‘Does anyone have a cloth to wind around her eyes?’ he asked, speaking against a sudden swell of pain – not his, but Banreh’s.
‘I do.’ The empress, Mesema of the Windreaders, stood at the edge of the silk runner. Her voice lacked the harsh consonants and guttural sounds that marked Cerani speech. The men of the court watched her, whispering among themselves, disapproval on their faces, but the empress had her back to them and so was unaware. She wore an orange scarf around her neck and now she unwound it and presented it to Didryk. He had seen her before, standing above him in the Great Hall on the day he arrived, her eyes alert, her cheeks flushed. Today she looked more an empress: her face was careful, her movements measured. He believed Banreh loved the first Mesema more than the second, and wondered whether either version of her loved Banreh. She had obviously not arranged for a doctor for him – if she had, he would not be sensing so much pain now.
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ he said, trying not to sound gruff. She might not even know Banreh was in the palace – and in any case, her personal guard, six men with wide, heavy weapons, stood behind her, so it would not do to be rude. He looked away from them and wound the scarf around Rushes’ eyes. ‘When she first starts to see again, the light will cause her pain. As time goes on, you may allow her more and more light.’ And then he drew away the pattern Adam had laid there.
Rushes gasped and clapped her hands together. ‘I can see shapes, even through the silk!’ she said.
Didryk dipped his finger in the greasepaint that had been provided for him and drew a quick pattern-mark on her forehead. Though he could have done it with his fingers, the emperor liked to see what he was doing. Once finished, the shape faded into her skin, but Didryk could still see it, lit in shades of blue and yellow.
‘I wish the Empire Mother was here,’ said Rushes. ‘She would be very happy that I can see now.’
‘She will be,’ the empress murmured with a guarded glance at Didryk. ‘Now, let’s get you back to your work.’ She helped the girl to stand.
‘A moment, Your Majesty,’ said Didryk, knowing this was his chance, before she left, to find a way to gain her aid. He might not get another opportunity. ‘May I ask if you were patterned?’
‘I was,’ she said, turning her wrist his way. ‘It started with a half-moon, there.’
‘A half-moon?’ He saw a faint mark, lighter than the fair skin around it, and to that he pressed his thumb. The men standing behind the empress drew their swords; he must be quick. With the slightest movement he drew a fingernail across her mark and imbued it with his will. At least let him die without pain. At least that. Right away he dropped her wrist and raised his hands. ‘I apologise – I have made offence by touching the empress.’
‘I took no offence,’ said Mesema, rubbing her wrist where he had scratched her. She would begin to feel Banreh’s pain soon.
‘One does not touch the empress.’ Azeem spoke without moving. The empress’ men stood frozen too, and all their eyes were fixed on the emperor. Didryk stared at his pale, pinched reflection in the curved blade held by the nearest guard. Mesema held her wrist and watched her husband, and Didryk saw in her expression that he was safe. The outrage, the long pause: it was all a game of power the emperor had already won. He was reminded of Azeem, stacking his tiles. The silence stretched, a long wait meant to terrify, but Didryk relaxed and the tension in his reflected face smoothed away. If Sarmin meant to kill him, he would be dead already.
At last the emperor spoke. ‘Duke Didryk is a stranger to our lands. He can be forgiven this transgression. He must, after all, touch everyone if he is to ensure they are marked. Is that not so, Duke?’
‘It is so. I was ensuring the empress’ safety in the face of the Yrkmen threat, Magnificence.’
The men behind the empress put away their swords. Their faces betrayed neither relief nor disappointment.
Mesema dropped her arms to her sides and curtseyed. ‘With your permission, Magnificence, I will return Rushes to her charge.’
‘You are dismissed.’ The emperor might as well have been talking to a floor-scrubber for all the love in his voice. He had shown more affection to the Fryth girl – but maybe that too was part of the act. Mesema took Rushes by the elbow and together they retreated from the room.
‘That is enough work for the morning,’ said the emperor, and Didryk rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Maybe he would sleep until it was time to return.
The men of court had been conversing all the while, in low tones and whispers, but now their voices gained energy as they discussed the pattern attacks in the city, the Mogyrk rebels and Didryk himself. He shifted on his cushion, unsure whether protocol allowed him any movement, and watched the courtiers circle one another like sharks. One of them, a man in modest green robes, made signals to the throne with his fingers. The movements were so subtle that he doubted most people would notice – but Didryk’s upbringing left him watching men’s hands as much as their mouths. The man was obviously a spy.