“Unlikely.” Beyon patted his dog and stood up, his gaze taking in the empty room. “By the time they’re grown, they’ll understand how things are. They’ll be all hollowed out.”
Are you all hollowed out, then, my emperor? Tuvaini cleared his throat. “Then why bother, Your Majesty?”
Beyon didn’t answer. He squeezed the red ball between his fingers. “The little red-haired one-her parents sold her. They came from the Wastes. She told me they were clanless, and had too many children and no food. They got a good price for her pretty face.”
Tuvaini thought of Lapella and looked out across the tiles.
Beyon continued, “How do you think they choose which ones to keep and which to sell? Do they choose the oldest? The youngest? Or do they decide which of the children is more useless to them?”
“What is useless to one family,” said Tuvaini, “may be of great use to someone else.”
“That comes later,” said Beyon, waving a dismissive hand. “I am interested in the choosing: how can you see potential in a child, or the lack of it? How can they be sure they made the right choice?”
“I suppose there is no point in dwelling on it once it’s done. That road leads to madness.” Tuvaini smiled to himself.
“It’s madness from any direction you come at it, to discard your own children.” Beyon looked down at his hands, turning them over to examine his palms. Tuvaini had noticed this habit in him of late. Perhaps there were some small marks appearing there.
Soon, now. Soon.
Tuvaini looked back at the doors, making sure there were no waiting supplicants. “Your Magnificence,” he said, “I came to speak of serious matters.”
“Oh?” Beyon sat down on the throne. He always looked too big for it, too broad in the shoulders and hips. His dog settled at his feet and pricked up its ears.
“You remember I spoke to you of Lord Zell, Magnificence, and his concerns about pirates beyond the western shore. He complains the White Hats of his province do nothing, and would raise his own army as in days of old. I have written strong words-”
Beyon waved a hand. “Lord Zell and his blusterings bore me. Send your letter.”
Tuvaini made his next move, the words coming from his mouth as if he had practised them a hundred times. “My words would carry more weight if delivered by a hundred Blue Shields, Magnificence.”
“I won’t send my own guard. I need them.” Beyon shifted upon the throne and sighed. “Who is the general there? Send Arigu to replace him.”
And there it was. In less time than it took to eat a date, Tuvaini had reminded Beyon both of his vulnerability and his dependence on Arigu. The emperor was in position. All he needed to do was set the tiles to falling. “That is the other subject we need to discuss, Magnificence.” He paused for effect. “I have heard whispers: General Arigu plots with your brother. Prince Sarmin means to sire an heir, to rule in your stead. Movements have already been made in this direction.”
Beyon went still and said nothing.
“Arigu asked permission for a brief return to Vehinni Province, but my family confirms he never arrived there. Instead he fetches Prince Sarmin a horsewoman from the north. The prince means to marry her without your permission.” Tuvaini stopped talking and cast his eyes down. Let him chew on that.
After a silence, the emperor said, “Arigu has wanted to see the Grasslands for some time now. But something is missing from your story.”
“I’m sure I don’t know the whole story, Your Magnificence.”
“You’ve always been too kind to my mother, Tuvaini, but Arigu takes no action without her standing behind him. I suppose she is tired of this son and wants to try the other.”
Tuvaini said nothing. He hadn’t meant to implicate Nessaket. He’d expected Beyon to lose his temper, to be rash, to behave as Beyon had always behaved.
Instead the emperor leaned back in the throne, breaking into a smile. “My mother is clever, but she is not clever enough. You are my faithful servant, Tuvaini. She didn’t plan on you, did she?”
Tuvaini steadied himself on a pillar.
“I shall frustrate her in the getting of this heir, and amuse myself in the process. When is this woman expected?”
Tuvaini forced the words from his mouth. “I believe very soon, Magnificence.”
“Then I shall go to the desert and fetch her. I will present her to Sarmin myself, as a gift from the emperor.” Beyon laughed. “And when the child is born, my bitch of a mother won’t even see it. She’ll have no leverage with either of my heirs.”
Tuvaini felt a pressure at the top of his head, heavy and sharp, like the tip of a sword. A pain shot from his scalp to his heels; a strike from Herzu himself, who held agony in one hand and loss in the other. Tuvaini welcomed the pain. He relaxed, breathing deep, and let it fill his veins with steel, strengthen his mind with a warrior’s keenness.
He opened his eyes and saw Beyon, the Boy Emperor, staring back at him. He looked foolish and scared. “And the general?” Tuvaini asked.
Beyon shrugged. “He will make an oath, or die.”
This boy was no emperor; he was worth nothing. Beyon murdered powerless guards but allowed treacherous generals to live-and why? Because they were powerful; because he needed them. Because he was weak. So weak, he had the marks; so weak, he would die, soon, alone and outcast.
Tuvaini made his obeisance. He was already deciding on his next move. Herzu had touched him, and so blood must be shed. If he felt a slight hesitation, a moment of pity, imagining a girl’s blood in the desert sands, he put it aside. The gods and the empire forced his hand. It must be done.
Chapter Fifteen
Eyul woke to the whispers of men and the sound of dripping water. A cool rag rested on his forehead. The air felt still and warm against his skin; he guessed he lay inside a tent.
“He wakes,” a nomad said.
The last thing Eyul remembered was dozing in the saddle. Amalya. He tried to sit up, but hands, more than two, pressed him down onto his blanket.
“You put something in my water.”
Someone else spoke. “You wouldn’t have let us take care of the woman if they hadn’t. We had a hard enough time of it as it was.” The voice was cool and rich. A river in the sands.
“You sons of whores! If you-” His hand went to his hip. The emperor’s Knife was gone. He reached for his eye bandages and tore the first layer away, but once again, hands stopped him.
“Such impatience.” The voice felt familiar. “Not the temperament for desert travel.” Water dribbled into Eyul’s mouth and the man continued, “Your friend is alive.”
Eyul ceased his struggles. “Where is she?”
“Elsewhere.”
“I need to get to the hermit.” Laughter rang out around him.
“You don’t know my voice, assassin? You have arrived. And once you are well enough, you will have a choice to make.”
Eyul lay on his back and allowed the hermit to tend to him. First the old man rubbed a harsh-smelling salve on his burned hand. Then he washed the wounds on his face and leg with cold water. Eyul considered the hermit’s words. An assassin didn’t make choices.
“Does your role still fit you like a tight slipper, Eyul? Do those boys still haunt your dreams?” The tone was conversational. Eyul didn’t reply. He remembered the last time he’d come to see the hermit. The hermit couldn’t stop the nightmares, but he’d offered his water pipe, and that had eased Eyul’s mind for a time.
Fabric rustled as the hermit finished his ministrations. A waft of air told Eyul that one of the nomads had either come in or gone out of the tent.
