and I will fetch it.”
The blue-robed servant rushed forwards, his hands reaching for Mesema, and she flinched. She wasn’t sure whether he meant to strike her down or throw her from the tent.
The emperor held up one hand and stilled him. “You are brave, Mesema. But I don’t kill women, and I didn’t send any assassins.”
She looked down into her drink, overcome with confusion. Not even Banreh could stop her tongue so well.
Silence fell between them. His servant stood on Mesema’s right, poised to intervene.
“Well. Your father must be made aware of my displeasure.” The emperor motioned towards Banreh. “I will send him this one’s head, but then all will be forgiven. You will marry as planned, and your father will receive the goods and weapons Arigu promised.”
She knew that she must save Banreh, only not how. “Your Majesty,” she said, her mind racing, her hands shaking, “if you send my father the head of his voice-and-hands, the man he considers to be a part of himself, he will never send you the wool you expect every year in tribute. Worse, he will refuse to send his Riders against your enemies. He has influence among the other tribes-the Black Horse Clan, the Blue River Clan, the Flat Earth Clan, even the River People and Rockfighters. He will bring them all to his side.”
He gave her an appraising look. “And what threats are these, that we need the aid of the Windreaders to address?”
Better not to mention treacherous generals; that might anger him. Her mind reached out and grabbed what it could. “The pattern-maker who kills your people, Magnificence.”
His hand jerked, spilling his drink on the purple cushions, and he rubbed at it as he said, “And what do you know about the pattern, or its maker?”
“I’ve seen the pattern twice now. I know nothing of its maker.”
“Has the pattern reached the horse tribes, then?”
“No, Your Majesty. I saw it only in the wind.”
“In the wind.” The emperor threw aside his cushion and stood. He was as big as Arigu, and as muscular, but he moved with far more grace. He walked a slow circle around Banreh.
“We will speak of this wind later. Now you will give me a better way to chastise your father, or I will kill this one.”
She did not doubt him. She turned, her heart beating fast.
“My father has sent many gifts for your family as my dowry, Your Majesty. His best wools and dyes, amber and rare healing plants. Send them all back.”
“I would be doing him a favor,” said the emperor, pausing near Banreh’s shoulder, a smile playing about his lips. “You are sneaking your tiles off the board.”
Mesema shook her head emphatically. “No. For the Felt the return of a gift is a great humiliation. It will mean that the gift was poor and inappropriate. My father will be shamed before everyone. And the power will be on your side, Majesty, to forgive or not to forgive.”
The emperor considered this and laughed. “You are clever, Mesema Windreader.”
She looked down at her silver goblet, out of words at last.
“You may go. The ambassador will be returned to your father, along with his gifts. I will summon you when it’s time for our ride.”
Mesema stood and curtsied. She felt dizzy; her ears hurt. The emperor turned his back, facing the red walls of the tent, looking at nothing. The man in blue robes tapped Banreh’s spine. Mesema turned; she didn’t want to see Banreh struggling to get up and walk. She hurried back along the runner and at the flap, Sahree’s wrinkled hand seized her arm and dragged her through. Full morning blasted across the sky-it had seemed night in the emperor’s tent. Time was galloping ahead. She would never see Banreh again.
Sahree led her through more corridors, her fingers digging into Mesema’s arm, until at last they pushed their way back into the tent where she’d bathed. The three women changed Mesema’s clothes and combed her hair once more, and rubbed creams into her feet and hands. Then, as the sun rose high in the sky, they laid her on her mat and stood over her, waving huge fans.
Chapter Twenty
Eyul studied the charred corpse. “A horse. They hadn’t the fuel to do much more than scorch it.”
Amalya crouched over the twisted remains. The heat had tightened tendons and left the beast contorted. “There’s a body underneath, a woman.”
“Tribesmen, then, Felting riders off the grass,” Eyul said. “A long journey that, to die in the desert.”
Amalya lifted her hand. “Wait.” She kept still, her lips pressed tight in concentration. The smell of sulphur rose in the air, making Eyul cough, and blue flame flickered in Amalya’s eyes before orange bloomed there, wild and hot. When she opened her mouth again, smoke issued. Her words were rough, as if ash filled her throat. “Young, female. Stone around her throat and feathers on her chest. A horse with metal on its tail. A waste. The fire was not allowed to kill them.”
“How did the female die?” Eyul had never addressed Metrishet before. The elemental unsettled him. He knew one day it would consume Amalya.
Amalya closed her eyes and stood up, coughing. “An arrow.”
“This is the Felting girl.” Eyul studied the hollow between the dunes. An empty barrel and a ripped canvas lay discarded in the sand. Someone had camped here and left in a hurry.
“So it is. Beyon’s doing?”
Eyul looked towards Nooria. “For all his killings, I’ve never known the emperor to cause the death of a woman or a child.”
“But the pattern… Perhaps it has him now?”
“Or he didn’t do it.” He looked at the bodies again.
“Let us move on,” said Amalya. “There is nothing more for us to learn here.”
“All this to bed a queen?”
Bed her? I have done that. Next I will own her. “Why set my sights so low?”
Tuvaini asked. “Can I not hunger after power like every other man?” “With you it always has to be personal.” Arigu looked up from his goblet, a certain humour in his dark eyes. “There has to be someone to defeat, to humble… or covet.”
“Perhaps you know less of me than you think, old friend.” Tuvaini wrinkled his nose at the sour whiff of Arigu’s ale. He’d picked up the taste on distant campaigns.
“Perhaps.” Arigu acknowledged the possibility. “But I’m right, aren’t I? It’s Nessaket.” Drops of amber glistened in the tight curls of his beard as he lowered his goblet again.
As Arigu grinned Tuvaini felt a pang of old hatred. So often he’d wanted to sink a fist into that broad, amiable face, though he’d probably break his hand on those raw-boned features. Rumour had it that the blood of Mogyrks flowed in the general’s veins; a grandmother raped when the Yrkmen rode the desert with sword and holy fire. The slander spread well; Arigu’s build and colouring fed the whispers. Tuvaini had never regretted starting that rumour.
I had Nessaket. Soon I will have the empire. “You mistake me, Arigu. I’m as loyal to the emperor as you are.” Let him play with that. He returned his gaze to the Settu tiles between them. The game had run to plan. The game always ran to plan: Arigu had never beaten him in all their years of play, and yet here he was again, accepting one more challenge, showing no surprise that Tuvaini had discovered his return to the palace, no fear that he might be arrested at any moment. He sat calm, patient, ready to stand the tiles once more.
Arigu had nothing, just the tenuous loyalty of soldiers camped in the desert. Even so, Tuvaini felt uneasy. His Fort tile and his Rock tile stood central to the board, dominant, flanked by Tulwars with a string of River tiles to the rear. Yet he felt disquiet.
“What game are you playing, Tuvaini?” Arigu pushed a Spy stone out to the furthest corner of the board.
Tuvaini placed the Tower, setting the tile squarely before the Rock. “Why, Settu, of course, Glorious
