wasn’t she dead already? Was it a game? If so, all she could do was go along with it. “I choose that one, if I am allowed to choose.”
The women exchanged glances. “Of course you may choose,” said Sahree. They gathered the fabric over her shoulder and pinned it with a jewelled brooch. It felt softer than the softest wool, softer than skin, as it fell cool against her body. Another piece went around her waist and they tied it all together with a patterned sash. They placed jewelled sandals on her feet and stood back to admire their work.
Mesema lifted her arms. It felt strange to have no fabric between her arms and her ribs. She felt naked. “How do you name this color?” she asked. It looked like the grass and the sky mixed together.
“That color is named ocean,” said Tarub. “It is good for you.”
“It is very good,” said Willa.
“What now?” Mesema held her hands awkwardly at her sides.
“I will see if it is time,” said Sahree.
Once again she had received no answer, but Mesema couldn’t ask another question, for Sahree had already disappeared through the tent flap. She kicked at the rug. Tarub and Willa smiled at her in encouragement, but still she felt awkward.
After a minute Sahree returned and clapped her hands together. “Soon,” she said. “The emperor, heaven keep him, is almost ready. But you must learn the proper behaviour. First, when you come within your height of him, you must give obeisance. Do you know obeisance?” Sahree put her knees on the rug, then bent over, her hands stretched before her on the ground. “Now you try.”
Mesema did the same.
“Good,” said Sahree. “Then you wait until someone tells you to get up. Don’t mutter or fidget, now.”
Mesema didn’t need to practise keeping still, but she did it anyway, for Sahree’s sake.
“Good,” said Sahree at last. “Rise. You must do the same if he leaves the room before you. Now, when you speak to the emperor, you must address him properly as “Your Magnificence” or “Your Majesty”.”
“All right,” said Mesema, folding her hands to keep them from shaking.
“There is more,” said Sahree, “and we used to be very strict in his father’s day, may he live in heaven for ever, but we haven’t the time.”
“Because the emperor is ill?”
Sahree gave her a sharp look. “Ill? He is not ill.”
Banreh, you fool. Mesema stared at her feet. If she allowed the tears that stung her eyes to come forth, they would throw cold rags on her face again. She bit her lip and dug her fingernails into her palms. The pain cleared her mind.
It was clear the emperor didn’t intend to kill her quite yet, but it was also clear that Arigu had lied again. The emperor was not dying. She wished she could hit Banreh for believing Arigu’s nonsense. She sighed. No; she couldn’t hit Banreh. She would be too glad to see him.
An invisible signal stirred Sahree to action. “Come!” she chirped, taking Mesema’s arm. Outside, a new series of red corridors appeared for her.
“Why do they make silk paths for us?” she asked.
“So that the common men cannot see you,” said Sahree. Mesema could tell from the morning sun that while her tent had been to the west, the emperor’s stood to the south. Their journey ended at a tent flap where two men stood guard. They wore round blue hats topped with feathers, different from the pointed white hats worn by Arigu’s men. They gaped at Mesema, and she looked at her feet, small in their jewelled sandals.
After a few minutes the tent flaps parted, pushed from within, and a man wearing blue robes bowed slightly to her.
“Enter,” he said, his voice crisp and cool. She couldn’t tell his age; he might have been twenty-five or forty.
She took a breath to steady her nerves and moved forwards, taking tiny steps over a silk runner. Without looking up she could tell the tent was large, three or four times the size of the bathing tent, but she heard no voices or movement. It felt as if she were alone.
After ten steps she looked up; she didn’t want to get too close for her proper obeisance. The emperor sat twice her height away, reclining on a pile of cushions. She saw his face first, the face of a Rider in his prime. He looked confident and strong. A smile played around his lips, and yet he seemed angry. She took a few more steps and faltered, now seeing Banreh, crumpled in obeisance, on her left.
“Approach the emperor,” said the man who’d let her in. Mesema swallowed, ashamed of herself, and continued to walk forwards. She realised that she was staring at the emperor; she couldn’t remember if Sahree had told her not to look at him. He smiled at her, with the look of a man about to tell the end of a joke, but as she got closer, his expression changed to one of surprise.
She knelt and put her face to the silk. She congratulated herself: she had made it this far. Banreh knelt just beside her and she wondered how long he’d been waiting. She worried about his leg. Her skin tingled. She refused to scratch herself.
The emperor let them wait. After a minute she began to count stitches again. Perhaps this was their punishment: he would sit on his cushions and wait them out, until they starved to death. But soon after the thought passed through her mind, the man in the blue robes said, “The emperor will receive the lady now.”
She sat up and faced him. He looked down at her with almond eyes.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said.
Mesema couldn’t meet his gaze any longer. She looked at his hair, straight and black.
“Do you speak?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Magnificence.”
He leaned forwards, to a tray covered with silver goblets and pitchers. “Do you drink?”
“Sometimes, Your Magnificence.”
He snorted and poured two goblets full of red liquid. He handed one to his servant, who handed it to Mesema. “In the desert, one must provide food and drink to one’s guests,” he said.
“Thank you… Your Majesty.”
“Messeeema.” He downed his in one gulp and stared at her.
“I saw you in a dream.”
She sipped her drink and found it sour. Nevertheless she took another sip. She didn’t know what to make of his words, and in any case she was having difficulty speaking.
The emperor twirled his goblet, lost in a daydream. Then he bounced back on the cushions, propping his head with one hand. “Do you ride?” He’d changed his mood as quickly as the wind in a storm, and he still hadn’t so much as glanced towards Banreh.
“Your- Of course.” She lowered her goblet. “My horse’s name is Tumble. He’s very fine.”
“Will you ride with me tomorrow? I should like to see a woman ride.” “Y-yes, Your Magnificence.” Fear blossomed in her chest.
The emperor motioned towards Banreh. “What about him?” Mesema sighed with relief. “He has a horse too. He-”
He cut her off. “I didn’t mean for him to join us. I am asking who he is.”
“His name is Banreh, Your Majesty. My father’s voice-and-hands. His am-bass-a-dor.” Banreh had taught her that word.
“So he is the one responsible for bringing you here?”
And there it was.
She steeled herself, concentrating through the buzzing in her ears. “Your Majesty, General Arigu is responsible. He lied to my father. Then he left us when the assassins came.”
“Yes, I have heard about this.”
Mesema took another drink, letting the sour liquid scour her throat. She hated the Cerani; they were liars, all of them. A familiar feeling rose in her chest, the kind that couldn’t be stopped by fear or etiquette or anything besides Banreh.
“They killed my friend. Her name was Eldra. She was pretty and brave.” A real man had to take responsibility for his actions. He would know what he had done. “I took some fletching from the arrow in her chest. A blue feather.” Banreh didn’t move-couldn’t move-to stop her. “I’ll be holding it in my hand when I die. So let me know,
