hollowed, but the same intelligence glittered in his eyes. Tuvaini felt his hand tremble and could not still it.
“Govnan, good to see you.” Tuvaini did not rise from his chair. “Might I offer you some tea?”
“Prince Sarmin is dead,” Govnan said.
“Dead?” Tuvaini put only faint surprise into his voice.
“An assassin.”
“The royal guards did nothing?” Tuvaini asked. His mind raced. He had waited so long, and now events were unfolding with frightening speed.
“They died.”
“And the Tower?” More pointed.
“The assassin had supernatural aid. Our defences were too slow.”
“The body?” Tuvaini wanted to see Sarmin. He wondered if those dead eyes still held the same madness.
“Burned. The Tower’s defences were slow, not absent. A servant arose from the lake of fire. The assassin burned. The prince’s remains are badly charred. His room and the staircase below are unsound—they will need to be demolished in due course.”
“Well.” Tuvaini let his gaze slide across the room, skipping from Tellah to Azeem to Govnan. “Well, this is terrible.”
“Indeed.”
“The emperor must be informed,” Tuvaini said. “The council must be summoned. Such a threat must be addressed. The hand behind this act must be found and the emperor’s safety assured.”
Govnan nodded. “The wind-sworn have sent word to the council; the priests of Herzu and Mirra will meet us in the throne room. Generals Hazran and Lurish will represent the armies of the Blue Shield and White Hat. Master Herran will speak for the assassins.”
“Well and good.” Tuvaini got up from his chair and took the scroll from the desk before him. It weighed nothing in his hand, but so much hung upon it. “It is fortunate the emperor is returned from the desert. We will attend upon him immediately.”
“I have one other errand. I will see you there.”
And so it was alone that the high vizier walked the corridors to Beyon’s throne room.
For secrecy he took the Forbidden Passage, past the wives’ hall where silver waters ran beneath jewelled ceilings.
A pale beauty waited by the entrance, a prize from the heathen kingdoms. He couldn’t help but look: her skin was as white as fish bellies, her hair nearly as light as mountain snow. Red silk stretched tight over her breasts: Beyon’s second wife.
Tuvaini had left that thread loose. Beyon’s seed had never found purchase in any woman, but it didn’t hurt to be sure. He would have to deal with that quickly.
Only his own son would be born in the wives’ hall. The next Son of Heaven.
Govnan had given him the world in two moments. With one breath he had taken Sarmin away, and with the next he had assembled the only authority that might judge an emperor. Before such men, before such a gathering, Beyon’s sickness could be revealed. Before such men a right of succession might be claimed and proven. Mages and assassins, priests and generals— the old men whose caution had sealed the fate of Beyon’s brothers, the old men who would take Beyon from the throne and set Tuvaini upon it.
And then his work would begin.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eyul slipped through the Low Gate and the Low Door. He kept one hand on his hilt; Govnan’s fire might be fast, but the Knife would be faster. It had fallen silent, which pleased him. Nighttime brought a clarity of vision he lacked in the day and now he could see the faces of the soldiers he passed; each shuffled out of his way, mumbling apologies. They knew who he was and what he could do. He was home.
He passed by the temple of Herzu, which was always dark, no matter the time of day. Inside, blue-hatted guards gathered around Nessaket. Her voice cut daggered slices in the air. In days past he might have paused and tried to look across the crowded room; he might have wondered. He’d had Nessaket once, in the dark days after Tahal’s death, when Beyon would not allow either of them in his sight. He’d pulled at that golden skin, bitten those smooth shoulders, tried to give her the sense of danger she sought. He’d lived in the service of Tahal’s family, whether for killing or pleasure. Now when he remembered Nessaket’s bed it was as if some other man had been there. Some other man had been in the courtyard, too, drawing metal across those little throats.
That man had cared.
He turned another corner and sniffed the air. Govnan had a distinctive scent of fire and soot, but Eyul smelled nothing like that here.
“Eyul.”
Eyul turned at the familiar voice. “Master Herran.” Only