Darath’s dead, he thought. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.
The sunlight of the Grey Square poured over him as he stumbled out through the great doors in Gallus’s shadow. I was going to leave, he thought. Save the child. The light was sickly yellow, clouds building in piles like walls in the far west through the gaps in the city’s domes. The ghosts of the foreign plague dead, who still believed that they had souls. It’s going to rain, thought Orhan, looking at the clouds. Wash the city a bit cleaner. Drown the flies. The smell of the city’s stones, after heavy rainfall … Water, running warm and heavy on the face … A few final moments of something good.
Voices shouted in the square: “Every day! Every day!” “I have a son for the God’s hunger! He longs for it!” “Every day! Every day!” People milling around, looking up at the Temple. Waiting for some miracle to appear.
No sign of the kite fliers. Gone and flown. Sickened, perhaps, in the brief while he had been inside.
“What is it, Gallus?” he asked wearily.
Gallus glanced at the people shouting. “Not here.”
“Half of the city just watched us walk out of the Temple together.” Memory: walking with Darath, talking about treason and murder, Darath claiming they were less likely to be overheard. Darath’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead. “I’m told it’s safer, walking and talking. Less easy to be eavesdropped on. We’ll all be dead soon anyway. What does it matter, at the end of everything, who’s seen talking to whom about what? Who’s left to care?”
Still, Gallus hesitated.
“What it is, Gallus? What do you want?” You sold me out to Cam Tardein, Orhan thought. The man I have become should kill you.
Gallus coughed nervously. “My Lord Emmereth … My Lord … It has been several months now, since you were dismissed as Nithque. In that time … In that time, things have not gone so well.”
“Possibly.” Dancing the dance again. Farting at each other. Round and round.
Darath’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.
“The city is dying, My Lord,” said Gallus in a rush. Orhan thought: really? Is it? I never knew. Who knew? Gallus’s voice dropped. “The Emperor took sick this morning. Only a mild illness, he says it is nothing more than a cold. Shortly before I left, he was reported to be feeling a little better. That … that was when I knew I must speak to you, My Lord.”
The Emperor, dying.
He could die as easily as any man. Had died in many strange and spectacular and pointless ways. Not a great reign, this one. Better luck next time, perhaps. Should have been dead months past, dead and buried with a mewling baby on the throne. But …
The Emperor. Dying. Further chaos. Nothing left to centre them.
“My Lord, the new Nithque … You will have heard, My Lord, that he ordered the gates sealed?”
Orhan looked at the people milling uselessly in the square behind them. Shouts of “Every night! Every night!” A distant voice weeping. The background hum of screams. “No. No, I hadn’t heard. When was this?”
“Last night, My Lord. He ordered that they not be reopened this morning.”
“But the gates are open.” The uproar if they had remained closed would have been audible throughout the city, blocking out even the screams. Someone surely would have had the courage to tell him that.
“The guards refused to obey the order, My Lord.”
“Then have them removed from their station, and have the gates closed.”
“Who would remove them?” said Gallus. “Half the city guard are dead or dying or have already abandoned their post. Perhaps not half, I may exaggerate. A third, perhaps.”
“What did Cam—did the Nithque do, then?”
Gallus tried to look anywhere but at Orhan. “What can he do, My Lord? His daughter is dying. His son took sick three days ago. Do you think now he even cares?”
Orhan sighed. “He is Nithque. That should be above all.” His family, for the city. The city, for the world.
Darath’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.
“He—”
“The gates need to be sealed, Gallus. You know that.”
Gallus nodded wearily. “Perhaps, My Lord. If we have the men left.”
“The gates must be closed before the Emperor dies. Half the city will flee, otherwise.”
Gallus nodded wearily. “Yes, My Lord.”
Orhan looked at him. “You know all this. What is it you really want from me, Gallus?”
A long silence. They went through the square onto the Street of Flowers. Two women fought over the headless body of a cat. Orhan turned sharply away from the walk down to Darath’s house, making instead for the Street of the Butchered Horse.
Gallus said quietly, “Lord Tardein is in contact with the Immish, My Lord.”
“Lord Tardein—?”
Ah, God’s knives.
Here it comes.
Gallus had worked well for him, when he was Nithque. Only betrayed his trust when it was clear he was already down. So here now was the price.
“He dictates letters to members of the Immish Great Council for me to write. I write them. Give them to him to seal. A reply comes. I am forbidden to open it. He tells me it must be opened only by the Nithque’s own hands. Later he shows me the letter. It is a bland reply to the letter I sent. I write a lot of pointless letters. I read a lot of pointless replies. But there are other letters, folded up beneath.”
“You … You know this? You can prove this?”
Gallus reached into his coat. A small packet of silver paper, stamped and sealed in white. Orhan caught only a glimpse before it was tucked back away.
“A letter came yesterday morning. The palace is in chaos. The Emperor is sick. Two Secretaries are sick. Servants are dying every day. My Lord the Nithque is waiting to hear if his children are dead.” Sighed. “As you say, no one will be left soon to care. I do not know what if anything it contains. Do you want to open it, My Lord?”
No. No. God’s knives, no. I was going to abandon all this. I tried to change things. I failed. I was going to run away with Bil and my son and try to make some attempt at giving them a life.
Orhan held out his hand slowly. Like it almost wasn’t his own hand. “Give it to me, then.”
The seal of the Immish Great Council, a circle of interlocking circles around a broken tower. Fine sundried clay painted white, smudging off on his fingers, a small thing the size of a piece of candied fruit. Orhan flexed the letter. Broke the seal. Like stabbing someone, he thought. Something else from which there is no going back.
Unfolded the letter. A single sheet of fine silver leaf paper, inked in large letters in the awkward Pernish script in shiny black. Another, smaller letter nestled inside it. Like a present in a box. Plain rough coarse greyish paper. Plain porcelain seal with no stamp.
Gallus said with a kind of satisfaction, “You see, My Lord?”
“It could still be nothing.” Orhan’s hands trembled as he broke the seal.
A single word: “Yes.”
A single bronze dhol fell to the dust at his feet. He bent and retrieved it. The image of the city embossed on it had been scored through.
Running feet on the flagstones behind him. Voices shouting. Orhan and Gallus swung round. A group of men, running, carrying torches. Carrying drawn swords.
“The Emperor is dying!”
“The God has abandoned us!”
“The blasphemers in the Temple! The High Priestess betraying us to the demon!”
“Every night! Every night!”
Shouts coming from several directions. A woman ran past clutching a baby. A group of children holding sticks and stones.
“The Emperor is dead!”
“The God has abandoned us!”
“We are impious! We deserve the God’s anger!”
“Every night! Every night!”
A man staggering sick with fever. Vomiting his innards up in the street and staggering on. Another group of men wit
h torches and swords.
“Every night! Every night!”
Orhan and Gallus began to run with them, Orhan’s guards jogging behind. Horror mounting in Orhan. The letter crumpled half forgotten in his hand. Back down the Street of Flowers. More people running. And more, and more. Into the Grey Square. A single child had returned to fly her kite. Staring in confusion, open mouthed, at the crowds building suddenly around her. Men and women and children, the sick, the dying, armed men, men with torches, children holding stones. A few soldiers in gold armour in a group, uncertain, mouths open in confusion like the child’s. A group of street girls swaying on bound legs, bells tinkling, also uncertain, making lewd comments to the crowd.
“The Emperor’s dead!”
“The God has abandoned us! Great Tanis is angry!”
“The High Priestess betrayed us to the demon! The plague is our punishment for her crime!”
“Every night! Every night!”
“I have a child for the God’s hunger! Every night! Every night!”
The woman raised her baby. It shrieked its odd heart-breaking grating shrieking noise. “Every night! Every night!”
The crowd rushed towards the Temple. Up the steps, flowing like flood water, pushing and shoving each other, swarming crowding around the entranceway, fighting their way in in a rush. Still clutching torches and swords. The woman led them, the screaming baby still raised in her arms.
Orhan stared in sick wonder. There was light flickering out of the dark entranceway where light had never been. People fighting and trampling each other to get inside. Stared in sick wonder as a woman fell and was stamped on. People still running into the square, drawn by the shouting, the soldiers drew their swords hesitantly, looking at each other, the whores muttered to each other, shouted to the soldiers and the crowds.
Shouting from inside the Temple. The long rays of the evening sun through the gathering clouds on the black stone. And then suddenly Orhan understood. He bent forward and almost vomited. Gallus muttered something, fled back towards the palace. The soldiers moved slowly towards the despoiled entranceway. Those around the Temple began to shout at them. The whores jeered them. Someone threw a stone.
The sun sinking. The twilight bell tolled. From deep inside the Temple came a wild ecstatic hundred-voiced shriek.
Voices in the square screaming again: “The God is angry with us!” “The Emperor is dying!” “The Emperor is dead!” “The God has abandoned us!” “Every night! Every night!” One of the whores untangled her bindings, went to join the crowds ebbing around the Temple steps. Men whistled at her, made catcalls. The soldiers looked at each other dizzily. “Every night! Every night!” The woman who had been holding the baby came out of the Temple. Stood on the top of the steps. Her hands were bloody. She raised her hands. The crowd around the Temple cheered. “Every night! Every night! Every night!” A stone flew from the crowd, hit one of the soldiers on the arm. The crowd cheered. Another stone fell short at the soldiers’ feet. Another stone struck a gold helmet. Another stone. The whores began jeering. His guardsmen pulled tight around Orhan in a thicket. “The Emperor’s dead! The God has abandoned us!” “Every night! Every night!” The woman waved her bloody hands: “We must reclaim the Temple! Win back the love of the God!” “The God has abandoned us!” “The Emperor is dying!” “Every night! Every night!” More stones, rattling on gold armour. The guards staring at each other, waving their swords. The woman screaming: “The God must be placated!” The soldiers charged the crowd. Orhan saw blood spurting. Voices howling in fear and outrage. More people running into the square shouting. Stones flying. Then swords.
“The God has abandoned us!”
“Every night! Every night!”
Orhan stood in the dust trying to keep himself from vomiting. Tears running down his face.
Is this now what we’ve come to? Flies flies flies eating the ruin of the world.
The clouds opened, heavy warm rain, washing the dust up in swirling patterns.
“Every night! Every night!”
“The God has abandoned us!”
“Every night!”
Bodies falling. The soldiers cutting their own people down.
Orhan bent and wept in the wet dust.
Chapter Sixty-One
Twenty injured. Three dead. They piled the injured and the dead together against the west wall of the Great Temple. Thus the injured could see their future awaiting them as they died. The soldiers retreated to the mouth of the Street of Flowers, water dripping off their helmets. The rain fell like a wall between them and the crowds. After a long while paused talking, they disappeared into the rain.
Nilesh crouched at the edge of the square. She had seen Lord Emmereth from a distance, talking to his guardsmen, pointing at the Temple, waving his hands. Then someone had recognized him. Pointed. Shouted. A momentary flicker in the crowd. Shouts of “traitor,” “murderer,” “hero.” His guardsmen drawing around him. The people had almost turned on him. Then he fled with his guards. Nilesh had been pressed behind a pillar, hiding from Lord Emmereth’s gaze. This had kept her safe from the soldiers’ swords.
Once the dead and injured had been carried to the shelter of the Great Temple, some of the crowd began to dance in the dark in the rain. A woman came round giving out wine from a heavy clay jug.
Another man Nilesh thought she recognized appeared in the square, grandly dressed, shining with gemstones, flanked by more guards. Soaking wet. He tried to talk to the assembled people. Got shouted down. His voice was weak and frightened, “Your Emperor” he shouted hoarsely, the crowd roared so loud his words were lost, “your Emperor … concern for the city … Great Tanis our Lord … High Priestess … I know … prayer … I know …” Voices jeered at him. The hard-faced street women shouted things Nilesh didn’t understand. “Every night!” voices shouted. “Every night!”
“… Your Emperor … Great Tanis … I … good … city … Emperor … I …”
“The Emperor’s dead!” a voice shouted. “Stop lying to us!”
“Every night! Every night!”
“… not the way!” the man shouted hoarsely. His words were high-pitched and shrill like a child’s.
“The God is angry!” a voice shouted.
“Every night! Every night!”
A stone came flying. Hit the man on the side of his head. Another, harder, drawing blood. The man swayed, staring, panicked. His guards surrounded him in a wall of golden armour. For a moment it looked like the violence would begin again. Then, like Lord Emmereth, he was hurried away. Stones and catcalls showered after him. People began to move hesitantly after where he had gone.
“Coward!”
“Betrayer! Liar!”
“The God is angry!”
“Every night! Every night!”
A cry from the steps of the Temple. Faces whipped around. A woman’s voice screaming in fury.
“They’re bolting the door!”
The great door of the Great Temple. Three times the height of a man. It was never locked. Not in all the history of the city. “They’re bolting the door!” The crowd streamed up the steps, rushed at the entrance. The door held against them, then gave. The crowd streamed into the Temple. Voices shouting. Howls. A while later a man’s body was carried out, held triumphantly aloft.
“They have betrayed us!”
“The God has abandoned us!”
“The Emperor is dead!”
“Every night! Every night!”
Nilesh shrank back in the shadows. Many people like her, gathered on the edges, watching, unsure. This, this, surely, was going too far?
“Tolneurn,” the man nearest Nilesh said. She jumped, stared at him.
“Tolneurn. The Imperial Presence in the Temple. He must have ordered them to bar the door.”
The speaker was well dressed, silvery shirt, green embroidered coat. Nilesh bowed her head to him. “Yes, My Lord.”
“Few will mourn him.”
Nilesh kept her
eyes down. “No, My Lord.”
“You were not tempted to take part?”
What could she say? “No, My Lord.”
“You do not think, then, that the God has abandoned you?”
Eyes down at her own dirty feet. “I don’t know, My Lord.”
He snorted, strolled into the square to join the crowd swirling around the Temple. His fine green coat stood out vividly until it was soaked dark like the rest by the rain. Nilesh watched him moving between groups of people. It put her in mind of a leaf caught in the eddies of a flood.
The rain stopped shortly after. The water that ran ankle high across the flagstones began to recede. Wet rubbish and mud. Nilesh almost shivered, cold in the night air. The clouds parted to show a brilliant glittering band of stars. The Maiden, the Tree, beside it the great single red star the Dragon’s Mouth. The stars looked huge. Because there was no dust in the sky after rain, Janush had said. She had never been able to see the Tree as a tree with branches, saw instead Bilale’s hair dressed for a party with a net of diamonds and a single red pearl.
The drier air brought out more people. A flower stall was torn up and turned into a bonfire; it took a long time to light, the wood being soaked from the rain. When it lit it went up in a rush of blue fire and a smell of lamp fuel. Voices cheered. Sang the hymn to the rising sun. The Temple door, Nilesh saw in the light of the bonfire, had been pulled outwards and wedged open. The passageway behind showed black against the black marble wall. The crowd edged round it, not wanting to stand too close.
The violence seemed to be over. The bodies of those injured or killed by the soldiers lay undisturbed in the shadows of the west wall. A woman made her way through the square selling candied roses and cinnamon sweets. A kind of calm over everything. Nilesh went cautiously into the thick of the square into the press of people. The crowd milled aimlessly, gathering around the bonfire, sitting on the steps of the Great Temple, singing hymns, drifting past each other in blurred confusion, moving towards and then shying away from the dead body of Tolneurn the Imperial Presence in the Temple, moving towards and then shying away from the woman who had sacrificed her baby, who stood by the open door of the Temple, face raised to the stars. All directionless, confusion: like a lord’s house must be, Nilesh thought, if the Lord and Lady were to stop giving orders and no one knew any more what to do. Voices shouted occasionally “Every night! Every night!” “The God is angry!” “The God must be appeased!” In the firelight and the light of torches some of them looked flushed and haggard. Feverish. Sick. Yet a voice would start up singing a hymn of praise to the God Great Tanis the Lord of Living and Dying and the healthy and the sick would sing together, dance, even embrace. Nilesh moved in their rhythms, confused and in confusion like the rest. The whole night must be passing. In the east behind the domed rooftops the first light in the sky perhaps showed. Her legs felt weak and weary: she found herself near the sweet-seller on the steps of the Great Temple, bought a bag of sweets. The sweet-seller smiled at her with teeth as black as the shadowy passageway of the Great Temple. Her white face was flushed and damp with sweat. She shuddered as she handed Nilesh the bag, winced, bit her lip with a pained grimace. Nilesh dropped the bag onto the wet flagstones. It burst open, spilling out pink crystal petals that winked in the fire’s light. Nilesh stared down at them. Rising rushing fear of the plague.
The Tower of Living and Dying Page 39