many important thoughts for a horsegirl.”
Mesema swallowed. “Blessings, I did not mean to be rude.” “Blessings,” echoed Chiassa with a smile.
“You would be rude,” said Atia, turning her attention to a plump fig, “if you welcomed Beyon into your room before he has been to each of ours. You are to be last in his attentions, do you understand?”
The Old Wives stopped their murmuring. Lana laid a hand on Mesema’s arm. No one reached for a plate or cup.
“Yes,” said Mesema, “I understand.”
“Atia would have you wait for ever, as we do,” said Marren with a wink.
Chiassa gave a high-pitched giggle. Atia’s cheeks turned red, but the silence was broken and the women resumed their meal. Mesema looked from one wife to another in confusion. If they wanted Beyon to visit them, if they cared about him, why did they use the resin? Why did they help his mother work against him?
Because they are afraid, as I am.
“I don’t wish to offend you. I would like to be friends.” Mesema set down her meat and rinsed her fingers in a bowl of rosewater.
“When she’s not riding horses with the emperor, anyway,” Hadassi muttered.
Mesema sighed to herself. She never should have mentioned Tumble.
“What?” said Atia, nearly choking on her fig. “Riding horses? I won’t allow it.”
Lana spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Keleb has showered wisdom upon the emperor, heaven bless him. Don’t you think that Beyon should decide such things?”
Mesema smiled at that narrow, timid face. She already thought of Lana as an aunt or grandmother. “It’s all right, Little Mother,” she said, grasping Lana’s hand. “Walk with me.” She stood and curtsied at the women. “Blessings of the day.”
“Blessings,” Chiassa said again, though the others just stared. As they walked, the women’s whispers fading behind them, Mesema studied the women in the niche-pictures. They were all the same: pretty, docile. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she was disappointed: pretty and docile weren’t going to help her survive. She needed allies.
“Lana, I’m curious. Does Beyon have no sisters?”
“He does, but their marriages were arranged long before his father’s death. They have been gone for many years. Nessaket made sure the contracts were honoured.”
Nessaket. The Empire Mother spent most of her time outside the women’s wing. Mesema wished that she could do the same. “Lana, have I met everyone in this wing? It’s just us, the Old Wives, the young wives, and Nessaket?”
“Yes.” Lana almost said more, but fell silent instead.
Picking her way through secrets, again. Before Mesema could ask another question, they turned into the ocean room and she saw her trunk waiting by the bed, its unstained wood and simple brass fittings too plain for its surroundings. She dropped Lana’s hand and rushed towards it.
“Your things?”
“Yes.” Mesema pushed the trunk open and pulled out the blanket on the top. It was heavy and thick, too warm for the desert, but she placed it on her bed anyway, still folded. Next was her wedding dress, which made a soft jingle as she lifted it. She felt a lump in her throat when she remembered the women stitching around the fire. The women here didn’t sew; they only prettied themselves and whispered.
She could see now that the dress wasn’t colorful or revealing enough to wear in the palace. She put it aside with a little sigh.
She ran her hands through the rest of her few possessions: Woollen stockings-why had she thought she might need those? Copper hairpins. A necklace made of river-shells. Riding gear. All these things belonged to a girl, not a woman. A flash of blue set her digging and she pulled Eldra’s arrow-fletching from the bottom. Her eyes filled with tears.
“What happened?” Lana stepped forwards.
“Nothing. I just-”
But Lana looked behind her and hurried away, leaving Nessaket standing there instead. Mesema buried the feather and closed the trunk before pressing her head to the carpet.
Nessaket wasted no time. “The prince is dead. The emperor is deposed.”
Beyon-they found his marks! Mesema sucked in her breath. Sarmin was not really dead, she knew this. Did Nessaket?
So easily she casts off two sons.
“Rise. We will honour our alliance with your father.” Meaning there would still be war. “And we will find a place for you.”
What? Mesema straightened her skirt as she stood. Her thoughts raced ahead of her, leaving her mind blank. Where are you, Beyon?
Her finger told her nothing. She pressed it against her skirt.
Nessaket had already turned away and was looking out into the corridor. “Stay in your room until evening.”
“May I ask why, Your Majesty?”
She barely glanced back at Mesema. Something else had her attention. “There are assassins and Carriers about. Stay in your room.”
Mesema’s heart skipped a beat. She’d seen Sarmin’s blood and Beyon’s marks, but Nessaket’s words shocked her, nevertheless. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“No matter what you hear.” And she was gone.
No matter what I hear? The Empire Mother was expecting somethingwas she part of it? Part of what?
Mesema sat on the bed and gathered a cushion to her, the one with Sarmin’s dagger inside. Her mother had thoughtfully packed needles and threads in her trunk. She could sew the pillow up a little bit, if her hands weren’t trembling so. She wanted to run through the halls, out to the courtyard, find the stables, get on Tumble…
If I can find the river, then I can find my people…
And so would the pattern. After a time she rose, walked to the window and peered through the carved wooden screen. The women of the palace could look out upon the soldiers, but none of them could look in. The women belonged to the emperor.
The emperor. So was there no emperor now? The soldiers moved about as if nothing strange had happened. White-hatted men were loading a waggon train. Mesema thought some of their horses looked familiar. Of course. Her eyes followed a chestnut mare being led through the courtyard. Those horses belonged to Arigu’s men.
Arigu was here, in the palace. He hadn’t fled-had he exposed Beyon? Or was it Nessaket? Or someone else?
If Beyon is exposed, then what about me? She pulled the pillow close. Always with the selfish thoughts-she was born under the Scorpion’s tail, after all. Sarmin was selfless in comparison.
Male voices murmured in the corridor-not Beyon’s, not Arigu’s; nobody she recognised. She crept across the room and opened her door a crack to peep out. A soldier stood between two graceful fountains, glancing uninterestedly at the colorful walls. She cringed as his dark eyes slid over her, but she remained unseen. He moved forwards, and eight men came behind him. He turned and whispered orders, pointing at several closed rooms. The men went through the doors.
Mesema watched the leader, hoping for some clue to what was happening. He tapped his finger against his belt, as if tracing a beat to a song. She wondered what it might be. She’d never heard a Cerani song, but now she thought maybe they had drums just like Felting ones. Doors reopened; his fingers stopped moving and he made a fist instead. He closed his eyes.
Hadassi’s angry voice pierced the air. “What is the meaning of this? My husband will kill you for entering this wing!”
“You’re not allowed in here!” Marren sounded more annoyed than angry.
A third woman screamed, and everything went silent except for the sound of footsteps on carpet. The men returned in twos, each hauling one of Beyon’s frightened wives between them. Mesema moved from the door and crouched on the floor close to the wall, her breath suddenly ragged in her throat.
“I demand an explanation,” she heard Atia say. “We are the wives of the emperor.”
