Arigu waved a hand, uncertainty in his face. ‘What we are asking for is punishment for the transgressors, no more.’
‘And tearing the skin from a man is fair punishment?’
Dinar sneered and spat, ‘Herzu cares nothing for what is fair. Herzu is about power, and what can be done with it. Taking lives, taking thrones. If you are strong enough to do it, then it is yours to do. There is no fair.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sarmin, and plunged Tuvaini’s dagger between the high priest’s ribs as his brothers had shown him, as he had killed the Pattern Master. Behind him steel rang as all the sword-sons drew their hachirahs. Grada already held her twisted Knife and was scanning the men before her.
Dinar fell to the ground, his eyes dark and lifeless, and Sendhil after him, stabbed from behind by one of his own men. Mesema stumbled and sat down on the steps of the dais, her face pale.
Sarmin faced the assembled courtiers. He had decided who he wanted to be, and who should die and who should live. ‘I claim this palace for Mirra.’ Not one of them could look away. What do they see? he wondered. He turned to Arigu. To his credit the general did not even flinch. ‘I made an interesting discovery at Lord Nessen’s manse,’ he said, ‘but you already know about it. You took the slaves from the Grass, violating our ancient agreement with the horse tribes. Banreh learned of it and rightly fought against you.
‘Selling slaves who look like the empress and her family would bring you a great deal of money among certain nobles – but your man ran into trouble. He chose the wrong estate to shelter in. There was an altercation and Lord Nessen lost his life. Finally your captain brought the slaves here, only to find that the buying and selling of slaves is barred until my Code is finished. He knew Lord Nessen would not come to town, being dead, so he hid them in his manse in the Holies.’
Arigu swallowed. ‘They are Mogyrk – rebels—’
Grada held her Knife to his throat, and he fell silent.
‘Duke Didryk treated you well.’ Sarmin motioned to the tall man standing motionless at the door. ‘How have the Felting slaves been treated, I wonder? I will find out shortly.’ Sarmin backed away. ‘You are guilty of prosecuting a war against my wishes, of making slaves of our allies and telling untruths before the throne. But you may still go free if you pledge your loyalty to me.’
Azeem made a strangled noise in his throat; Grada glanced at Sarmin in amazement.
Sarmin held his breath. The war, the throne, the very survival of Nooria depended on Arigu’s decision.
Arigu stood motionless for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to his knees beside Dinar’s body, laying his sword crosswise before him. He laid his forehead upon it and spoke. ‘I pledge all of my loyalty, my breath, my vitality, and all of my words to you, my Emperor.’
Sarmin let him wait. He met the eye of every man in the room until, satisfied they were cowed, at last he said, ‘Rise, Arigu.’ He climbed the steps to the dais and sat on the Petal Throne. ‘Lord High Vizier, let it be known that Chief Banreh is to be freed of all constraints and punishments. The Felting people will be given shelter in the guest wing, and he may join them there.’
He looked at the shaken general. ‘Now we may speak of the war.’
The men looked at one another and at the dead bodies on the floor. Nobody spoke, not even Azeem, though he was clearly struggling to find the right words.
The gong sounded, breaking the moment; the herald rushed forwards, unusually flustered. ‘The Empire Mother, Your Majesty,’ he said.
Ice washed over Sarmin’s skin. Something is wrong. The timing of her return, the fact that she would make her first appearance here, in the throne room, where all the generals had gathered … it was the first austere who had decided these things, not his mother.
His fears were quickly confirmed. When she came to the door, passing Didryk without a glance, he saw her black eyes, her expressionless face, and beneath it, the hatred and malice of Yrkmir. ‘Mesema,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘hide!’
Nessaket opened her mouth and from it poured a stream of lines and symbols – triangle, crescent, half-moon, line, triangle again – a bright ribbon of pattern-work that cut through General Merkel like a sword. She lifted both hands and patterns ran from them too, red and liquid, harm at the core of them, cutting through Hazran’s cheek before he dodged behind a pillar. The sword-sons ran forwards and she caught one through the neck, his blood and the sharp pattern running together. Boneless he fell to the floor with a clatter of steel. Didryk crept up behind her, his eyes intent, as the patterns flew across the room like blades, cutting gashes in the walls, ripping through cushions and skin with equal ease. Through it all Sarmin stood before the throne, unmoving, and her patterns did not touch him.