modestly as possible. Her hands shook, making it difficult to fold and tie the slippery fabric.
Chiassa wailed, high-pitched and long, filling the room where Mesema stood as if she were inside it. A cry of fear, not pain, terror, as they approached her. Chiassa, with the golden curls and the funny way of speaking. Mesema sat on the bench and covered her ears. Why didn’t I say yes to Banreh? If she hadn’t moved away from him, if Eyul hadn’t been able to grab her, she might be crossing the sands already.
No. The only difference is that Banreh would have fought, and been killed. She was where she belonged. If she were to help Beyon and Sarmin and honour her promise to Eldra, she belonged in the palace, not running away. And she should be with Beyon, not hiding in another room. She rebound her dagger and tucked it into the edge of her skirt before opening the door.
Beyon paced the room, his hands pulling at his black hair. “Something must be done, Eyul-this is intolerable!”
“That is what they want you to feel, Your Majesty. There are twenty of
Arigu’s men in that courtyard, ten of them archers. They want to draw us out, kill us both.” Eyul leaned against the wall, in shadow, his voice calm. Another scream pierced the air and Beyon flinched. After a moment Mesema realised that she too was standing with her fists clenched tight. Eyul’s cloth-bound head turned her way and she shivered. The emperor’s Knife must not be broken, Sarmin had said. Was Eyul the Knife? She could not imagine breaking that man.
Beyon quickened his pace. “I cannot leave them there to suffer,” he said. “That would be the act of a cowardly man-a cowardly emperor .”
Another scream.
“Eyul!”
“You must keep your voice down, Your Majesty.”
Mesema touched Beyon’s arm, but he shook her off. “How dare you command me! I am to stand here and watch them die?”
The thought wormed through Mesema’s mind, and though she tried to press her tongue down, force her lips closed, it emerged as a whisper. “You could kill them.”
Eyul stood straighter from the wall, his bound eyes turning towards hers. Beyon turned to her also. “What?”
From the window came a low moan. Marren’s low voice, Marren of the red hair and the jade bracelets. Marren of the sharp eyes.
Mesema swallowed and found her voice. “You-You could kill them. Now. Stop- stop their suffering.” Her lips felt numb. Her own words sank through her like sharp needles. It was she who had thought of this and not the emperor. Not the callous, cruel emperor who now turned to the window, regret expressing itself in his mouth, in the set of his shoulders.
“Do it,” he said.
Eyul took up position before the window. The sun-dazzled courtyard was a mass of blurs, shapes drawn together in confusion, just as the women’s voices joined together in agony. He had known he would not be able to see, not during the day. He drew his Knife and placed it on the sill. Then he retrieved his bow and notched the string on one end.
“Mesema,” he said to the woman, the woman who had shown Beyon what Eyul could not, “take the emperor into the secret ways.” He braced the tip of the bow against his foot. “Find somewhere to hide.”
Beyon’s voice rumbled behind him. “I will stay here. It was my decision, and I will take responsibility.”
It was the first time Beyon had ever expressed such a sentiment, and though it might have been welcome at some time in the past, it was not welcome today. Eyul bent the wood over his thigh and fitted the string in place. “I do my work alone. It has always been that way.”
“Come, Beyon,” said Mesema, but the emperor stepped forwards.
“Eyul-”
“It will be painless,” Eyul promised. Laughter from the Knife.
“Can you keep that promise, Knife-Sworn?”
“It will be painless,” Eyul said again.
“We’ll wait in my tomb, then.” Beyon allowed the woman to lead him away.
Eyul breathed a sigh of relief as he checked the tension in the bowstring. His tomb is a strange choice, but wise. He turned to the Knife again, tapping it with one finger. “There,” he murmured. “You’ve helped me before.”
A rustling, and then, “You have to kill them.”
“Yes.”
“The soldiers are too many and you have little time.”
Three women. Three women to add to my list. “I know this.” He examined his arrows, chose the first one.
“You are the emperor’s Knife.”
“I know this also. Where do I point my bow?”
Another voice, younger. “You end both the innocent and the damned, but you are not damned.”
“Good. Now tell me where to shoot.” He would bring mercy to these women, then find Govnan and kill him. He should have sent Beyon farther away; the tomb was too exposed, too dangerous, but they were not yet ready to move to the desert. The voices were right: there was not enough time. Killing Govnan might buy a little more.
“You bring peace. You send souls to paradise. You give an end both swift and kind. Few in this world have one strong enough to offer mercy in their final moments.”
“You mock me.”
“Never.” A pause. “To your right… down. Down. Now.” Eyul let the arrow fly.
“Right through the heart.” Satisfaction.
Eyul strung a second arrow. “Again.” He could hear shouts below him, white figures running across the diamond pattern.
“Hurry.”
“Left, down. No, up. Now!”
Eyul reached for the third and last arrow.
“Be glad you cannot see what the soldiers have done to them, assassin. Be glad that it is not yet time for you to uncover your eyes.”
“It will be night soon enough.” He heard men running on the floor beneath him, thundering towards the stairs.
“That is not what I meant… Now!”
Eyul released the string and slung the bow across his back. Do not think about those women. Do not think about Amalya. Keep moving. He sheathed the Knife and turned for the secret ways.
“An excellent shot. Govnan looks impressed.”
Eyul paused, his hand on the hidden door. The soldiers’ boots echoed on the stairs, seconds away. “He saw?”
“He watched you from the prince’s tower.”
Anticipation drew Eyul’s breath. At last he would have his moment with Govnan, to avenge Amalya and to open the way for the hermit to fight the pattern-curse. He slipped into the ways just before the soldiers entered the room behind him.
Eyul uncovered his eyes and ran through the dark, not as quickly as he might have before. The cut made by the horse-woman slowed him down, but he was still fast enough to stay ahead of any would-be pursuers. He knew every drop and chasm in the darkness, and when to take extra care where another man might meet a surprising end. And there were other men; the secret ways had become much less secret of late. He had seen, at various times, Carriers, soldiers, and even Old Wives sneaking along the dark paths to unknown destinations, though they did not see him, or hear him.
Eyul did not pause in his rush towards Govnan, though when he found him, he would wait, he would savour it. But he would find him first.
Halfway there he decided not to enter through the prince’s room. The prince, according to Tuvaini, was insane, unpredictable-he might warn Govnan, or interfere in some other way, and Eyul did not relish the idea of
