ceilings.
A pale beauty waited by the entrance, a prize from the heathen kingdoms. He couldn’t help but look: her skin was as white as fish bellies, her hair nearly as light as mountain snow. Red silk stretched tight over her breasts: Beyon’s second wife.
Tuvaini had left that thread loose. Beyon’s seed had never found purchase in any woman, but it didn’t hurt to be sure. He would have to deal with that quickly.
Only his own son would be born in the wives’ hall. The next Son of Heaven.
Govnan had given him the world in two moments. With one breath he had taken Sarmin away, and with the next he had assembled the only authority that might judge an emperor. Before such men, before such a gathering, Beyon’s sickness could be revealed. Before such men a right of succession might be claimed and proven. Mages and assassins, priests and generals- the old men whose caution had sealed the fate of Beyon’s brothers, the old men who would take Beyon from the throne and set Tuvaini upon it.
And then his work would begin.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eyul slipped through the Low Gate and the Low Door. He kept one hand on his hilt; Govnan’s fire might be fast, but the Knife would be faster. It had fallen silent, which pleased him. Nighttime brought a clarity of vision he lacked in the day and now he could see the faces of the soldiers he passed; each shuffled out of his way, mumbling apologies. They knew who he was and what he could do. He was home.
He passed by the temple of Herzu, which was always dark, no matter the time of day. Inside, blue-hatted guards gathered around Nessaket. Her voice cut daggered slices in the air. In days past he might have paused and tried to look across the crowded room; he might have wondered. He’d had Nessaket once, in the dark days after Tahal’s death, when Beyon would not allow either of them in his sight. He’d pulled at that golden skin, bitten those smooth shoulders, tried to give her the sense of danger she sought. He’d lived in the service of Tahal’s family, whether for killing or pleasure. Now when he remembered Nessaket’s bed it was as if some other man had been there. Some other man had been in the courtyard, too, drawing metal across those little throats.
That man had cared.
He turned another corner and sniffed the air. Govnan had a distinctive scent of fire and soot, but Eyul smelled nothing like that here.
“Eyul.”
Eyul turned at the familiar voice. “Master Herran.” Only another assassin could take him unaware; Herran stood but two arms’ lengths away.
The old man looked at him without moving. The wrinkles around his grey eyes tightened in a disconcerting way. Assassins were always watching-yet there should be nothing for Herran to see.
“I have been summoned to council,” Herran said at last.
“There will be much to discuss.” Eyul took a step forwards. “Govnan is-”
Master Herran held up his hand. “You would speak of such things in the corridor?”
The emperor’s Knife stood half out of its sheath, warm in Eyul’s palm. Master Herran had noticed; a flicker of an eyelid had given him away, but he made no movement towards his own weapon.
“Something has happened, Eyul. I want you by me.”
“First I have a task.”
Master Herran raised a white eyebrow. “Indeed. But do you know what it is?”
Soldiers’ boots sounded in the other corridor: Nessaket’s men, leading her back to the women’s wing.
“You stink,” said Master Herran. “You smell of the Maze, and of fire.”
No remnant of Amalya’s spice on him, then.
“It will annoy Tuvaini,” Eyul said. Tuvaini washed in rose water and jasmine petals, but it didn’t mean his hands were clean.
Master Herran chuckled. “We assassins delight in annoying the vizier. You will go with me, then?”
Govnan would likely be there, if it were a true council. Eyul nodded.
“Very well.” Master Herran walked towards him. One leg was noticeably stiffer than the other. Eyul could have the Knife in his throat before he took another step.
Or in Nessaket’s. She rounded the corner now with her usual grace; often she looked as if she were floating. Bodyguards made a clumsy circle around her, their balance skewed by an unfamiliar young woman who stumbled in their midst. Her pale face had been slapped to redness and yellow hair tumbled free of silver pins. Wide cheekbones: she had come from the horse tribes.
Impossible. I saw her dead.
Her eyes, blue as zabrinas, met his gaze and turned away. He frightened her. Good. From all over the world the palace claimed souls, and went on to destroy them. This one would at least be wary.
A smile crept across his lips.
Master Herran touched his shoulder. “Let us go.” Eyul turned and walked with him.
Sarmin sat where he had so often and for so long, upon the bed in his room, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. The gods watched him from the ceiling, the angels from the walls, and the devils-the devils watched from the walls and beyond. The Pattern Master looked for him with a thousand eyes.
Sarmin wondered how many people Govnan had told so far. He wondered how they might react, to hear that someone they had forgotten was now dead. There would be few tears shed.
His mother might dab one eye, smudging the lines of kohl beneath her lashes. Beyon would rage, but Sarmin wondered, would he mourn? Perhaps-not now, but later, maybe, in a week, when the anger had burned out.
“And my bride from the grasslands? Will she mourn me, Aherim?”
Sarmin looked for the eldest of the angels and found him without struggle. Since the pattern first washed through him Sarmin saw things more clearly. Once he had to strain to picture the grim angel among the swirl and scroll of the wall painting; now the faces never hid. Even Zanasta, whose wise and evil eyes could be found only in the last moments of the setting sun, now appeared whenever Sarmin spoke his name.
“She would mourn you, Prince.” The angel whispered his answer. “Why would she mourn me, Zanasta?” Sarmin found the devil’s eyes. Other, lesser demons, the ones who haunted each corner, clamoured to answer, but Sarmin ignored them.
Zanasta smiled, a convolution deep within the complexity of the patterned walls.
“I speak for the dark gods.”
“Answer the question.”
“I speak for Herzu who holds death in one hand and fear in the other. I speak for Ghesh, clothed in darkness, eater of stars. I speak for Meksha, mother of pestilence and famine.”
“Zanasta-”
“She would mourn the idea of you, Prince. She would mourn the lost chances, the step not taken, windows unopened. She would mourn for herself, which is all man can ever truly mourn, for the fact that she lives in a world where lives are lost, broken, trapped.”
Sarmin thought of Grada, safe in the mages’ Tower. He wondered if the horsegirl would be like Grada, or his mother, or both. He thought of the soft voice he’d heard with Beyon. Is that how she sounded? What did she look like? He scanned the swirled pattern of the walls. Was she in there? Did her face watch him?
“Aherim?”
“Yes?”
“Will I ever leave this room?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?” Silence.
“Zanasta, will I leave this room?” His skin crawled with cold horror.
“I speak for the gods of darkness and want.”
“Will I-?”
“You will die here, Prince.”
