There has been trouble, of course. The sudden switch from Council rule was bound to disrupt a society wedded to the notion of stability achieved through unchanging order. Her spies, a long-established network crafted over decades, unknown to the Council’s own intelligence machinery, bring word of discontent and rebellious conspiracy from all corners of the empire. Most are quickly crushed, the plotters subjected to a protracted method of public execution, immediate and secondary family condemned to slavery and all property seized by the Empress. But, though several thousand have now suffered this fate, each day brings reports of more plots and, were she susceptible to such things, the constant threat of assassination would provoke a lesser soul to paranoia. The previous week a slave girl had contrived to poison the Empress’s breakfast of gruel, revenge for a well-loved master subjected to the Three Deaths the week before. It was a brave but clumsy attempt, easily discerned even without the song’s warning. The poison had been mixed in too great a concentration, giving off a familiar odour, and the girl must have known she was earning herself a painful end.
“Were you One in his stable?” she had asked the girl, forced to her knees with an Arisai’s blade poised to strike the nape of her neck. “He must have fucked you very sweetly to arouse such loyalty.”
The girl wept, hard convulsive sobs, but still found enough voice to answer. “He . . . never . . . touched me.”
“Then why?”
“He . . . raised me . . . taught me to read . . . gave me a name.”
“Really? What is it?”
“L-Lieza.”
“Naming a slave is a capital offence in itself, and your former owner was guilty of much more besides.” She waved the Arisai away and gestured for the girl to remove the breakfast. “Bring me fresh gruel, Lieza. Then you can read me the morning’s correspondence.”
Lieza stands at her side now, ready to pour wine into the Imperial cup. She is pale of face but manages not to tremble. Every morning since her failed assassination she brings breakfast and reads the Imperial correspondence whilst the Empress eats. Afterwards she sits and writes as the Empress dictates a list of names for execution. Her calligraphy is quite excellent.
I don’t know why I spared her, she replies, feeling bafflement mixing amongst his disgust. I think she reminds me of someone, but can’t quite recall who. Perhaps I’ll kill her tomorrow. Give her to the spectacles, the dagger-teeth are always hungry.
