon's eyes were older than his face.

Even old eyes can be shocked. Beyon covered it well, but Sarmin saw him flinch. “It's true—you've changed. But you are my brother,” he said, “you of all people shouldn't grovel before me. Come, sit here.” He indicated Sarmin's own bed. He wore three golden rings on his right hand.

Sarmin climbed up and watched Beyon through watery eyes. Heat rose in the back of his throat. “My Emperor,” he said again, “why do you come—?” He stopped to wipe at his nose with the back of a hand.