movements somewhere on the other side of the palace. But his wives had no way of knowing this. She kept her head low to the floor and peered out again, the daggerpillow still clutched between her hands. The wives stared at one another until, in a single moment, they all reached the same thought.
“None of us is pregnant,” said Chiassa, touching her straw-colored hair. “He had no heirs.”
Mesema remembered the green vase. She wondered where Lana might be right now. Had Nessaket warned her as well?
“We’re not here to kill you and the unborn,” said the leader; “we’re to take you downstairs. That’s all.”
“The assassin will kill us, then.” Hadassi tried to jerk her arms away from the soldiers who held her as Chiassa screamed and fainted.
Mesema drew her arms about herself and tried to still her trembling.
The leader sighed. He looked sad, and yet impatient. “Come, now.” But Hadassi had finally struggled free and now she ran towards the end of the hall. Mesema wondered if she was making for the secret door. The two soldiers who had held her chased behind, one laughing as if it were a game. He caught Hadassi just as she passed Mesema’s room and grabbed her by the hair. “We’ll make it quick, then,” he grunted, and something warm and dark splattered Mesema’s face. What—? She wiped it from her eyes as the dark-haired woman lay spasming, face-down on the floor. The soldier moved away. A metallic, salty taste filled Mesema’s mouth. Blood. The soldier had drawn his dagger over the woman’s throat, and the blood…
Mesema screamed, squeezing the pillow between her hands, creating a snow of feathers.
The soldier swung around, astonished at first, and then amused. He held the dagger, still dripping, at his side, not ready to use, but not sheathed either. Mesema kept her eyes on his face.
He prodded her door wider. “It’s the savage girl, crawling on the floor with feathers.”
“Maybe that’s how they say welcome.” The soldier’s partner arrived at his side, stepping over Hadassi’s twitching body. “If you know what I mean.”
“Hey—” Another of the soldiers leaned forwards. “Wasn’t she with him? The emp— Beyon?”
“I heard she was in his tent.” The killer’s eyes were dark, almost black.
His partner licked his lips and waved his dagger like a fan. His green eyes darted back and forth as he studied her skin. Banreh had told her the ones with the light-colored eyes were given by their families as payment to the empire. She wondered where he had come from, whether he missed his family.
“What should we do with her?” All eyes turned now to their leader. He studied her a moment, frowning. She already knew what sort of man he was; he wouldn’t kill her if he didn’t have to.
“We’ll take her to the general.” He shot a glance around his soldiers. “All of them are wanted alive.” He pointed to the man clutching his dripping dagger. “You’ll find yourself answering to me for that later, then to the general, and if you live long enough, the emperor’s Knife might find you. Spill royal blood and there’s a price to pay.”
Sarmin stared at the ceiling. Something called to him, a warmth, a resonating mark in the world, and he reached out with his mind, rolled it through his consciousness as he might roll an olive across his tongue, tasting it. He breathed it in. It repelled and yet thrilled, as much as Grada’s mind, Mesema’s voice or the taking of Tuvaini’s dagger. It went down his throat like sweet-wine and set his skin buzzing. Blood. When he recognised it he found even more: the after-images of violence and brutality. A sick power ran through him: spilled blood called to the bed he lay on, harm to harm. He could draw lines, if he wished, and create a pattern outside the Master’s design. A pattern drawn in blood, as big as the whole palace, might hold the strength to fight back.
No; it was not yet time. He could not draw the Master’s attention so early. He would work carefully, slowly, sketching it behind his eyes and keeping it secret until everything was ready. Until enough blood had been shed.
The leader grabbed her, his hand on her arm, and dragged her up and out. She tucked the pillow under her other arm, holding it closed, keeping the dacarba inside, though she knew she couldn’t fight them if it came to that. She wished she had grabbed Eldra’s blue feather. Two