It wasn’t unfamiliar, enjoying a woman’s company, but Amalya was an unfamiliar sort of woman. In Eyul’s world, females belonged either to the palace or the Maze. The women of the palace sashayed around in their silk and pearls, building schemes for revenge or entertainment. In the Maze, hunger drove women to please. But no matter whether noble or streetborn, women were dependent on men for all their needs; they kept to their own sphere. Amalya, on the other hand, moved without censure from city to desert, spoke with boldness and honesty, and walked under the aegis of the royal family. Of all the women Eyul had known, only Beyon’s mother had similar confidence-but even Nessaket could not leave the palace. “Why are you smiling?” asked Amalya.
Feeling a fool, he scratched the whiskers on his chin. “Almost there,” he said.
She looked beyond him to the cliffs. “Distance is hard to measure on the sands.” They were so high up that dunes tall as towers looked like ripples on the ocean.
“I’ve been there before. Two days at the outside.”
“Bad luck. Don’t predict.”
Having no rejoinder, Eyul pointed to the north-east. “If I remember rightly, there is a well not far from where we stand. We can camp there.” He led the way and they reached the top of the dune, their eyes still fixed on the narrow line of the cliffs. His camel shifted, and sand slithered down into the shadows.
Amalya shook her head.
“No? Too far out of the way?” He surprised himself, being so solicitous of her opinion.
“No.” She shook her head again, fiercely, as if shaking something off. Her hand clutched at her throat and she hissed, “Flesh comesThere are… people-”
– five of them, hidden beyond the dune’s crest Eyul jumped off his camel, bow in hand, as the first man surged up the remaining yards between them. Blank of eye, his face patterned like a fine rug, he reached the crest of the dune on all fours. Eyul let his arrow fly and it travelled an arm’s length before finding a home in the Carrier’s chest. The man grunted and fell back over the side. Dead or wounded, it didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be climbing up again. That’s one.
Eyul dropped his bow and reached for his Knife. The next Carrier found his footing and stood upright, a rusty sword levelled at Eyul’s chest. Eyul ducked as the man rushed him. Get in close. He drew his blade across the Carrier’s gut. Two. The old sword buried itself in the sand by his foot. Warm blood fell across his back.
A flash of blue to his right; scattering sand to his left. Two more Carriers came on the heels of their dead companions, trying to trap him between them. So fast. They clutched their small knives with confidence.
Another Carrier dragged Amalya from her camel and she screamed into the rising sun. Eyul couldn’t help her, couldn’t think about her now. He took the dervish position, arms out, ready to spin, and Now. He spun to the right, the sand sliding under his feet, and the Carrier in blue thrust towards his heart and caught him under the arm instead. By that time Eyul’s elbow was in the man’s throat. He registered the crunch of cartilage as he spun away, keeping his momentum, ignoring the sting of his own wound.
The Carrier behind him thrust, his dagger barely missing Eyul’s neck, his sleeve brushing Eyul’s shoulder. Eyul acted in the time between breaths, lowering his knife-hand, spinning against the sand, calculating the position of the other man’s heart. Now. Mid-turn, Eyul’s left hand blocked the Carrier’s second thrust and half a heartbeat later his right hand pushed the emperor’s blade between the man’s ribs. Four.
Amalya. Eyul pulled his Knife free. As he ran to her, he scanned the dunes for more Carriers, but he saw just the one, kneeling next to Amalya’s prone form, his hands around her neck. Eyul drew his hand through the sand to keep his palm from slipping over the bloody hilt of his Knife. He kept running.
Amalya lived. Blue fire wound about her arms, covering her skin from elbow to fingertip, and sizzled against the Carrier’s chest. The Carrier opened his mouth; steam rose and evaporated in the desert air. His eyes bulged and turned milky. A ghastly smell of cooking rose around him.
By the gods-she was boiling him…
The Carrier’s hands fell away from Amalya’s neck and jerked in the sand before going limp. Eyul stepped forwards in time to catch the body before it collapsed on her. The flames wound away into Amalya’s skin.
She lay there, staring wide-eyed at the sky for a time, but then she sat up, rubbing her arms and shivering.
“Have you ever done that before?” Eyul asked her, though he felt sure of the answer.
“Killed?” Her voice held incredulity. “Not people.”
Eyul wiped his Knife on the Carrier’s tunic, fumbling for words.
She stood and stepped away, staring at the body, relief and guilt mixed together on her face. It wouldn’t do for him to compliment her deadliness, although that felt like the natural thing to say. It was hard, that first kill, he knew it. He remembered the first man Halim sent him after, a pickpocket, how the blood had spurted across the alley and stained the grey stone, and how he had stood trembling over the body until Halim slapped his face.
The Carrier with the crushed throat writhed in the sand, his hands around his own neck as he tried to breathe. Eyul would grant him mercy. He knelt and found the heart with his twisted Knife. He saw no change in the man’s eyes as his struggles ceased; they were already dead.
Eyul cleaned his blade on the man’s dirty clothes, then looked up at Amalya. She stood, arms stiff at her sides, lips drawn in a straight line, as her gaze passed over the four bodies around Eyul. Her eyes held an expression he’d seen too many times before: the look Beyon had when he found his dead brothers in the courtyard. The look said How? but didn’t want an answer.
Eyul might have said something then, about how he’d saved her. He could say he had protected the empire from the plague-touched, or mention the safety of other travellers. But none of those would answer her question. He was a killer. That was obvious from his work.
Amalya turned away from him and went to her camel. She pulled her waterskin from a bag and took a long draught.
Eyul cleared his throat. “Do you think you can make it to the well? It should take us about two hours.” When she nodded wordlessly, he said, “Good,” and feeling the need to keep talking, “Well, no point in lingering here.”
Amalya mounted her camel. Her shoulders remained tense. Eyul picked up his bow and did the same. “This way,” he said. “With any luck…” He let his voice trail off. Nothing he could say would make him more like Amalya, a person unfamiliar with blood or its necessity. He started off down the crescent slope of the dune, turning leftwards. Waves of silent sand lay ahead.
Who had sent the Carriers? Nobody knew they were here except for Tuvaini and whoever had sent Amalya-and who had sent Amalya? Tuvaini would have chosen someone more ruthless, he felt, and Nessaket probably wouldn’t have chosen a woman, believing all of them to be as duplicitous as herself. Only Beyon remained, but Beyon was not one for secrets or clever manoeuvres. If Beyon wished for an answer from the hermit he’d ride out himself, with a hundred warriors.
The question occupied him until the red stones of the well appeared, dark against the morning sands. They set up camp without speaking. Eyul set out the usual pile of dung, and Amalya unpacked her food, but when it came time to light the cooking fire, she sat back on her heels.
Eyul went to his saddle-pack for the flint and tinder, lit a flame and nursed it until the camel dung was smouldering. Amalya reached down and readied her pot, and Eyul walked a short distance away, standing guard.
Mesema leaned out of the carriage window, hoping for some wind, but the outside air only scorched her face and lungs. She retreated into the dark box she shared with Banreh. She was learning that the sun brooked no opposition here. All was bright and clear, and deadly hot. Only at night, when Arigu’s Cerani soldiers sheltered in their tents, did she dare venture out onto the rocky terrain.