The Court of Broken Knives. Anna Spark Smith
Secretary gave him a crisp smile. ‘It’s already been written and dispatched, My Lord.’
‘His mother was a Calboride, wasn’t she?’ said Lord Amdelle, still stuck in his previous musings. ‘Calboride and Altrersyr blood … bad combination, that, if ever there was one.’
God’s knives, the man was obsessed with genealogies. Terrible overcompensation: anyone would think he was ashamed of his own. As if blood meant anything. Your great-great grandfather did something nasty and suddenly you had bad blood. Nobody ever spoke about the peasantry like that. They were just people, good or bad, fat or thin, mad or sane. But one of the curious things about being high-born was the way you were entirely defined by your ancestors. Thus interesting to see how the next Lord or Lady Emmereth turned out.
‘And there’s been another outbreak of deeping fever in the southern Chathe,’ the Secretary went on hurriedly. ‘Reports are confused, of course, but at least three villages seem to have been affected. No known survivors, although one can’t be certain.’
‘Put extra soldiers on the gates, question anyone travelling from the north. Have them dispatch anyone travelling from the north who seems sick,’ said Tam quickly. Orhan nodded agreement. He’d read several accounts of deeping fever.
‘That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?’ Holt Amdelle began, just as the Secretary said, ‘It’s already been ordered, My Lord. If the number of villages affected grows beyond six, they’re to kill anyone with a Chathean accent or garb, whatever their state of health.’
‘Might finally have an effect on the hatha merchants,’ said Samn Magreth. Orhan was pleased to see that March had the decency to look embarrassed. He’d felt vile for the best part of a day after Eloise’s party.
The Secretary flashed Orhan a cold smile. ‘Finally, my lords, a curious rumour has reached us. Perhaps My Lord Emmereth could enlighten us further … It would appear someone or something has killed a dragon out in the desert to the east. A caravan driver lost the road, followed a flock of crows and claims to have found a very large corpse. He was irreparably insane with sun exposure by the time he was found, of course, but still …’ He gazed blandly in Orhan’s direction.
A dragon killer in the eastern desert? Orhan flushed. ‘I’ll … look into it,’ he said hurriedly. The particular absurdity of his title as Lord of the Rising Sun. He should have known about it. And it was not ideal having people talking about certain places right now. Someone or something with a sword …
‘Man’s been busy with his beloved wife,’ said Darath. Flashed a nasty grin at Orhan.
‘Thank you, My Lord,’ said the Secretary in a smooth voice. ‘Any other business, My Lords? Your Eminence?’ He bowed in the direction of the Emperor, who had sat silent throughout, dozing over the prattling of his lords. A show, this meeting of the Emperor and his Friends and Counsellors, a piece of fiction drawn out for weary centuries, since the days when the high families of Sorlost were as powerful as emperors and their Emperor more powerful than gods. All faded now, like the frescos on the wall. The high families ruled a city of crumbling plaster, the Emperor an empire of empty sand. What could they do now, these god men? Refuse to levy a tax to pay for repairs to a gate?
The Emperor rose and his counsellors rose with him and swept back onto their knees. The Emperor walked slowly out of the room, the Secretary following him. The guards pulled the doors closed behind him, the harsh voice called out distantly ‘The Emperor! All kneel for the Ever Living Emperor! Avert your eyes and kneel and be thankful! We live and we die! The Emperor comes! The Emperor comes!’ in case a stray servant should cross his path without grovelling in the dust.
The great lords of the Sekemleth Empire got up neatly and brushed down their silk-clad knees.
Orhan and Darath Vorley strolled down the Street of Closed Eyes together, heading in a general way towards the House of the East. Sterne and Amlis and Darath’s escort followed at a respectful distance, knives drawn.
‘I think it fair to say Holt won’t be receiving an invitation to His Eminence’s next private banquet,’ said Darath. ‘Most unfortunate. “Blood’s blood”! Did you see the Emperor twitch?’
‘Your brother was on rather dangerous ground, too, as far as I can see.’
‘My brother knows it and doesn’t care. Holt Amdelle doesn’t know it and does. Care. Vile upstart man.’ Darath laughed. ‘I’ve got Calboride blood myself, you know.’
‘Have you? I didn’t know. Your divinity shines through you but darkly, then,’ said Orhan.
‘You didn’t used to say that.’ Darath shot him a smile. Their eyes met and Orhan smiled back. ‘My great-great-great grandmother. But still. My honour demands I should feel offence. Unless you feel offence on your sister’s behalf that I am offended?’
Orhan sighed. ‘She knew what she was getting into. We Emmereths have pride enough we can happily sell ourselves and not care about it.’
‘That what you did, is it? And I always imagined you just lay back and thought of the state of your roof. Oh, don’t frown like that. I fully appreciate my own intense good fortune in having a younger brother to churn out little Vorleys for me when necessary.’
They turned into the Court of the Fountain. The crowds milled around them, bright and thick in the evening light. The air smelled heavily of grilled meat and perfumes and sweat. Slanting sunlight caught the water of the fountain, flashed on the beaded headdress of a woman dancing beside it, hands twisting and fluttering like butterflies. Her bare feet pounded out her rhythm, the sound of her bells and the sound of the water her only accompaniment. Across the square, a piper played a tune at a different pace to the dancing woman, mournful and slow.
Black skin and golden curls, arms raised in triumph …
‘Can we talk seriously now?’
‘I thought we were.’ Darath wandered over to a woman selling grilled meats, bought two skewers. He gave the woman a talent and smiled at her brilliantly. She stared back at him.
‘Here.’ He passed a skewer to Orhan. ‘Harder to lip-read if someone’s got a mouthful of rancid grease.’
Orhan bit down on the meat. Stringy and overcooked but well-seasoned, with the pleasant sweetness of honey and cinnamon and a bitter tang of vervain that clung in the mouth. They continued walking, slowly but purposefully, gazing around them at the sights and spectacles of the square. No one seemed to be following them directly, although there were always watchers of one kind or another. It had been absurdly, typically reckless of Darath to even mention it at Eloise’s party.
‘So …’ Darath said through a mouthful of meat, ‘you owe me three thalers, Lord Emmereth.’
‘Oh, come on. You can’t possibly have found out.’ Not even managed to tell the people actually doing it the new date yet, following all Tam’s messing around.
‘What do you want me to do, shout it out loudly in front of all these people? If you really want me to prove it …’ Darath’s voice rose: ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Sorlost, the Lord of the Rising Sun has some burning news he would like to impart to you …’
‘Lord of Living and Dying, Darath, you are the most insufferable man alive.’ Orhan dug his hands into his purse. ‘Here, you can have a talent and three … four dhol.’
Darath took the coins, grinned triumphantly at Orhan then tossed them to the nearest beggar. They missed and skipped across the paving stones. Two hollow-eyed children dived for them, shrieking. The beggar, crippled in both legs, half blind, blinked dazedly after them.
‘It’s happening soon,’ said Darath over the hubbub. ‘Very soon, I’d guess. Weeks? Yes, look at your face, weeks. And you’ll choose Tearday, because you always choose Tearday to do things … Two weeks this Tearday, then. In the evening, obviously, gives you the whole night to consolidate, you hope, while everyone else is running around trying to work out what’s going on. How … that seems obvious