The Emperors Knife by Mazarkis Williams

his eyes from the designs written upon his brother’s flesh.
    â€œI’m marked,” said Beyon. “It began soon after I took the throne. At first I could hide the shapes —they were small enough—but of late, I go to my wives only in total darkness. My body-slaves…” His eyes focused elsewhere for a moment. “I was forced to have them killed. Now I let no one into my rooms.”
    â€œAre you dying?” Something lurked in the pattern: a threat, the language unknown but the tone clear enough.
    â€œI don’t think so—maybe.” Beyon rubbed his chin. “You are my heir, should I be.”
    â€œSo you’re—” Sarmin’s lips trembled around the word. He forced his eyes to the emperor’s face.
    â€œA Carrier? Not that I can tell. Everything I do is of my own will.” Beyon buttoned his tunic.
    Sarmin half-opened his mouth to protest as the pattern vanished behind silk. He forced himself to silence.
    Beyon flicked his hair out of the way. “The dreams scare me. In them I do things not of my choosing.” He looked at the stone window. “In my dreams, my body is not my own—but I can run away from the dream if I wish. I ran away when my dream made me threaten the vizier.”
    â€œThe vizier?” Sarmin remembered the vizier’s words: The Carriers become bold, even attacking on palace grounds.
    â€œIt’s getting late. They’ll be looking for me.”
    â€œWho? Who will be looking for you?” Sarmin’s throat seized with fear.
    â€œSlaves, administrators, wives, dogs.” Beyon smiled. “The denizens of the palace.”
    Like Tuvaini. Sarmin again considered telling Beyon everything; to confess about his wife, the vizier, and his secret treasure under the pillow. No. I have sworn to my brother, but I won’t let the emperor take what is mine. Not yet.
    The emperor’s commanding voice broke through his thoughts. “You have sworn. You will be summoned when it is time for you to serve.” His brother was gone; the latch clicked.
    Sarmin curled against the carpet until full dark, letting Ink and Paper step around him as they came to light his lanterns. Someone placed a tray of food beside his head. He smelled something new: the sour aroma of wine. Beyon’s favor, or Tuvaini’s, or perhaps his mother’s. Whoever sent it did not expect him to wonder. He laughed to himself against the purple threads.
    â€œPrince Sarmin of the Petal Court,” he whispered to himself. “Vizier Sarmin.” He thought another moment. “Emperor Sarmin.”
    Nobody answered.
    He didn’t know when Beyon would be back. How long would it take? Longer than a ride from the Felt? Longer than Tuvaini’s trips through the secret passageways? Longer than the reach of their mother’s arms?
    Sarmin stood and pulled his knife from beneath his pillow. I will not betray you, brother.
    He turned his desk upside down and hunched over it, intent. With fevered concentration he began to work. The point of the dacarba scored the wood time and again as he recreated the pattern: crescent moon, underscore, diamond within diamond, crescent moon, overscore. He missed no detail. Breath escaped him in slow rasps. There’s a secret here, for those with eyes to see.

Chapter Ten
    E yul woke with a start. The last of the sun’s heat sank through the cloth of his tent.
    Something is wrong. He knew it, blood to bone. Sometimes it was like that. He knew better than to startle into action. He lay at rest, straining his senses, reaching for the wrongness. The sand between his fingers felt warm and gritty. Wrong. He sat up and moved to the tent flap. Veins ran across the dune, faint but visible in the low light of the setting sun: lines in the sand, raised little more than the thickness of a coin, no wider than his hand. Hundreds of them were stretching out in geometric profusion, crossing, intersecting,