Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  3

  Mesema

  Mesema had known how to exit the palace by the Ways or servants’ halls since the time she and Sarmin had hidden together in his room, but she had never before done it. She did not approach the Elephant Gate and its high teak doors but chose one of plain iron, used by slaves and delivery men, well-guarded nevertheless. She pulled the veil tight over her face as she stepped through. With her other hand she held tight to a bag of soiled linens, but nobody asked her business and she breathed a sigh of relief. A few feet outside the great walls she halted, heart beating fast.

  No wife of the emperor was to travel unaccompanied. Her bodyguards and chaperones ensured her safety, chasteness and good behaviour. The women of the palace were never to set feet outside of it, lest they become sullied by the eyes of the common people. By the rules of the court she had already committed a crime. Tarub and Willa had cried and begged her to stay, and wisdom should have made her listen, but the Hidden God had pointed and she would follow.

  And yet she paused, thinking of Sarmin. At this moment he was in his throne room, listening to petitions great and small, the lords and generals gathered around him like wolves. To keep their jaws from his flesh he required strength, and he gathered it from knowing she and Pelar were safe. Her absence could be devastating. Like all those born under the Scorpion’s tail she had acted first and thought later. Mesema turned back, but one of the guards at the gate shook his fist at her, saying, ‘Stop lurking, you lazy get!’ and she backed away. If he recognised her, it would be bad for him, for her and for Sarmin. After tossing her bag into a doorway she hurried down the palace road, a gentle slope that later turned into a steep incline approaching the river. The palace stood high above the city, overtopping all but the Tower.

  The heat surprised her; this was the same sun that hung over the palace, but out here it reflected off the street and walls, bringing a sweat to her skin that soaked her robes. She walked along paths she had long watched from Nessaket’s garden, jostled by petitioners, scribes, tailors and money-counters. All were dressed in fine cloth, and the stones lay white and sparkling in the full day; but she would be walking on, through roads that were not so clean.

  When she first arrived in Nooria, the air had smelled like char. Later she learned it had been the Carriers, turning to ash under the patient eyes of Blue Shields. Now as she left the palace compound the stench of rotting vegetables caught her nose and, as she walked further away, a urine-stink caught in her throat.

  A marketplace set up along the road brought more welcome scents: roasting meat, incense and cloves. Colourful fabric stretched from stall to stall, protecting customers from the harsh sun and casting a blue and yellow design over the street-stones. Mesema hurried across them as if the pattern chased her still. She recognised the young Tower mage Moreth buying a pastry from an old woman and she prayed to the Hidden God his gaze would not turn her way. To her relief his attention remained on his food; he waved the treat below his nose, smiling, as he turned back to the Tower. The common folk backed away from him, drawing circles with their fingers in the way of Mirra.

  The house she sought would be on the other side of the Blessing, so she let her nose lead towards the smell of fish. She had often looked down upon the river, but from above it looked thin, a blue ribbon winding through a dry city. In fact it was wide enough for thirty pole-barges to float abreast, and for its high, arched bridges to hold hundreds of people, some standing still and watching the boats, others hurrying about their business. She took a lower path along the water, following the progress of the nearest barge, watching its poles push deep into the silt, their movements rippling along the Blessing’s surface.

  The next bridge loomed over her, an intricate work of red stone and copper, carvings of past emperors decorating each pointed arch. She climbed the steps to cross, dodging out of the way of one white-haired man carrying a sack of rice and another rolling a barrel; he clicked his tongue at her in irritation. Once on the other side she had a choice to climb the nine hundred great steps to the Holies, or to walk around the great rock to the western slope – not visible from the palace, but shown on maps to be a gentle, winding road to the great houses at the top. She had examined her route from the top of the palace before leaving, and she was glad of it, for the map was proving inexact. Now she embarked on a path her eyes had not explored, but upon turning west she saw with relief the carriage-road that led ever upwards towards the better neighbourhoods. This, the map had shown true.

  She wondered whether Austere Adam might be in the house at the top of the plateau, hiding Daveed from the palace. Why else would the Hidden God have shown it to her? Nessaket admitted she had underestimated the Mogyrk priest, thinking him no more than a zealot, when in fact he had managed to organise a rebellion right under the noses of the palace guard. Mesema would have to think of a lie that would gain her entry to the great house. Though Austere Adam had great influence, she had fought the Pattern Master and watched Pelar struggle against the pale sickness; he did not frighten her. Sarmin would not think her actions wise; she knew this. Perhaps it was better he did not know.

  On the plateau of the Holies she could see only streets and walls, interrupted by the occasional bench or statue. From the palace roof-garden Mesema had seen the graceful mansions and their lush enclosures filled with fruit-trees and jasmine, but at street level she saw only the dead leaves that had been blown over their high walls, dry offerings to the unwelcome. A breeze touched Mesema’s cheek, tugging her southwest, and she found the house, marked by its walls of pink granite gleaming in the sun. Their long expanse spoke of the size of the building within, but still it was not as large as one wing of the palace. She walked along the stone, her fingers running over carved figures of Pomegra. The front gate she had seen, carved of iron and higher even than the walls, but servants would use the back.

  The sharp cry of a baby pierced the stone. She stopped and listened, her heart beating in her throat. Perhaps Nessaket might have been able to say whether that was Daveed’s cry; she could not. But she steeled herself and walked to the back gate, which was carved with a filigree pattern in the Fryth style that gave it a light and airy look. There a guard stood lazily sucking on a pipe, and when she approached, he lifted it from his mouth and stared.

  ‘Please sir, blessings of the afternoon. I am looking for work. I was told to talk to the lord’s steward.’

  The guard stood up straight, then brushed his moustache with a finger. ‘What kind of work?’

  The lies came easily now she saw how embarrassed he looked. ‘I was nursemaid to the Lord Khouraf’s babe, but it died, and they left the city in grief.’ The part about Lord Khouraf’s babe dying was true – she had heard the story at court. She stepped forwards, an earnest expression on her face. ‘If I don’t find another position soon, I—’

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ he grumbled, turning to the kitchen door. ‘I thought you smelled like a lady, is all.’ He left her at the gate and she lifted a wrist to her nose. Jasmine and musk. Stupid. Servants could never afford such a scent.

  He remained in the house for some time as she waited in the quiet courtyard. Leggy roses grew against the wall, mostly neglected, but a lemon tree had been planted in a large pot and it gave off a fresh scent when the wind passed over. Beneath it sheltered a bench, and Mesema imagined the house’s women sitting there, taking the morning air.

  The guard returned and two men with him, rougher-looking, and big. ‘This her?’ said one.

  ‘That’s her,’ said the guard without looking her way. His shoulders were hunched, like a beaten dog. Danger. She backed away towards the road.

  ‘You asking questions?’ The one to her right towered over her. He looked Cerani, but his eyes were blue.

  ‘I was asking for work. If there is no work then I will leave.’ She held her shoulders straight, refusing to be afraid.

  ‘Who told you there was work for a nursemaid?’

  ‘I heard … people were talking …�
�� She began to see the problems with her story.

  ‘What people?’

  ‘People at the church.’ She thought that would be enough to quiet them, but instead, they took more interest, stepping closer with new light in their eyes.

  ‘What church?’

  She swallowed, hoping her answer would hit the mark. ‘The church of the One God, the God of Everyone and Everything …’ She recited what Eldra had told her, but the first man shook his head.

  ‘She’s one of those pretties, trained to spy. This is how they do it, Jafar.’

  Jafar took her right hand and turned it, examining the nails. ‘She is no servant, it’s true.’ Then he dug his fingers into her elbow. ‘You’ll come inside and tell us who sent you.’

  ‘I’m just a nursemaid,’ she insisted, digging in her heels. If they took her inside she did not think she would come out. Pelar’s face flashed through her mind. It occurred to her that she might not see him again, and she felt as if she had swallowed all the emptiness in the world.

  ‘You’re—’ The man’s word ended in a wet sound.

  Mesema felt a warm spray like summer rain on her shoulder – but this was the desert, and there was no rain. She turned, and the blood gushing from his neck hit her in the face.

  ‘What—?’ Jafar drew his sword and slashed at someone behind her.

  Mesema had never been in a fight, but she had been in a war; she knew getting out of the way of a sword was more important than understanding why it was there. She dashed behind the lemon tree and now she saw it was Grada standing under the arch of the open gate, holding her twisted Knife while Jafar advanced upon her. He thrust and she ducked, spun and came up inside his guard, putting her Knife to his neck. They stood nose to nose and her dark eyes locked upon his. The cold expression on Grada’s face turned Mesema’s stomach to ice.

  Jafar’s sword clattered against the flagstones when he dropped it.

  ‘Tell me about the child,’ Grada hissed.

  ‘Die, filth,’ he said, ‘or else kill me.’

  Grada was about to ask another question when her gaze flicked Mesema’s way. At that moment Mesema felt the fabric press against the back of her shoulders and the cold of a blade against her neck. She had forgotten the first guard. ‘Let Jafar go,’ he said, ‘and I will not kill your little spy.’ He was not so awkward as she had believed, holding his dagger firmly where it would do the most damage. She stopped breathing.

  ‘She is not my spy,’ said Grada, but nevertheless she stepped away from Jafar. Mesema saw something flash in Grada’s hand just as her foot went out, connecting with Jafar’s stomach. The blade touching Mesema’s skin fell away and she heard a rattle as something hit the wall to her left.

  The moustached guard crumpled behind her. Blood soaked his shirt and her robes.

  Jafar doubled over as if in pain, but really his hand sought the sword he had dropped. Grada stepped on it and brought her knee into his face. Another moment, and she was crouching over him, the Knife against his neck once more. ‘What does he look like?’ she asked.

  ‘Who?’ Jafar was disoriented now, frightened and humiliated.

  Mesema watched, frozen in place.

  ‘The baby you’re hiding.’

  Jafar looked puzzled, and he moved his lips a few times before answering. ‘Some ugly get from the north. Don’t—’ Then he jerked, and gasped.

  Grada’s Knife had pierced his heart, but Mesema had not even seen her move.

  Grada stood, wiping the blood from her twisted blade, and examined the house. ‘They have no windows facing the courtyard – probably to give their women privacy. Good for us.’ Grada sounded distant.

  Mesema had seen much death during the Red Hoof War, even the clouded eyes of her own brother, and yet she could not move. Grada removed her knife-belt and drew off her grey robe, revealing a tunic and leggings beneath. ‘You’re covered in blood. Wash your face and sandals at the pump, then wear this.’ She paused. ‘Your Majesty.’

  Mesema looked around for a water-pump, found it against the house and approached on shaking legs. Numbly she worked the handle and splashed water over her face and feet. ‘You killed them,’ she said, pulling on the grey robe.

  ‘They laid hands upon my empress.’ Grada’s gaze shifted from the house door to the gate as she replaced her belt.

  Mesema frowned. The man who had come outside with Jafar had not touched her, but she decided to say nothing about that.

  ‘Hurry. We’ve taken too long.’ Grada retrieved the dagger she’d thrown at the moustached guard, who was now lying in a corner among some leaves, and walked out through the gate.

  ‘But there’s something here. I saw—’ In the map room she had seen blue in a shaft of sunlight, but perhaps it had been only her ring, caught in a beam from the window – a trick of the eye. Not a message from the Hidden God; nothing more than an excuse to leave the palace, to feel important. ‘Daveed is not here.’ She wiped at a tear.

  ‘I was fairly certain he was not.’ Grada walked at a fast clip. ‘News of this will spread quickly among the Mogyrk rebels. A nursemaid comes calling and soon three guards are lying dead. If Daveed was anywhere near—’

  ‘—he won’t be any longer.’ Mesema made fists so tight her fingernails cut into the flesh of her palms. Stupid, stupid. And yet for a trick of the eye it had guided her true. Those men had been of Mogyrk.

  ‘You should leave such things to me, Your Majesty.’ Grada’s voice betrayed some impatience. A carriage passed them by, one bejewelled hand holding open the curtain, and Mesema pulled her scarf tight. Her wheaten hair could yet betray her to a courtier.

  ‘That house is important.’ It had to be, else those deaths were for nothing.

  ‘I have been watching it for some time. Lord Nessen’s lands are on the northern border, and he has sympathy for the Fryth.’ Grada chose the steep stairs over the gentle road, and Mesema followed in her wake, picking a careful descent, looking in vain for handholds. ‘He’s not in Nooria, but I think he soon will be. They have received several deliveries of food, as if they expect a large company.’

  The sun was beginning to set. How long had she been out in the city? ‘I was going to pretend to be a servant, since you cannot do such a thing,’ Mesema said. ‘They are prejudiced against your kind.’ Untouchable, Sarmin had called her. It was in her eyes.

  ‘I am not the only spy the emperor commands, heaven bless him.’

  ‘I have made your work more difficult.’ Something compelled Mesema to continue talking, to wrap words around her actions until they came up clean. She had run out into the city, impulsive and arrogant, thinking to save Daveed with a map and blue light. Now men had paid for it with their lives.

  Grada glanced over her shoulder and offered spare words of comfort. ‘They will be forced to play their hand sooner now, and that may help us.’

  ‘Their hand? Is there another Mogyrk conspiracy?’ So focused had she been on Daveed that she had never thought there might be more at risk: another mistake she had made.

  Grada quickened her pace without answering, almost skipping down the endless stairs, and Mesema had to hurry to keep up. She was no longer that girl who had run across the plains without tiring; now her lungs burned in her chest. ‘I will tell the emperor about this myself, may the gods bless him.’

  ‘It would be as well that you do, for I do not bother his Majesty with unimportant news.’

  Mesema’s errand had not felt trivial. Anger flashed over her, renewing her pride. ‘You cannot speak to me this way. I am your empress.’

  Grada touched the Knife at her side. ‘In the city I am in control, so that I may keep you alive. In the palace you may do as you like.’ She had the right of it; the emperor’s Knife was not just any member of the Grey Service. She could make decisions of life or death over any royal person, including Sarmin himelf. Grada served the empire, and in the way she saw fit. It was all in that ugly weapon.

  They descended the rest of the way in silence, M
esema praying her legs did not give out on her.

  At the bottom of the hill Grada stopped and listened, giving Mesema a chance to catch her breath. ‘There are rebels fighting around the edges of the Maze,’ she said. ‘We will take a different path.’

  Mesema could hear nothing but she followed Grada without a word, holding tightly to her veil. She had not realised the Maze was so close. They took a circular path to the bridge she had crossed before, where the crowds had thinned and a man dressed all in black pushed a broom over the stones. By the time they passed through the covered market the sun had settled beyond the river and vendors were packing up their stalls. They turned onto the broad avenue leading past the Tower and Mesema recalled the beginning of her day and the sense of rightness she had carried: it seemed distant. A man approached, stumbling, smelling of alcohol, and Grada put herself between him and Mesema until he had disappeared around the next corner.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but Grada did not reply.

  In the evening those who had failed to gain an audience filled the streets around the palace. Every sunset they could be seen from the roof, some well-dressed and moving with angry impatience, others in rags, stumbling. Occasionally a carriage, moving fast, entered the street and forced everyone to scatter, or a merchant’s cart would move through, offering fruit or drink to the petitioners.

  Mesema and Grada moved against the flow, coming towards the palace instead of leaving it. Then Grada took her arm and pulled her into the shadow of a doorway. ‘Soldiers,’ she said. ‘Best they don’t see you.’

  At first Mesema could see only a disturbance, walkers and carts flowing to either side like water around a great stone, but as the group drew close she recognised the squad of Blue Shields, approaching the palace with brisk steps. They looked straight ahead, hands curled around the hilts of their swords. As a child in wartime Mesema had become accustomed to judging what sort of news a person had by their bearing. Stiff and nervous, these soldiers had come to report something bad. The two women waited for them to pass, and then a while longer, before following in their wake.