‘You asking questions?’ The one to her right towered over her. He looked Cerani, but his eyes were blue.
‘I was asking for work. If there is no work then I will leave.’ She held her shoulders straight, refusing to be afraid.
‘Who told you there was work for a nursemaid?’
‘I heard … people were talking …’ She began to see the problems with her story.
‘What people?’
‘People at the church.’ She thought that would be enough to quiet them, but instead, they took more interest, stepping closer with new light in their eyes.
‘What church?’
She swallowed, hoping her answer would hit the mark. ‘The church of the One God, the God of Everyone and Everything …’ She recited what Eldra had told her, but the first man shook his head.
‘She’s one of those pretties, trained to spy. This is how they do it, Jafar.’
Jafar took her right hand and turned it, examining the nails. ‘She is no servant, it’s true.’ Then he dug his fingers into her elbow. ‘You’ll come inside and tell us who sent you.’
‘I’m just a nursemaid,’ she insisted, digging in her heels. If they took her inside she did not think she would come out. Pelar’s face flashed through her mind. It occurred to her that she might not see him again, and she felt as if she had swallowed all the emptiness in the world.
‘You’re—’ The man’s word ended in a wet sound.
Mesema felt a warm spray like summer rain on her shoulder – but this was the desert, and there was no rain. She turned, and the blood gushing from his neck hit her in the face.
‘What—?’ Jafar drew his sword and slashed at someone behind her.
Mesema had never been in a fight, but she had been in a war; she knew getting out of the way of a sword was more important than understanding why it was there. She dashed behind the lemon tree and now she saw it was Grada standing under the arch of the open gate, holding her twisted Knife while Jafar advanced upon her. He thrust and she ducked, spun and came up inside his guard, putting her Knife to his neck. They stood nose to nose and her dark eyes locked upon his. The cold expression on Grada’s face turned Mesema’s stomach to ice.
Jafar’s sword clattered against the flagstones when he dropped it.
‘Tell me about the child,’ Grada hissed.
‘Die, filth,’ he said, ‘or else kill me.’
Grada was about to ask another question when her gaze flicked Mesema’s way. At that moment Mesema felt the fabric press against the back of her shoulders and the cold of a blade against her neck. She had forgotten the first guard. ‘Let Jafar go,’ he said, ‘and I will not kill your little spy.’ He was not so awkward as she had believed, holding his dagger firmly where it would do the most damage. She stopped breathing.
‘She is not my spy,’ said Grada, but nevertheless she stepped away from Jafar. Mesema saw something flash in Grada’s hand just as her foot went out, connecting with Jafar’s stomach. The blade touching Mesema’s skin fell away and she heard a rattle as something hit the wall to her left.
The moustached guard crumpled behind her. Blood soaked his shirt and her robes.
Jafar doubled over as if in pain, but really his hand sought the sword he had dropped. Grada stepped on it and brought her knee into his face. Another moment, and she was crouching over him, the Knife against his neck once more. ‘What does he look like?’ she asked.
‘Who?’ Jafar was disoriented now, frightened and humiliated.
Mesema watched, frozen in place.
‘The baby you’re hiding.’
Jafar looked puzzled, and he moved his lips a few times before answering. ‘Some ugly get from the north. Don’t—’ Then he jerked, and gasped.
Grada’s Knife had pierced his heart, but Mesema had not even seen her move.
Grada stood, wiping the blood from her twisted blade, and examined the house. ‘They have no windows facing the courtyard – probably to give their women privacy. Good for us.’ Grada sounded distant.
Mesema had seen much death during the Red Hoof War, even the clouded eyes of her own brother, and yet she could not move. Grada removed her knife-belt and drew off her grey robe, revealing a tunic and leggings beneath. ‘You’re covered in blood. Wash your face and sandals at the pump, then wear this.’ She paused. ‘Your Majesty.’
Mesema looked around for a water-pump, found it against the house and approached on shaking legs. Numbly she worked the handle and splashed water over her face and feet. ‘You killed them,’ she said, pulling on the grey robe.
‘They laid hands upon my empress.’ Grada’s gaze shifted from the house door to the gate as she replaced her belt.