“My emperor!” The words came again, reaching past dreams. “What?” Sarmin kept his eyes closed against the glare of a lamp close by.
“My emperor, the vizier has urgent news.”
“Azeem?” It would have to be him, disturbing the first peaceful night in forever.
Sarmin sat and shielded his eyes. One of the sword-sons loomed above him, lamp in hand.
“Is he here, then?” The shadows offered no hint of the vizier. “Waiting with the counsel in the throne room, my emperor.” “The counsel?” Some disaster must have happened. The last traces of sleep fell away as Sarmin stood. “Mesema! My son?” It was as if Grada stabbed him once again, the metal scraping against his bone.
“I have only been told to wake you, my emperor.”
Sarmin reached up to catch the unyielding ridge of muscle along the man’s shoulder. “Tell me! I am your emperor!”
“I know nothing-forgive me.” The man bowed his head and Sarmin walked past him, the other five sword-sons closing around him, bracketing him three before, three behind as they descended the stair. The palace halls glowed with the light of hundreds of lamps as if to leave a shadow no hiding place. Not since the night that Sarmin wedded Mesema had so many lamps been lit. Squads of palace guard hastened by without falling into obeisance as Sarmin passed-only in war might such insolence be tolerated. Had Yrkmir’s armies crossed the desert? Had the emptiness reached the palace, reached Mesema and Pelar?
The throne room door stood open. A crowd of men had gathered within and was still growing while curious women were being swept out, a river of colour and silk. He caught a glimpse of Jenni’s face, then others just as pretty, all gone in a moment. Among those who stayed Sarmin picked out the faces of Prince Jomla, General Merkel and Herzu’s priest among his acolytes, before they fell into obeisance, like river-corn before the scythe.
“Tell me of my wife and child. Tell me now,” Sarmin shouted. Azeem rose from the sea of backs. “They are well, my emperor.” “And my brother?” Daveed, he has fallen into nothing!
“Prince Daveed is well and with the empire mother, my emperor.” “What then! Why am I here and all these before me?” He swept his arm at the prostrate nobles. “Rise! Get up!”
Azeem walked to the dais, opening a path among the priests and nobles so that Sarmin could ascend to take his place above them. Sarmin lowered himself onto the cushions. “Speak!” He sounded like Beyon, infected with that same impatience now.
Azeem cleared his throat. “The envoy from Fryth has been killed.” “Killed.” Sarmin tried the word out for size.
“His throat was cut.” Azeem nodded as if it were a question. “And his guards?” Sarmin pictured the two huge warriors.
“The one set to watch over the envoy is dead. The other and the priest were in a separate chamber. Both live.”
“And my guards? The men I set to honour my guest?” There had only been honour in it, the thought that the men of Fryth were in danger within the palace had not crossed Sarmin’s mind.
“Nobody else was hurt. The attacker did not enter the room by the corridor.”
Azeem studied the ripples in the silk runner that led from doors to throne. The Ways! Was there a man of Nooria who didn’t know the Ways since the Many ran loose there?
“Captain Shalla believes the killer may have gained access from the roof through a ventilation dome.” General Lurish spoke up beside the vizier. Prince Jomla broke in with his high, sweet voice. “Your Majesty-” Sarmin cut across him and spoke to Azeem. “And what of Herran? What does he say?” He sought the master assassin among the crowd. If any should know how death was brought into the palace it should be that one, Eyul’s old master. “Master Herran left the palace several days ago, my emperor; we are uncertain when to expect his return.”
“Gone questing to find me a Knife, I imagine.” Sarmin tapped his fingers on the marble of his armrest. Master Herran had brought several candidates before him in recent months, trying to convince him to take one or other of them as the next emperor’s Knife, but Sarmin would have none. As many candidates as it takes, Herran had said. “Are none of the Grey Service here to answer me?” Sarmin didn’t expect anyone to step out of the crowd but they would come to him in time.
Only silence for an answer, broken by the shuffling of expensive footwear. “Govnan! Have the mages from the Tower, every one of them.” As few as they were. “Read the stone, the water, air, and fire. Tell me what has happened here.” He saw it in his mind’s eye. Envoy Kavic amid the shallow lake of his blood, his throat opened in a long red slit. Where was their talk of peace and reparation now? What red words would that new mouth speak to Fryth and Yrkmir? He saw the sprawl of Kavic’s white hands, the twist of his legs on a patterned rug. How wide would the lake of blood grow before this was finished?
In his mind’s eye he saw Helmar’s pattern-mark, the one that Kavic had recognised. How many others might he have known? Mastery of the pattern would allow Sarmin to heal the wound in Beyon’s tomb, stop the emptiness from flowing into Nooria, but that would be much more difficult now with Kavic dead. Sarmin rubbed his wrists. His bonds had left the faintest chafing. The rope? And in that moment a cold thought ran through him and left him hollow. “Ta-Sann.” Sarmin beckoned the sword-son closer. “Ta-Sann.” Repeated in a low voice. “Did you untie me before waking me?” “No, my emperor.”
“How then am I free? Was the rope cut?”
Ta-Sann blinked, but only once. “There was no rope, my emperor, only grey dust.”