Knife Sworn (13 page)

“May Heaven keep him and bless him.” Did all beyond Cerani borders remember Beyon as a man of peace? Out of the corner of Nessaket eye she saw Govnan, white-haired and bent, making his way towards her. “Let us walk about the room, Marke Kavic,” she said, turning her back on high mage and priest together, “It is good for the spirit, and refreshing.”

He fell in beside her and she realised his height surpassed even Arigu’s; her head came barely to Kavic’s shoulder as they walked. Beside a bed of yellow roses he said, “You must excuse the austere, Majesty. We have lost much and he has not recovered from it.”

“He is not accustomed to war,” she said.

“No-one is, Majesty.”

Weaklings.

“Your palace is beautiful,” he said as they stopped to admire a white peony. She watched the pull of his nose, the way his mouth shaped the unfamiliar Cerantic words. “The materials and workmanship of your halls exceed any that I have seen before.”

“You flatter us. I have heard much of northern artisans.”

“We favour a simpler style. I’m afraid you would find it quite ugly.”

She imagined his city, burned and filled with the dead. She moved on, nodding to Lord Jomla as they passed, and then turning away, down a different path, though he raised his finger and said “good evening” in his high, smooth voice, hoping to join the conversation. She had no time for his politicking tonight. “Perhaps you will have the opportunity to tour the city. Our tombs and our temples―”

“But we will not stay long. Tomorrow morning I shall meet with your son the emperor, heaven bless him, and I think the peace will be quickly made.”

Heaven bless him.
A required phrase for any courtier. “I admire your etiquette. Many new arrivals offend through their ignorance.” Unlike his priest Marke Kavic was eager to please, desperate for peace. She would have to work with that.

“I consider myself a student of your culture. I have even learned to play Settu, though I admit I cannot win without losing most of my tiles.”

“Great sacrifices are required to win the game,” she said, stopping before the statue of Mirra, carved of obsidion with carnelion eyes, “but the best games, the great games that everyone remembers, are played with such skill that each opponent holds on to his best pieces.”

He narrowed his eyes as he considered her words.

“A game easily won is nothing to savour,” she said, bringing the point home for him, “but defeating a formidable opponent is what makes us Cerani.”

“Showing weakness in the game is an insult.”

“Just so.” She smiled, though his bluntness grated.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. They stood in silence as Kavic studied the statue. “And what goddess is this?”

“This is Mirra, goddess of children and mothers and all soft things.” “Is she your goddess, Majesty?”

“Praying to Mirra has never benefited me.” A yellow head made its way through the crowd towards them; Austere Adam coming to find them.

“To have so many gods, from which a person can choose!” said Marke Kavic. “We have only the one, who Named all things, and makes all things possible.”

“And has that been fruitful for you, marke?”

Kavic glanced over his shoulder at the approaching austere before spreading his hands wide, a gesture Nessaket did not understand. “God is not always kind. He gives life but also demands it.”

“Empire mother. I have been looking for you.” Nessaket knew that smooth baritone and the mocking wit beneath it. She turned and acknowledged the high mage who stood behind her, shriveled and white but his eyes still blazing with otherworldly heat. “Govnan.”

Govnan stopped four feet from where Nessaket stood with the austere and Marke Kavic, guards flanking him on either side, Fryth and Cerani together. “I would speak with you, Nessaket.”

“I am welcoming our new visitors to the palace,” she said, gesturing. “I hope you will not force me to be rude and abandon them.”

“I am afraid that I will,” said Govnan, twisting his cane into the marble floor, “for it is of the greatest urgency that I seek you.” He looked past her and bowed to the guests, but did not introduce himself as high mage. He meant to keep that advantage, for the time being. Priest Assar approached with a nod; Govnan had arranged for him to take over the conversation. Nessaket had been outmaneuvered, by the Tower and by Mirra.

Controlling her anger Nessaket turned back to the marke. “I must leave you for the moment. Please enjoy the cool comforts of the palace.”

“Such a relief after the desert,” agreed Marke Kavic. “But I hear there is a kitchen, where a man might find some wine?”

“You should have a slave assigned to you, who will bring you anything you wish.” Nessaket looked around the pair, but saw only guards.

The austere wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something rotten.“We do not use slaves. We will get our own wine.”

“Nessaket.” Behind her Govnan grew impatient. She held out a hand to stay him and said, “Here arrives High Priest Assar. He can tell you how to find the kitchens, for I do not know where one might be.” Austere Adam stiffened like a cat when he caught sight of the other priest. He was a zealot, then. Tucking that knowledge away she bowed to the marke. “Marke Kavic.”

“Empire Mother,” he said with a bow of his own. And with that she turned and joined the high mage, walking side by side through a gauntlet of guards and a panoply of flower scents until they reached the hallway.

“You should trust in your son and his advisors.”

Nessaket looked at her slippered feet while she considered what to say. With so much at stake the high mage expected her to do nothing —and yet if she showed her anger she would lose what little power she held. “I know men; I can already judge how Kavic will negotiate. He will agree to anything if it will bring peace to his land.” She left out that the priest’s advice would be different, that the priest had his own interests. “If you allow me to attend, I can advise the emperor, heaven bless him.”

“I remember how you advised the emperor Tuvaini, and the general Arigu before him. There would be no need for peace negotiations except for you.”

“Every lord and general in Cerana wanted the war. I only tilted it to our advantage.”

“To your advantage.” Govnan waved his cane in the direction of the Petal Throne. “Sarmin is the emperor now. This is a new age for Nooria, with new enemies and threats, and you are not seen as a peacemaker.”

She could not deny it. She had been Arigu’s ally, Tuvaini’s partner, and yet she felt the injustice of exclusion.

“Women do not make the peace, but they shall enjoy it.” Govnan wiped sweat from his brow. “In the morning the young marke will be led before your son the emperor, heaven bless him and keep him. Go upstairs. Be with Daveed.”

Had the high mage mentioned Daveed as a threat? She looked into his eyes but they betrayed nothing. Govnan would not hesitate to recommend her child’s death if he thought it served the empire. She turned towards the great stairs, anger mixing with anxiety. Perhaps the seed she had planted in Mirra’s temple, the suggestion in Kavic’s mind, would be enough to slow the peace and give Herzu time for his work. Daveed would be safe in the temple before the old men could touch him At the landing guards opened the ornate doors, and they closed with a thud behind her as she made her way through the great room.

A northern concubine—Jenni was her name—was seated on the cushions, playing dice with Little Mother. Nessaket watched her a moment, wondering when Sarmin would begin to notice that so many beauties belonged to him. The horsegirl was after all not so beautiful, and busy with the baby besides. Another child would bring disaster upon Daveed for certain. She walked to her room, suddenly very tired. She would take care of it. Tomorrow.

Mesema stood in Nessaket’s room, by her window-screen, Pelar in her arms. Nessaket rushed to Daveed’s crib and was relieved to see his pink cheeks, his healthy kicking. It was a crude power play for the empress to come here uninvited and stand so close to the cradle, but then she was never one for subtlety. Nessaket would speak to the guards about allowing the horsegirl so close to her infant son.

“My father is dead,” said Mesema with no preamble or grace. She turned, showing the tears that carried kohl and powder down her cheeks. “Hazran brought a letter with him from Fryth. It was from Banreh, his voice-andhands.” So she had not come to flaunt her higher standing; she had come for sympathy. Nessaket stood frozen as Mesema put a hand to her stomach. She knew that feeling: it was of a world shrinking. With Chief Tegrun dead Mesema became the daughter of nobody. The old men would urge Sarmin to take a second wife, the daughter or sister of someone important, and that woman’s children would take precedence over Pelar and Daveed both. Nessaket picked up Daveed and frowned. Like it or not, her baby’s fate was now entwined with Mesema’s.

And so it was business, not sympathy, that came first to her mouth. “Who would take your father’s place?” she asked. The Felt controlled the gateway to both the tradelands in the west and Yrkmir in the east, and if Mesema could provide a key her power was secure.

Mesema stood a bit straighter, understanding the importance of the question. “Banreh. Lame Banreh. He is the new chief.”

Nessaket knew nothing of this man—this voice and hands—whether he favoured Cerana, whether he was a man of war—not anything. She settled on the bed, preparing questions in her mind, but Mesema sat beside her, Pelar quiet in her arms, and fixed her sky-blue gaze on Nessaket. “Where did you go?”

The directness of the question surprised Nessaket. Just a moment ago the girl had been weeping. “I met the envoy and spoke of the peace.”

“You mean that you spoke against it.”

“I wonder why you speak
for
it. Your father, the lords, the army did not want peace. If you asked every person in the empire and the grasslands, you’d find the only people who ever wished for peace are yourself and Sarmin.”

The girl lifted her chin. “What of the wives and children of the soldiers? The people of the grasslands who are most at risk once our Riders leave?”

“Next you will plead for the sheep.” Nessaket gave the answer Arigu would have given.

“Perhaps I will.”

“And Banreh? Your new chief?”

Mesema fussed angrily with Pelar’s wrappings, her father forgotten for the moment. “What of him?”

“What does he think about the war?”

“I don’t know—but why do you worry about him and not the palace? Here are two sons; do you not worry about that?”

Nessaket was surprised by her insight. Did she guess the rest of it? The women in these halls had nothing to do except compete for Sarmin’s attention. He had not given it yet, but once he tired of Mesema he would notice them—dozens of fertile, young women at his disposal. And if two boys were too many, what about thirty?

Mesema spoke again. “Is my boy safe?”

“For now. And mine?”

“I would not hurt Sarmin’s brother!”

“Then we shall protect the children together.” A necessary alliance, for now.

That chin again. “How can I trust you? You didn’t protect your other children.”

Nessaket backed away as if the girl were a snake. When Tahal had ordered the death of all those boys, Nessaket had thought her life was over; Amile was dead, Sarmin locked away, and Beyon given over to rage for ever. She had watched Siri, the youngest wife, throw herself from the roof garden and wished she had the strength to do the same. She had no retort. She stood, mouth flapping like a fish’s, and Mesema’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I speak without thinking, sometimes. Of course we will work together.”

Nessaket forced a smile. “Very good. We will support one another, you and I. Our children will be friends.”

“Yes. I would like that,” said the girl. Nessaket studied the girl’s honestlooking face. She was a mistake—Nessaket’s own mistake. She had tried to put the girl aside during Tuvaini’s brief reign, but somehow she remained; somehow she had caught Sarmin’s heart.

After Tahal died, Nessaket had been lost. But over time, she found purpose. She planned. She found Arigu and then Tuvaini, and she believed for a brief moment that everything might change, that she could be more than an Old Wife in a gilded hall. But Helmar and his patterns showed that to be no more than illusion, showed her that in truth her life had been shrinking since the day Beyon was born, since the day she provided Tahal with the only heir he needed. It grew even smaller with time and age; now it was no bigger than these soft rooms. But still she could protect Daveed. Still she could be the kind of mother she had not been for Amile.

She stood up and faced the girl, as her mother had faced her before her wedding-day. “The first thing you must learn is how to keep Sarmin’s attention, blessings upon him,” she said, “so let us begin there.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

This was no place for a funeral. Herzu’s creed was struggle and torment; sorrow was a weakness here, and pity an insult.

Mina leaned towards her and answered her so quietly that Rushes held her breath to hear it. “She threw herself from the tower and insulted Mirra. That means Herzu gets her soul.”

But Demah had not killed herself. It was the Longing that killed her.

An acolyte carried a cage of doves to the foot of the gleaming statue. They cooed and fluttered against the bars as he put it down, a sound that brought a ghost of a memory into Rushes’ mind: fields, and sky. He lifted a small door at the top, grabbed a bird and handed it to the priest, who snapped its neck with such an economy of movement that Rushes barely took it in. Then the next, and the next, until a pile of feathered bodies, still and lifeless, covered the altar. Death. Murder, and death. She remembered Sahree’s room and how she said a woman had been murdered there. The old servant had spoken of her lost stone as if it could keep such disasters from happening. Rushes pinched her pocket. A luck stone would feel good there.