The Emperors Knife - By Mazarkis Williams Page 0,91

with her eyes, spoken with her breath. He had held her whilst he was dying.

“Even if no taint remains, she is low-born, gutter-kin; she has her place, and you have yours.”

“You are a two-piece puzzle, High Mage.” A cold anger held Sarmin, iced fingers on his neck. “And even if I have no book on the subject, I am nothing if not a man of patterns.”

“Prince, you must calm yourself. I do not understand—”

“No!” They had held him too long; they had schemed in their corridors and towers, painted him into their plans, and at every turn they had thwarted him. Twenty paces, left turn, fifteen paces, left turn—

“No,” Sarmin said, “I am done with turning.”

He drew two symbols, one with the index finger of his right hand, one with the left, one symbol for fire, one for man, and they hung in the air between them.

“Sarmin, don’t.”

“Your magic is wrong.”

Sarmin moved his hands apart, and the symbols with them. And in that motion, Govnan lit up like lamp oil before the taper. New flame flowed across old skin, pooling, pouring, building, and as Sarmin’s hands parted, so Govnan parted from Ashanagur until the two stood side by side. Govnan was a dark twin to the being of light beside him, standing straighter now, more sound, as if something had been added rather than taken. Ashanagur wore his fire like a cloak, the lithe, long limbs beneath it the color of molten iron. Around his feet the carpet charred, but the fire and the heat did not spread.

“Ashanagur,” Sarmin said, “you are free.”

White eyes sought Sarmin’s and something passed between them, warmth rather than heat. An understanding. There was a sound of cracking, perhaps the stone beneath the carpet, perhaps the foundation stone of the world. A jagged line of incandescence opened between them, and in a heartbeat Ashanagur was gone, leaving only a faint coil of smoke.

The angels and the devils watched from the walls and were silent.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Eyul turned another corner of the Maze. Smoke from the Carrierpyres overlaid the more familiar scents of blood and excrement, the flavours of his old home. The familiarity of the twisting alleys reassured him as much as the Knife at his hip. He felt more surety here than in Tuvaini’s dark passages. The Maze was honest, in all of the ways most people didn’t wish to see.

He moved towards his destination with confidence, memory guiding his feet for his vision was hazy behind white linen. The alley where he’d made his first kill ran alongside the ruins of an old Mogyrk church. These days he doubted anybody could have identified the fire-darkened, crumbling mortar for what it had been, but Eyul remembered from Halim, who knew it from his father. Only memories kept Satreth’s victory alive, though here in the Maze, it hardly felt like a victory. The Mogyrks, Halim had told him in a hushed whisper, had given out food and clothes to the denizens of these twisting streets. The only charity they saw now happened on feast-days, when the palace discarded its old clothing and spoiled food, and expected the Maze-folk to be grateful.

Eyul paused at the final turn, listening to an altercation in the narrow street ahead: two men and a woman, and the woman was screaming. He felt a grim smile on his lips. Don’t let them run from me. He touched his hand to the hilt of his Knife and moved forwards.

“Not this. Go to the palace.” The Knife-whisper, authoritative, for a child.

“Quiet.”

The low-born men turned. He could see the lines of their bodies, their heads turned attentively in his direction: they thought he’d been speaking to them. They had the woman bent over the lip of an old well, one holding her arms while the other was making ready to take his pleasure.

Eyul pulled his Knife free.

“Can you not spare the tin to pay for that?” Eyul’s feet tingled with the pleasure of the upcoming dance.

“I’m no whore!” The woman’s shadow quivered as she struggled.

“Liar.” One of the men punctuated his word with a slap. “This is no concern of yours, blind man.”

Eyul smiled. “True.” This would be too easy. Disappointment crept in. Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted after all. “But I’d still like you to go.” He hefted the Knife in his hand. “I came to visit this place, and you’re disturbing me.”

The men exchanged glances. The woman lay still and said nothing. He could guess at their thinking: either he could take