beautiful setting for such an ugly scene.
Another man stepped from the crimson folds of the hangings the covered each wall. A bodyguard, to protect Zell as he beat the slaves. She wondered what resistance Zell had met in the past that caused him to seek a guard. This one had not armed himself for the palace except for a dacarba, gleaming in his hand. Its sharp, three-sided blade was designed for assassins, but he was too heavy and thick for that profession.
“I suggest you take a command from the Grey Service.” Rorrin stepped forwards, a hand on his dagger. “Let her go.”
Lord Zell looked from Grada to Rorrin and grinned. “Grey Service? Grey hair-now that I believe.” He gave the woman a kick and she crumpled to the floor, curled around her pain. “I like my odds against an old man and a woman.”
Grada tensed her muscles, testing the pain of her wound. “You won’t.” The blade that Meere had left for her hung over her ribs, over the spot his knife punctured her. The beaten slave drew in a shuddering breath and crept closer to the wall.
“We have no time for this.” Rorrin sounded impatient. Grada thought perhaps he should sound worried. What did it take to stand before a naked blade and not feel terror she wondered. Rorrin must know the butchery a knife slash will do, open flesh gaping down through muscle and fat to the bone, blood splattering out in a hot spurting rush. And yet it was the delay that bothered the master of assassins, not the threat, not the gleam of steel. Her gaze flickered to the woman, head bowed, crimson fingers staunching a bleeding nose, flickered back to Zell and the tight cruelty of the smile twitching below his neat moustache.
Without words Grada marched towards the bodyguard. As she entered his range he delayed, confused, then lunged, dacarba angled towards her heart. She lunged too, her right hand closing over his wrist, pushing the trajectory of his blade wide as she twisted from its path, turning, presenting her back to him as she controlled his knife hand. She pulled her own blade clear with her left while she twisted into him, arched her neck, crunching the back of her skull into his face. With precision she stabbed beneath her own armpit into the guard’s chest. The steel sunk home and he cried out, letting his blade clatter to the floor. She stepped away and let him fall.
The man lay clutching his chest, the hilt of Meere’s dagger jutting from it. Scarlet bubbles sprung up around it as the guard fought for breath. Zell’s amazement wiped all other expression from his face. He stared for one moment then took to his heels, running for the exit. Rorrin let him pass.
“This was not well done, Grada.” The old assassin looked from slave to guard and shook his head. Our lives are the emperor’s and we’re not free to spend them on such… domestic matters. He could have got lucky and then you’d be the one dying on the floor. How would that help the emperor?”
“Dying?” The heat of the fight ran from Grada quicker than it came. “He’s not going to die?” She looked down at the man. “I’ll get help.” His face had gone deathly pale and his blood spread around him on the tiles.
“And that lord will make trouble. Whispers against the throne. Change is the last thing anyone of the peacocks want.”
“Help him!” Grada pointed at the man. She didn’t want his death on her hands, didn’t want to see his face when she closed her eyes to sleep.
“I will send word for Mirra’s temple to send someone,” said Rorrin. “Come. We have not the time.” He turned without another glance and left.
Grada squeezed the woman’s arm, stood and followed him from the room. “You will send someone from the temple.”
“I will.”
As they walked Grada collected herself. “It is dangerous for the silk-clad to abuse the slaves. Nobody notices the slaves, but they are there. They surround you.” She spoke also of herself, of the Untouchables.
“They surround us,” corrected Herran. “You are one of us, now. And if the Knife finds one such as Zell a threat, the Knife can eliminate him. I would advise against it though. Change must be a slow process. Cerana can only be turned by degrees. Some problems are like the hydra. Slice off a head and two grow in its place.”
To that she did not reply. Herran could not give her the Knife; only Sarmin could lay that burden upon her. But would he? The envoy had been murdered, and she knew how much he had wanted the peace. What she did not know was how much such a failure might change a man. As they continued towards the centre of the palace Herran began to speak of schemes, snakes, concubines, war and children. This time Grada listened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rushes returned to Nessaket’s room, ears tired from listening. As she had pretended to tidy the Great Room the concubines had paid her no mind, sharing their opinions on the emperor’s looks, the quality of the food, and the stifling heat of Cerana. Two women had whispered that the emperor made love with one of them, the pale girl named Jenni, and speculated on their own chances. Surely the empire mother would wish to know about that, but even more she would want to identify the woman from the Ways. Rushes had not heard that voice. It filled her with dread to think that concubine could make another move, even harm one of the princes, before anyone could put a name to her.
And that was not the only thing. Rushes had thought the stone would be a comfort, but instead it frightened her. Sometimes she thought it twisted in her pocket, trying to find its way out. Many times during the day she caught it with one hand, as one catches a falling sash or pendant. She imagined the stone was angry she had disobeyed the emperor. She should have thrown it in the Ways as he asked, and now perhaps it would start giving bad luck instead of good.
Rushes put the stone from her mind and prepared for the morning. She checked that Daveed had a tall stack of clean blankets, the brush and comb were side-by-side to the left of the mirror, and the empire mother’s sandals were just where a person would not trip on them but that, when getting out of bed, they were easy to slip onto the feet. That done, she walked to the great room to make sure the shelves had been lowered to the kitchen, so that Hagga and the others could place the breakfast inside them.
When Rushes was passing a mosaic of Pomegra, done in jade and amber, the lantern light flickered up and down the long corridor as if buffeted by a strong wind she could not feel. The guards outside Nessaket’s room murmured to one another, hands on their weapons, eyes sharp. Rushes didn’t like to be near the guards when they were tense-it was then that they reminded her of Gorgen-so instead of trying to move past them she turned in a slow circle, looking up and down the corridor lined with bright paintings and sparkling tiles. She thought she saw someone fair and slim stepping back into a shadowed niche, so she called out, “Hello?” No answer came; one of the guards, a grey-haired, burly man, leaned that way and said, “Hey, there!”
Still there was no answer. Rushes took one step, then another, towards the niche, cautious of the guards, cautious of whoever was hiding there. But the niche lay empty. She looked from the pointed arch to the carpeted floor. Nobody was there.
A scream rang out from the other end of the hall, causing the guards to curse under their breath and draw their weapons at last, but they would not leave Nessaket’s door. Their job was to guard little Daveed, not protect the other women. There were others, stationed outside the heavy gilded entrance, for that. Just as they took defensive stances the concubine named Banafrit came running down the long red carpet. “It’s Irisa!” she cried, “Her colour…”
In moments the corridor filled with a dozen or more women, all of them perfumed, bangled, their lips every shade from pink to blood-red, all moving towards where Irisa lay near a gurgling fountain, and Rushes was pulled along with them, stumbling, her shoulders knocked by their elbows. Irisa was shown to her in parts, through the bend of an arm or the narrow space between two concubines-an arm, a hint of a cheek, the end of her flowing hair. And all of her was white, faded, the colour of a pretty dress left out in the sun too long.
Sickness. Rushes backed away, the stone turning in her pocket. The pattern had begun with just one person and spread, until they all became the tools of its Master. She would not fall victim to another plague. She put in her hand to keep it the stone from falling and it was so hot that it burned her fingers; it had turned against her, just as she feared. She backed away, into the soft silks of one of the concubines.
