lay above-she felt it in the pricking of her finger-but she couldn’t see a staircase anywhere. She wiped away a tear, feeling foolish. We are Felt. On her right, a dark room opened onto the corridor. She ducked inside and found a crowded space, with statues and benches cluttering the floor without perceptible order. Stone walls supported a high ceiling lost in shadow. Candlelight flickered from the far end of the room. Curiosity gripped her, along with a sense of recognition: Beyon knew this place. She discovered a path on the far side of a sneering marble gryphon. At the end rose a golden figure, a horned, twisted beast three times Mesema’s height. Its feet were candlelit, and its eyes lay hidden in the shadows above. Fangs shimmered beneath sneering lips. It held a dead baby in one hand and an apple in the other, both withered and sunken. The place stank of rot.
Dirini had told her that Cerani made such tributes to their gods, statues fashioned of more gold than the tribes could gather from all their lands in a generation. She’d thought that a story for the sewing circle.
And what sort of god was this? Despite her horror, she ran her hand along one of the god’s feet. He felt cold and smooth against her skin. Who are you? The God of Sickness? Killing? I think I know you-I think I will come to know you even better. His metallic eyes looked down at her, curious, but not hungry. He knew her to be his subject already.
She shivered, seeing the stiff hair of the baby in his left hand. Footsteps sounded behind her. Mesema turned, feeling the soft fabric of her dress slip low on her shoulder. She adjusted it as her eyes met those of the woman who had entered, wide and dark, as cold as the god’s, and more familiar. Mesema no longer had Beyon’s memories, but she still had the feel of them. She took a step back.
“What sort of disrespect is this?” The woman tilted her head, speaking over her shoulder. Only then did Mesema notice a host of blue-topped soldiers at the end of the aisle. She took another step back and felt the god’s toes poking into her skin.
The woman addressed Mesema next. “Do your duty!” As she moved her head, her long black hair shifted, revealing bare breasts. Mesema had never seen a woman walk about naked before.
Mesema started, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t-”
“Do you even speak the civil tongue?” The woman stepped forwards and slapped Mesema’s face. “How dare you stare at me and give no obeisance.” Close up, Mesema could see tear-streaks on the woman’s cheeks. “Do you not know who I am? I married the great Emperor Tahal and gave birth to the Son of Heaven.” Two of the soldiers moved behind her, their swords drawn.
Beyon’s mother. Of course.
“Show your respect to the Empire Mother,” one of the soldiers said, moving his sword up and down.
Mesema fell to her knees and spread her arms out before her. She knew better than to ask forgiveness. She would be patient, as she had practised. In the corner of her eye she could see the other woman’s slippers, green and gold.
“Find out whose serving-girl this is.” The Empire Mother sounded tired now, sad. “Beyon’s wives let them wander like goats.”
The slippers moved to go past her, but Mesema spoke first, her eyes still on the tiled floor. “Your Highness, I am not a serving-girl. I come from the Felting tribes. I am the daughter of the Chief Windreader.”
“Did I give you leave to speak?” Mesema kept silent this time.
“Get up, girl, and let me look at you.”
Mesema stood, her eyes focused on her sandals. Her feet, she noticed, were dirty.
“The emperor, my son, joined your caravan, is that so?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Hmmph. Beyon always did like children.” With a thin smile the Empire Mother lifted Mesema’s chin in one hand. “And Arigu chose a pretty one, didn’t he?”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“And what of him?”
“Of whom, Empire Mother?”
“You’re stupid, aren’t you? I’m asking about General Arigu.” The Empire Mother ran her hands along Mesema’s arms now, as if she were judging the strength of a horse. Mesema pressed her index finger and thumb together to hide the crescent moon-mark.
“He left our caravan, Your Highness, to reach the city before us.”
The Empire Mother frowned. “I suppose we can still use you.” Mesema didn’t understand her meaning, but she kept silent. “You will stay in the women’s wing from now on.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The Empire Mother smiled, but not in a friendly way. “Were you not assigned a body-slave? Where is she?”
“Sahree, Your Highness. She left me in the courtyard.”
“That old bat. We’ll get you someone better. But no more wandering the palace.”
“I apologise, Your Highness. Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Keep quiet, too.” She turned in a swirl of black hair and swept past the soldiers who filled the room. Mesema stumbled after the Empire Mother, her heart beating wildly against her ribs.
“High Mage Govnan is here to speak with you, Lord Vizier.”
If the fact that the high mage waited at the door surprised Azeem, none of it reached his face. Tuvaini had kept him on all these years for good reason. In many ways the Island slave reminded him of Eyul. He would have made a good assassin.
“Well now.” Tuvaini put his scroll down. “We live in interesting times. A high mage has never called on me before. Robes.” He snapped his fingers at Tellah, waiting in the shadows.
“Azeem, you may show the supplicant in.”
Tellah finished with the last robe-tie as Govnan followed Azeem into the chamber. The high mage looked older, hollowed, but the same intelligence glittered in his eyes. Tuvaini felt his hand tremble and could not still it.
“Govnan, good to see you.” Tuvaini did not rise from his chair. “Might I offer you some tea?”
“Prince Sarmin is dead,” Govnan said.
“Dead?” Tuvaini put only faint surprise into his voice.
“An assassin.”
“The royal guards did nothing?” Tuvaini asked. His mind raced. He had waited so long, and now events were unfolding with frightening speed.
“They died.”
“And the Tower?” More pointed.
“The assassin had supernatural aid. Our defences were too slow.”
“The body?” Tuvaini wanted to see Sarmin. He wondered if those dead eyes still held the same madness.
“Burned. The Tower’s defences were slow, not absent. A servant arose from the lake of fire. The assassin burned. The prince’s remains are badly charred. His room and the staircase below are unsound-they will need to be demolished in due course.”
“Well.” Tuvaini let his gaze slide across the room, skipping from Tellah to Azeem to Govnan. “Well, this is terrible.”
“Indeed.”
“The emperor must be informed,” Tuvaini said. “The council must be summoned. Such a threat must be addressed. The hand behind this act must be found and the emperor’s safety assured.”
Govnan nodded. “The wind-sworn have sent word to the council; the priests of Herzu and Mirra will meet us in the throne room. Generals Hazran and Lurish will represent the armies of the Blue Shield and White Hat. Master Herran will speak for the assassins.”
“Well and good.” Tuvaini got up from his chair and took the scroll from the desk before him. It weighed nothing in his hand, but so much hung upon it. “It is fortunate the emperor is returned from the desert. We will attend upon him immediately.”
“I have one other errand. I will see you there.”
And so it was alone that the high vizier walked the corridors to Beyon’s throne room.
For secrecy he took the Forbidden Passage, past the wives’ hall where silver waters ran beneath jewelled
