Knife Sworn (5 page)

Grada set her head to her pack and twisted to remake her hollow in the sandy ground. She had no argument for Rorrin. She could say that the emperor had been easy to stab but that his touch saved her. She didn’t think that would ease Rorrin’s mind. She closed her eyes against the light of moon and stars. The garden and the house would either draw her to them or they wouldn’t. There are some truths that can’t be run from.

CHAPTER FIVE

All other guards had yielded before him without a word, bowing their heads as he paced past, his own picked men silent at his shoulders. Now he faced one who would not stand aside. “Daveed is sleeping,” his mother said, arms folded beneath the swell of her milk-vest.

“Even so, I will see my brother.”

It had hurt Sarmin to deny his mother, to over-ride her authority with his. Back when he slew the Pattern Master and took the throne, Nessaket had been the last to acknowledge his new status, blind to it almost, steeped too long in the ownership she had enjoyed when one room held him. To defy her had been another door to pass through, another transition no part of him wanted, and yet necessary. To surrender any inch of those gains would require the same battle to be fought and won again.

The silence stretched between them until it quivered. Nessaket broke first. “As you will.” Even now forgetting his title, bowing her head more to take him from her sight than in honour.

She stepped aside as he stepped forward. The chamber beyond held four of her personal guard, tight around the child’s crib, as if in accusation. If Sarmin demanded Daveed’s life four guards could no more save him than the trio of nursing-slaves waiting beneath the lamps.

The guardsmen at least had the sense to draw aside quickly, lifting the points of their great hachirahs from the carpet. Sarmin leaned over to watch the sleeping boy.

“He smiles now, they tell me?”

“For two weeks, and he can tug on Dreshka’s skirts, reach for the vases in their niches, burn his fingers on a hot lamp.” Nessaket joined him, a tight smile escaping her displeasure.

The boy lay sprawled in sleep, one pudgy arm reaching a fist above his head, sweat plastering dark curls to his temples.

“Have the council spoken to you again? That snake Azeem?” She flashed Sarmin dark look, eyes hard.

Had she fought so hard to keep
him
from the knife he wondered, when tradition ordered all Beyon’s brothers dead? That she might think he would give up his brother’s life to those old men’s demands—that hurt him more than her attacks.

When each sun set it was always to draw in the same night, that night of the Knife, that night of slit throats and blood across the courtyard. Sarmin’s mother claimed she saved him from that fate, but Beyon had made the same claim. Tuvaini also, and Govnan of the tower. A good act finds many owners while many a sin goes begging.

“The council speak to me often, mother,” he said. “But I have many councillors and only one brother still living.”

Sarmin reached to touch those dark curls, to feel the warmth of the child’s skin. Beside him his mother startled, as if to seize his arm. The closest of his guards tightened hands on hilts, the blued steel of their scimitars showing above their scabbards. Nessaket fell back and Sarmin circled a finger amid the dampness of his brother’s hair.

“Lift him for me.”

“He’s sleeping,” she said.

“Even so.”

And she drew him from his crib, soft and heavy in sleep.

I need to see him, touch him, feel the living heat rise off his skin.

Time and again the council called for an end to this line. “He is the son of a traitor,” General Hazran had said. Azeem would not speak of Tuvaini but when Nessaket was mentioned he lowered his head. “She schemes. Even with the most generous interpretation and with the utmost humility, it must be admitted, she schemes.” “Daveed is the son of a traitor and a schemer, and next in line to the throne. He cannot live.” Dinar, Herzu’s priest, knew much and more about death. “Put him to the Knife.”

And in a thousand ways, in every way except that which mattered most, they were right, those old men. Sarmin took his brother’s tiny hand, holding it between two fingers and a thumb. Enemies, men with antique grudges, men hungry for power, or for the chances that change might bring, they would all stand behind this boy, seek to own him, aim him. The empire lay cracked and the crack had a name.

“Daveed.” Sarmin closed the fingers of one hand around the baby’s thigh. Soft, and fat, and small.

She thinks to protect him from me, but this, this touch, hearing him draw breath, the scent of him. This is what keeps him alive.

“You forget, mother, Daveed is heir to the throne. My heir. I will not see him harmed.”

“Today he’s your heir. Tomorrow?” She shrugged.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is always a puzzle of many parts. Give me a daughter and Daveed stays safe. And that could be an end to it. I would be happy to raise a daughter.

“You should be with Mesema, mother.” Sarmin watched his brother, refusing to meet their mother’s eyes.

“She has women aplenty with her. In any case these horse-girls know more about birthing than any decent bride should. On the plains they open their legs to men and beast alike and drop bastards in the grass without a second thought.”

“Mesema had no plains-children, Mother.” Sarmin took his hand from Daveed before anger tightened it. “She was taken too young from her family. She needs the Old Wives round her—she has laboured two days and a night.”

“She has Old Wives—”

“Only Lana is with her, and the Little Mother was never strong, less so since Beyon’s passing. Mesema needs strength now.”

“My place is with my son,” Nessaket said, “I cannot leave him.” Sarmin turned to go.

“The gods will strike you down the day you listen to those old men,” his mother said.

No ifs. She already thinks I will break, that it’s just a matter of time.

“The only danger to Daveed is your fear, Mother. Herran tells me of these plans to spirit my brother away to the estate of this lord or that lord, to use this passage, that guide. Fear breeds fear. The more you do to take the child from the palace the more the council mistrust your motives.” He sounded tired even to himself as he stepped towards the doorway. “Watch my brother well.” His hand still held the child’s warmth. He looked down at it, half expecting to find it bloody.

Corridors led him and for a time Sarmin walked without direction. Bodyguards shadowed his path, dark as befits shadows, slave-bred swordsons from the Islands.

If Mother knew that five men loyal to me guard Daveed for each of hers, what then would she think?
He stopped before an archway. Beneath it Huna, last champion of the Parigols, stood outnumbered by Cerani, proud and many.
Perhaps it’s in our blood to glorify our enemies and overlook the heroes of our own.

“Magnificence!” A pale man running, wrapped in the blue silks of a servant, sashed in gold to denote command. “Magnificence!”

“Paper!” For a moment Sarmin couldn’t remember the man’s true name. Even now it felt strange for Paper to speak after seventeen years serving in silence. “Charging at the emperor is a good way to lose height.” He spread his hands to calm the guards who had stepped in close. True to their training they relaxed only by the merest fraction, as if humouring him. Threats don’t vanish just because the emperor does not see them.

“A child, my emperor!” Paper caught his breath and remembered himself. He fell into his obeisance. “The empress is delivered of a child, Mirra be blessed!”

“Is she well? Is Mesema well? Are they both well?” A hollowness filled him.

“Tired, Magnificence, but she is well. As is your son.”

“A son?” How many gods had he asked for a daughter? “A son?” Beyon’s son. The true emperor.

CHAPTER SIX

Before the little savage pushed forth her cursed boy, Sarmin had named Daveed as his heir and promised never to hurt him. But within an hour everything had changed. Now Sarmin had a son and Daveed was both more and less than he had been. More of a threat, less of a necessity. Her prayers to Mirra had gone unanswered. Tuvaini lay in his tomb, Arigu remained far away in Fryth and she was alone.

A wail rose from deep within her, but she made her throat tight so all that escaped was a half-syllable, choked rather than spoken. Daveed heard
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her and renewed his protests, outraged that she would sit so close without feeding him. His fury reminded her of Beyon, though her eldest would never have gone quiet. At least that was what she believed; she had never made Beyon wait, and so she did not know.

Was it easier to die as a baby? She thought of her son Yusuf, who had yielded to the same fever that killed so many of Tahal’s children. It had rushed through like a flooding river, sweeping them all away and leaving Beyon as the eldest boy. How she had thanked Herzu then, making sacrifices daily, for pestilence was His province but Beyon had been spared. She thought perhaps he’d been chosen by the gods, and urged Emperor Tahal to protect and favour her son over all others.

She laughed at that, all bitter edges, cutting across the baby’s cries.
Yes; I should just kill him now. His brother is the hand of heaven, and the gods are careless.
Even Tuvaini had managed the deaths of all Beyon’s wives during his short reign. Women she had hand-picked and trained from a young age—staked out in the courtyard for Eyul’s bow. The throne was purchased and maintained through death and blood.

Nessaket raised the cushion and stared down at Daveed’s red, angry cheeks. He had Beyon’s eyes and that curl of hair at his temple. He did not resemble his father; for that she was thankful.

There had been a time, before her husband had betrayed her, when she had loved and been loved, when she had looked to the future with happiness. When she remembered those days, it was to recall another woman, not herself. That woman had been hollowed out of her, bite by bitter bite, until all she felt empty. The same emptiness had forced Siri to jump from the roof of the palace after little Kashim died, the roof where she had kept a beautiful garden, where the children had played.

She had watched Eyul Knife-Sworn drag his blade over Amile’s throat. Had Amile wondered, in those last moments, whether his life had always been meant to end that way? Whether his lessons and songs and embraces had been for nothing? Had he felt the betrayal, had he felt unloved? It weighed on her like a stone, making her arms heavy, the cushion heavy. She dropped it.

It just covered Daveed’s little body. She leaned over the crib, letting the heaviness weigh her down, letting it press her hands against the silk. A lullaby came to her lips.
Sleep now little child, your father tames the sands so wild, over dune and under star, your dreams will take you very far.
Daveed struggled a moment, his little feet kicking at the tassels, then went still.

“No!” Nessaket threw the pillow from the cradle. Had he died so quickly? But he blinked at her, angrier than ever, and let out a long, shuddering wail. “Oh, Daveed,” she said, picking him up, “oh, my child.”
And so I still have something yet to lose.
She gave him her breast, wondering if some part of him would remember this and hate her, just as Beyon had. Now she had betrayed all of her children, except for Yusuf. Dear, sweet Yusuf had died not knowing anything but her love.

Daveed would not die. She would make sure of that now.

I will be a better mother this time.

Once Daveed’s stomach was full, his eyelids drooped. Nessaket placed him in his cradle and turned to the mirror. She saw herself in the silver, still a bit heavy from giving birth, her hair finally showing a streak of grey. “Dreshka? Where is my body-slave?” she called out, though she knew the woman always stood in the shadowed niches of the hallway.

“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.