The Emperors Knife - By Mazarkis Williams Page 0,102
blood of my blood, lord of all Cerana, before these servants of empire, before this council’s witness, I declare you marked. I name you Carrier, slave to the plague that haunts us, and unfit for rule.”
Beyon took a second step backwards, one hand splayed wide across his chest. He stumbled as his heel touched the lowest step of the dais.
“Tuvaini!” Govnan launched to his feet, his chair toppling behind him. “You have—”
The words died on his lips as Eyul jumped up also, his hand on the hilt of his Knife. Master Herran put out a hand to stay him.
“Ask him!” Tuvaini pointed at the emperor. “Let him but show his chest, naked and without paint. Let him show clean skin, and I will bow my head to the executioner’s sword.”
“I have heard the rumours.” Dinar’s rumble cut the silence before it stretched. He laid his staff, black with Herzu’s death runes, across the table. “Uncertainty is a sickness in and of itself.”
“My officers speak of it when they think I don’t listen.” General Lurish pulled at his upper lip, his gaze upon the table.
“Emperor?” Tuvaini asked, voice quiet now.
Beyon backed towards the throne, his eyes wild, finding nothing to fix upon. His two sacred guards, peerless slave-bred warriors, took their places, one at his left hand, the other to his right. The royal guard held their positions at the walls, uncertain.
“Beyon, you carry the marks. You cannot rule. The enemy has killed you already.” Tuvaini could taste his triumph, a quiet storm rising within him.
For a moment the emperor found focus, as if seeing Tuvaini for the first time.
“Look at your hand, Beyon.”
He lifted it, turning his palm to his face. A pale-blue diamond marked both front and back, so faint one might think it a bruise, and across his wrist Tuvaini saw a slim red crescent.
With a cry Beyon ran. He made for the door, and his sacred guard ran with him, trailing their blades. The men of the royal guard stood as if rooted, their heads bowed, their sapphire plumes lowered.
“Eyul.” Tuvaini turned and held the assassin’s gaze. “You know your duty.”
Eyul rose. The emperor’s Knife gleamed in his hand. With a last glance at Govnan he left the table and followed Beyon from the room.
The great doors closed behind Eyul and for long moments all eyes remained upon them.
Govnan’s voice brought Tuvaini back to the council table.
“The emperor is a Carrier and his brother is dead: what remains to us? Who will guide the empire and keep it whole?” The old man looked unsettled.
“The emperor may yet be healed.” The priest of Mirra drew his cream and gold robes about him.
“Has any Carrier yet been cured?” Tuvaini asked. “Any single one?”
Dinar studied his palms, stained black with the Tears of Herzu. “Beyon’s own law requires the death of all Carriers, death by stone and fire.”
“Eyul knows his duty. Beyon’s remains will be cremated before sunset.” Tuvaini felt his heart quicken. He reached for his scroll and resumed his seat at the table.
“We must look to the records,” General Hazran said. “Texts remain sealed in the royal treasury. Beyon’s father worked to prune the Reclaimer’s line for two generations, but there will be an heir if we reach back far enough.”
Lurish snorted. “Some minor noble from the outer provinces? Some halfsavage who knows nothing of the empire?”
“Perhaps a solution lies closer at hand?” Master Herran spoke in a soft voice, but the table listened. He fixed Tuvaini with his pale eyes. “Have you a suggestion, Lord High Vizier?”
Tuvaini returned the gaze. This man misses little.
“I have a document here. The Reclaimer’s tree, taken from the Axus Library before the fire. It shows the line from the time of Beyon’s greatgrandfather.” He unrolled the tightly bound parchment and smoothed it out upon the table. The great and good of Cerana left their seats to crowd at his shoulders.
“Here.” He laid a finger on Jemal, second of the Reclaimer’s sons. “A prince set aside when his father died and his elder brother took the throne.”
“The child had talent,” Govnan said. “The Tower petitioned that he be spared, just as we sought to protect Prince Sarmin, but he was lost when the Yrkmen looted Nooria.”
“He was lost,” Tuvaini moved his finger down the scroll, “but not without issue. There was a girl, a servant, I suspect—she is unnamed—but there was a child born before the Yrkmen came.”
“How could such a child have been spared?” General Lurish asked.