its many windows dark. She is here to do murder.
The house looms, pale stone reaching skyward as she passes the ground-floor windows one by one. She tests the shutters on each then moves on. This is memory. In some lost corner of her mind she has been passing by these windows forever, hoping never to stop.
She tries another shutter. She strains to see the hands testing that smooth wood, prising those long slats, tries to see if they are her hands, Grada’s, or if she is carried rather than carrying. Carried at least the blood will not stain her skin, though the stain will be more than skin-deep in either event.
Another window, fingers wedged once more between the slats, muscles straining, and with a soft schnick something vital surrenders and the shutter comes loose. She climbs in, heart hammering louder than her footfalls. Even passing through she notes the quality of the timber, the extravagant thickness of it, shipped down the Blessing in the great barges of trade princes like Jomla and Honnecka. These people throw gold about as if it were nothing while in the Maze children starve, babies are stillborn. She tries to kindle a fire within her, anger to burn away guilt, but the sparks die. The desire to kill can’t be manufactured.
She’s in a corridor now, padding her way, the heavy knife held out before her to test the darkness, so thick you might better call it blindness.
Footsteps, just a whisper, bare feet on thick rugs, a snuffle, someone making their way by habit. Grada steps back against the wall and waits. She draws a deep slow breath but it hurts. For no reason her lungs are full of broken glass, a hot rivet driven between her ribs. She bites down on the cry that demands escape.
“Herzu’s member!” The curse started as a scream but died in a whisper on her lips.
“The mouth on her! Labourers on Tuvaini’s tomb shout that when they hammer their thumbs by mistake… you’re sure she’s the emperor’s chosen one?”
“Just finish stitching.”
“Gods damn you, Rorrin!” Grada managed a louder whisper. She couldn’t unscrew her eyes yet but she knew his voice.
“Rorrin?”
“Stitch or I’ll give you something bigger to sew up!” Rorrin’s voice again.
“She’s done. I’ll go see to my other patient.” Something being wrapped around her chest and ribs.
“I wouldn’t bother. If he wakes he’ll only die of shame. Taken out by a Maze girl…”
Meere? She tried to curse again but her lips felt too dry. Whatever might be wrapping her ribs something thicker and more velvet seemed to wrap the rest of her, pulling her down into black and dreamless sleep. Meere?
Mazarkis Williams
Knife Sworn
CHAPTER SIX
N essaket stood on the stairs and watched the Fryth delegation move towards the western wing. Newly arrived visitors were always taken to the temple of Herzu, to remind them they stood in Nooria, the heart of the empire, carved from the desert with ruthlessness and will. Hazran’s white-hatted soldiers herded taller men in ornate armour, their swords thin and light compared to Cerana’s heavy steel. Their weapons made these Fryth guardsmen no less intimidating, for their height and muscle showed what force might wield them. In their midst walked two men, one blond and wrapped in a priest’s red robe, the other black-haired and wearing a heavy coat the colour of midnight. The latter looked towards the steps, but not at her; his eyes fell upon the carved ivory balustrades, the gold leaf, and the paintings that lined the wall, his eyes wide with wonder. Lords from the farthest reaches who lived in wooden shacks or tumbledown ruins often wore that look upon first arriving in Nooria, but she had heard the Fryth were artisans themselves, building architectural wonders within their mountain holds.
Nessaket took a step downwards, and her men moved too, matching her pace. Such things were important; one did not touch the empire mother, by accident or otherwise. She counted three dozen guards, including Hazran’s soldiers, the Fryth, and her own men-how many swords could fit into a temple, she wondered. She reached the bottom of the stairs and set out after them.
Though the delegates’ entourage moved softly, complete silence was impossible for a group so large. Their murmurs rose to a hum, and slow footsteps became a rumble in the hallway. She followed them easily. To her surprise they passed Herzu’s temple and turned towards Mirra’s where flowers blossomed and sunlight filtered through the silk roof. Sarmin’s choice, or his wife’s.
General Hazran guarded the entrance, his white hair and eyebrows snowy against his darkly tanned face. He was one she did not know so well, whose reactions and desires she could not predict. It was said he had one wife, children and grandchildren, that he was a very happy man; but whenever she saw him he looked held by some dark thought, mouth turned down, brows furrowed. “This is not a good time to visit the temple, Empire Mother,” he said with a bow, polite yet firm. “Perhaps you could return in an hour.”
“I always go at this time,” she said, her lie smooth as silk, “it is all arranged.”
“But I’m afraid that-”
“Priest Assar is expecting me,” she said, moving past. Let him try to grab me. See what happens to his arm then. She passed through unhindered, her guards behind her in a long train, and paused, taking in the heavy scent of gardenia as she looked around the temple. More than two dozen crowded among the roses and tall, gold-hued grasses, their murmurs echoing along the marble walls. Every man here stood taller than herself, and she weaved through them, a thread through a tapestry, searching for the centre where the Fryth envoy and his priest might be found. The soldiers saw her and moved aside, bowing, unable to prostrate themselves due to the crowded floor. She scanned the room ahead of her, glimpsed between armoured shoulders and strong chins, until at last she saw a shock of yellow hair that marked the Fryth priest.
The northern soldiers did not bow for her, instead quickly moving aside, drawing away from her naked arms and breasts as if they were poison. Sensing the disturbance the priest turned, caught sight of her and said, “Oh!” his mouth caught in in a circle of surprise. Good: he could be put off balance. She smiled at him and did a curtsey, careful to let her hair fall against her shoulders in a smooth cascade. “The Fryth priest, I presume?”
“Yes… my lady,” he said in a slight northern accent. He had more the look of a warrior than a priest, both in his eyes and in his arms.
“It is “Your Majesty,”” admonished her guard, “and you must bow.”
The priest’s gaze did not stray from Nessaket’s as he bent at the waist. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I am Second Austere Adam.”
“I am Nessaket, empire mother,” she said, smiling, “and I come to speak of the peace.”
“I would speak of the war first,” he said, straightening, “and of what your son’s armies have made of our land.”
“That is not a topic for this night, austere.” The young marke pushed forwards from her left, speaking Cerantic that was soft and hard in the wrong places. His hair was as black as the priest’s was light, and his cloak of midnight blue swirled about his gaunt frame, a mystery of folds and patterns that gave the impression of a much heavier man.
“Apologies, my marke.” The priest made an obsequious bow though his eyes flashed with anger.
Nessaket turned to the young man, wondering if he were truly the one in charge. From what she understood the Mogyrk priests wielded such power that they need not submit to anyone. “Peace is my son the emperor’s greatest wish.” It had never been her wish, during all those nights whispering with Arigu and all those days planning and waiting. To honour Herzu, to make Cerana great again-was that not a goal Sarmin shared?
“Then it is a shame his cousin Tuvaini sat the throne before him,” said the austere, though Marke Kavic laid a hand on his arm, “for his brother Beyon never threatened those beyond his borders.”
“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
