“I’m no whore!” The woman’s shadow quivered as she struggled.
“Liar.” One of the men punctuated his word with a slap. “This is no concern of yours, blind man.”
Eyul smiled. “True.” This would be too easy. Disappointment crept in. Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted after all. “But I’d still like you to go.” He hefted the Knife in his hand. “I came to visit this place, and you’re disturbing me.”
The men exchanged glances. The woman lay still and said nothing. He could guess at their thinking: either he could take them, against all logic, or he was mad. Either way, it was bad luck to fight him.
“Herzu take her anyway.” The man to Eyul’s left backed off.
“Don’t think we won’t remember you, Khima.”
The second man followed him, and the woman, Khima, crumpled to the stony ground, a dark lump in the centre of Eyul’s vision. He walked past her to the opposite wall and lifted his bandages. Decades of grime had obscured the arterial spray of his first victim. He ran his fingers along the brick.
The child whispered to him from the Knife, “Leave this place. You are needed at the palace.”
“Hey,” said Khima.
Eyul backed away from the wall to where he’d stood when he slit the man’s throat. Yes; he remembered. The sun shot through his vision, a welcome pain.
“Hey,” she said again, and now he could feel her warmth, her breath on his arm. He could kill her as easily as scratching his nose, add her blood to the wall. He felt free, powerful.
“I could lift my skirts,” she offered. That would do.
She was not just skinny but wasted, not much in his hands, but his body didn’t seem to mind. He finished, one hand against the brick where he’d drawn first blood, the other on her bony hip. Afterwards he offered her a drink from his waterskin.
“It’s fresh, from a well in the desert.”
“Tastes sweet.” She smacked her lips together. They were still full and round, not cracked and bleeding as they would be in a few years’ time. “What’s it like outside the walls?”
“Same as inside the walls.”
She laughed at that. He let her keep the waterskin. Already his mind itched for something else, something more. Govnan.
He left Khima sipping the sweet water in the alley. He judged she had a few hours before those men came back and took their revenge. No matter; he had a revenge of his own to finish. He covered his eyes again and slipped through the Maze, his gaze on the Tower, cutting a shadow from the sun. He dodged a galloping horse on Palace Road, twisting back to throw a curse at its silhouette of a rider.
The Knife-voices spoke together at once, loud but unintelligible.
“Be quiet, or I’ll throw you in the smith’s fire.” It was no more than a whispered threat; Tahal had given him this Knife twice over. It was all he had left.
Eyul made the rest of the way to the Tower in silence. He knew from Tuvaini that Govnan would be somewhere on a higher floor; he’d have to get past the other mages first. He paused, looking up at the Tower’s sheer walls. He couldn’t climb. He would have to hurt people.
The door swung in easily. Perhaps there was no need to lock the gate to the Tower; only a madman would enter the home of the mages with violent intentions. A young woman with light-colored eyes gave him a shallow bow. “I am Mura. What does the supplicant-?”
She didn’t finish her sentence; Eyul had spun behind her and wrapped his arm around her throat. Pointing the Knife at her heart, he said, “The supplicant wishes to see High Mage Govnan.”
She coughed, but he didn’t ease his pressure. Her elemental was trapped inside her; let it remain there. They moved through the courtyard like a clumsy four-legged beast. He saw no one else. Were there so few mages? He kicked open the brass door and looked through it, past the statues filling the entry hall. Still nobody.
The young mage began to stumble, losing air, and he let her fall. She writhed on the threshold, coughing, her hands to her throat.
“What’s your name?”
“M-mura.”
“Where are the other mages?”
“We are just… five,” she said hoarsely, “me, Govnan, Hashi who travels with the emperor, Amalya and Suresh.”
Only four mages left? “Where is Suresh?”
“Top floor… library.” Tears ran down her face. She was young.
He tucked the Knife in his belt. “I will go and see Govnan. Would you stop me?”
“You can go up, but he isn’t there.” Mura turned her face to the floor. “A Carrier came here before you, and Govnan ran to the palace.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The caravan plodded through the city gate. Twilight dimmed the carriage-box, making a shadowy form of Sahree. Mesema closed her eyes and listened to the carriage-creak, the horses and the distant camels, and the buzz of the city, like a thousand bees, getting louder every minute. Voices, raised in laughter, argument, trade, and love-Mesema had never heard so many voices. The sound made her glad, but when she looked out of the window all she could see were walls, high and close, rising to either side. She felt like a lamb in its pen and shivered.
The voices grew distant as the carriage passed through yet another gate. This new place held a stillness, and the soldiers, when they spoke, used hushed tones. They had arrived. The carriage pulled to a stop and Mesema jerked her shoulders back, seized with a sudden panic; she felt she might be sick. Sahree scrambled from her seat and left Mesema alone in the darkness. Mesema wanted to shout out, to ask Sahree to return, but instead she clutched her hands together and took careful breaths. Here I am. I have made it this far. I’m not dead, nor have I hurt anyone. Another thought came to her, an exclamation in her mind: Banreh!
She waited. Outside the window, torches lit a wide courtyard. Soldiers unpacked their animals with quick, efficient movements, and others ran up to assist them, leading away the horses and the camels, carrying the boxes, offering water to the travel-weary. Mesema waited, but Sahree did not return, and as night fell in earnest, fewer soldiers could be seen. Those who remained were now leaning against the barrels, speaking casually to one another, or smoking some sort of weed in a pipe. She waited, and at length even those soldiers wandered away, leaving her alone.
Mesema opened her carriage door and paused to see if anyone would come to stop for her, or assist her. She heard no footsteps, nor the rustling of Sahree’s skirts; only a distant chanting reached her ears, falling soft and rhythmic on the night air.
She stepped out. It was a long drop to the courtyard tiles. The soldiers had always set out steps for her before. Her sandals made a slapping noise against the stone, but still nobody noticed, or came for her. At the top of the walls that encircled the courtyard she could see soldiers on patrol, but if they saw her, they didn’t show it.
The palace rose over Mesema, all sheer walls, domes, and rounded windows, bigger than the stone temple she’d seen in the desert, bigger than any structure she’d ever seen. It glowed brightly, even against the night sky. Across from where she stood, white brick outlined a small wooden door. It didn’t look impressive enough to be the palace door. Another, larger, stood beside it.
She tried to fathom having many doors, each assigned to an appropriate station. The Felt had their leaders, to be sure, but there were not so many differences in status. Every Cerani had someone above and someone below, excepting the emperor and the most miserable slave.
And which door was meant for her? She felt it best to use the low door; though she guessed it was the wrong one it would surely be better than using a door meant for the emperor alone.
A modest hallway led her between the soldiers’ lodgings. Boots struck stone floors. Cerani voices called to one another, giving and accepting orders. Somewhere, lamb was roasting in garlic and rose petals. Her stomach grumbled. She turned, and turned again, following the passage towards the centre of the building. Soon she entered a well-appointed corridor, with hanging tapestries and marble floors. She paused. The pattern-link told her Beyon
