‘What do you think happened?’ Mesema looked up at Grada’s expressionless face. ‘Is it about Daveed?’
‘Probably not,’ said Grada, her fingers straying to the hilt of her Knife.
Mesema had seen enough of the Knife for one day. ‘Let’s keep moving.’
At the courtyard Grada held Mesema back while she checked for soldiers and guards, then waved her through. ‘Use the servants’ entrance,’ she said. ‘Go and change.’
‘We’re in the palace now,’ Mesema said with some relief. ‘You cannot tell me what to do.’ Nevertheless she went in by the servants’ entrance and took the circuitous route to the women’s wing. The guards looked at her grey robes with curiosity as they opened the doors. She ignored them as she passed through.
The new women’s wing was white and spare, as plain as a Rider’s longhouse, except for the mosaic of Mirra set into the floor. The peaceful room brought her calm and she smiled at the concubines who sat around the Great Room, embroidering their shawls.
Tarub, waiting by the mirror, jumped up when she entered her bedchamber. ‘Your Majesty! I was so worried—’
‘Quickly,’ said Mesema, casting aside the assassin’s robe. ‘I must stand with my husband the emperor in the throne room.’
4
Sarmin
Sarmin sat on the Petal Throne. His legs ached from too long in the metal seat. The morning had found the cushions missing once again, giving Sarmin a choice: to request them in the full presence of the council, or do without. He knew what Azeem would say – to ask for a pillow was a weakness before men who would eat the sharp, cold throne for supper if they could. And so he had said nothing. Now he remained on his throne as priests, generals and merchant princes met in groups around the great room. Beyon had ruled through intimidation of the court and camaraderie with the soldiers; Tuvaini’s short rule had been marked by arrogance. Since Marke Kavic’s murder and the loss of his brother, Sarmin sat at a cold and furious remove, alone both in body and in mind.
The courtiers clustered into groups, some of them speaking loudly and hoping to be overheard, while others schemed in low voices. His own men, those he had elevated or done a favour, moved through the crowd, listening. Lord Jomla had betrayed the Petal Throne and paid with his life, but he had left behind his associates. Sarmin had brought each of them under his heel, and any who complained or whispered had met with Grada’s skilled hand. It had been a month since last she cut a noble neck, and still he kept close watch.
Though the Great Storm was brewing in the desert, this evening the courtiers spoke of Fryth. General Arigu had invaded that outermost colony of Yrkmir, but the Felting horse tribes – Mesema’s people – had shown treachery, attacking his army in the night and taking him captive. Those of Arigu’s men who had survived the march home returned in rags, starving and ill. Much talk was devoted to revenge upon the north – beginning with the Felt. Sarmin’s task was to prevent their bluster from turning into military action. Fryth had been Tuvaini’s war and Sarmin had paid enough for it already. The new chief of Mesema’s people had erred, but it was he who should pay, not all those she cared for. But as much as he tried to cool their anger, High Priest Dinar only fanned it again, for conflict was the realm of Herzu, and He would seek war whenever possible.
Lord Benna, Sarmin’s man, passed by Satrap Kenneck and made two symbols with his hand: War talk. North. Sarmin moved his gaze across the room as if he had not seen, but he too could think of nothing else this evening. Herran, the master of Sarmin’s spies and assassins, had received a new report, bringing dark rumours from those distant mountain valleys of Fryth. Most of the courtiers preferred to disbelieve them; their fantasies of revenge left no room for other possibilities.
Laughter and the clinking of glasses followed the arrival of the evening’s libation. The courtiers began to circulate, winding around one another in an intricate dance of power. Only the guards, High Mage Govnan and the desert headman Notheen held an unmoving silence, rocks in a moving stream of finery and jewels. During the day lord and priest alike sat in their places, tiered according to birth and influence, but now the doors had been closed and all the reports read, they worked the invisible strings of empire.
Once he might have been able to see a pattern in it, but that kind of sight had left him.
Against the wall stood a harpist, plucking at his strings. He had been a gift from Lord Murti, governor of Gehinni Province. Sarmin did not like music; he neither understood nor anticipated how the notes were meant to come together. It came to his ears as a collection of tumbling noises, and it grated on his nerves when combined with other sounds. Azeem told him it was the latest fashion to have a musician hovering about, but he did not care. He waved a hand for the man to stop, and breathed a sigh of relief when the plinking ended.
Azeem gathered his work at the near table. ‘What did you think of the spy’s report, Magnificence?’ he asked, too low for anyone to overhear.
The report. Sarmin shifted and felt needles along his right leg. Herran’s spy, a travelling merchant, claimed Yrkmir had destroyed Fryth not long after Arigu’s men had retreated. And how … Sarmin remembered the way Marke Kavic had spoken of the empire, and he knew there was no great love between Fryth and the first austere – but no great nation destroyed one of its own colonies. What of tribute, men to work the land? It made no sense to punish Fryth so soon after its great victory against Cerana, their ancient enemy. Add to that the manner of its destruction …
Azeem busied himself with inks and signatures, his long fingers careful and precise, but Sarmin knew that he was waiting upon an answer. With the Many, he had held conflicting views, and a chorus had offered its wisdom, hatred or fears. Now he was alone and could offer only his own belief, with no contravening whispers. At last the dark words found his voice. ‘I think it is true, and I think the Yrkmen’s path will lead them to Nooria.’
Azeem laid his hands upon the table a moment, saying nothing. Beyond him Satrap Honnecka and the gaunt General Merkel paused to chat; Sarmin watched their distorted reflections in the shining floor. It had been a long while since such men had encountered enemy soldiers. They liked to complain the White Hats had been humiliated when they left Fryth, and claimed they would relish a chance to restore Cerana’s honour. But would they stand against Yrkmir, or flee to their comfortable homes in the provinces? Without Arigu, Sarmin felt less confident facing Yrkmir’s army.
The time had come to send Pelar and Mesema to the safety of the southern province. Headman Notheen had long insisted the palace should leave the capital, and Sarmin would begin with its most precious inhabitants.
The herald’s gong crashed and shimmered in the air, indicating a new arrival: someone too late to petition, but too important to turn away. Nevertheless he – or they – would wait. Sarmin raised a hand to stay the twelve men set to open the heavy doors, giving the courtiers time to finish their conversations and find their seats. Never should a ruler act with urgency. His power is great: its shadow, eternal. It was all within the Book of Statehood. With everyone settled, he motioned the doormen a second time. As the carved doors swung slowly on their hinges the smaller side door snapped open and Mesema slipped through.
Sarmin took note, as always, of who bowed to his wife – High Priest Assar of Mirra, some minor lords and his vizier, Azeem. Dinar of Herzu stared at her with his dark eyes.
Mesema held her shoulders back and her head high as she walked towards the dais. She had defeated the Pattern Master – these men were nothing to her. Admiration rose up inside of him, warm and powerful. Before Mesema lowered herself into an obeisance she met Sarmin’s gaze. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair in disarray. He would swear that every time he saw her she was more beautiful than before, her brightness sharp enough to cut him. He took the time she faced the floor to gather himself.
‘Rise,’ Sarmin said. ‘Does all go well in the women’s wing, my wife?’ Some of the men glanced at one another, smirking at the absurdity that he
should ask, and he marked each face. Mesema blushed and looked aside as if guilty. ‘Yes, Magnificence. The builders have made a beautiful home for us. I am grateful.’ As he puzzled over the space between her words and her expression, the God Doors reached their full extension.
Sarmin waved to the right side of the throne, and Mesema took her place there. His brother Beyon had never put his mother behind a screen, as much as he had hated her, and even if Sarmin had wished to keep Mesema from the court’s view to protect her, he did not know where such a screen might be kept. Nor did he know how to keep Mesema away from the centre of things. Let the men of the council sneer; Mesema would stay. He motioned for the new arrivals to move forwards.
Blue-hatted soldiers approached over the long silken path, each looking more dour than the last. They came to the end of the runner and prostrated themselves.
Sarmin heard Mesema draw a long breath beside him. ‘Rise and report,’ he said into the silence.
‘Your Majesty,’ said the man in front, a greying man with wide shoulders who held his plumed hat under an elbow. ‘Your Majesty, there has been an attack.’
The rebels often started fires or threw rocks at Blue Shields in the Maze. Never had his soldiers reported about them with such ceremony. Had Austere Adam and his missing slave rebels made a move, done something more serious? Sarmin knew the attacks must stop, but at the same time each one brought hope, for violence left clues that could be traced, perhaps all the way to his brother Daveed.
Sarmin did not shift in his seat, careful to show calm. ‘Give me the details.’
‘An hour ago, we were called to the eastern fruit market, Magnificence. But we were too late: everyone there was dead.’ The soldier swallowed. ‘I don’t know how many. We couldn’t make out the men from the women, or the dogs from the children. They were … they were destroyed.’
Icy fingers ran along Sarmin’s spine. ‘Destroyed how?’
The soldier’s skin paled and he glanced towards Mesema. ‘Bits of flesh everywhere, bones lying in the sun … just cooking there.’ He swallowed. ‘It was like they were turned the wrong way out. Your Majesty.’
… a wet fall of pulverised flesh, as if in one sharp moment the pattern shrank to a point and each line of it became a razor, slicing through skin and flesh to the bone … Sarmin pushed away the memory that was not his. It was of Fryth, of a young boy named Gallar who had lived and died in those high and unforgiving places. Not here.
One of the soldiers swayed and held a hand to his mouth. Sarmin hoped he would not vomit on the dais; his men would take payment for such an infraction before he could raise a hand to stop them.
Sarmin’s right hand wrapped around the carved roses of the throne, ridges and thorns pressing against his skin. He watched Govnan leave through the side door. The old man might move slowly, but he wasted no time.
‘Keep the marketplace undisturbed until the Tower has completed its investigation.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Good work.’ Sarmin’s looked beyond the soldiers to where Grada leaned against the far wall. He had not seen her arrive, but he had felt her presence, like a cooling fountain at the height of the day. She shook her head at him, her way of telling him she had not found Daveed – not yet. Then she looked long at Mesema before making her exit. As she disappeared beyond the doors he felt a small tug, as if a string had been cut inside him. But that had happened long ago, and the familiar desolation touched him only briefly.
Sarmin turned his attention to the soldier. ‘You are dismissed.’
The room held silent until the doors were closed once more, then erupted into chaos.
‘The Mogyrks have done this!’
‘We cannot stand for it, Magnificence!’
‘We must raid their churches, slaughter all the rebels,’ said General Merkel, grabbing at the hilt of his sword as if a Yrkman stood before him. ‘Herran knows where they are – why does he not tell us?’
‘Indeed, Herran … where is he?’ Satrap Honnecka raised a finger to Azeem. ‘Call for the master spy at once!’ At this Dinar of Herzu smiled, the only man in the room to take joy from the situation.
Mesema brushed Sarmin’s shoulder, the briefest of touches, and he remembered himself, raising a hand. ‘I can hear all of you, even if you are not screaming.’
General Hazran of the Blue Shields, always more measured, rubbed at his beard. ‘It is certainly possible the Mogyrks are responsible. It could be the prelude to something greater. Vizier Azeem, could you read once again the report from Fryth?’
Azeem shuffled his parchments, playing for time. It had disquieted him. The first time he had read the report, the courtiers had called it absurd. They had called into question Herran’s wisdom in employing certain spies, who sent reports designed to deceive them about the state of their enemy. Such is the ability of many to forget all that has gone before.
At last Azeem lifted the missive and read in a clear, well-accented voice, ‘Word from traders who have passed through Fryth is beginning to filter into Nooria. The news is strange: reports of men reduced to flesh and broken bone, of a silent valley where no bird sings … and the rulers and generals who were there short months ago are nowhere to be found in the empty cities and farms. And everywhere, pennants fly the red and white emblem of Yrkmir.’
5
Govnan
Govnan made his way down the narrow street, his rock-sworn acolyte Moreth right behind. A butcher’s-alley stench grew stronger with every step, and the dingy, windowless buildings rising high on either side blocked the moonlight and trapped the air at nose level. The guards had removed all citizens except for the witnesses, who waited in a coffee house nearby, so he and Moreth met nobody as they walked, heard nothing except the click of Govnan’s staff against the stone. The houses at the end of the street tilted in so much their roofs met at odd angles, making the passage so narrow Govnan was forced to turn sideways in places.
‘There’s a step – be careful,’ murmured Moreth. The rock-sworn occasionally helped him down the stairs, and had developed a protective air.
‘My eyes are not so old they cannot see.’
On the other side of the gap houses receded, leaving a rough open circle, a well in the centre, wide enough to set up three stalls and some barrels. Lantern-light revealed nothing tipped over or broken. The marketplace looked in order, except for the lumps of flesh on the ground and a dizzying odour of death.
Herran had provided them with cloths soaked in camphor and Govnan pressed one to his nose and mouth. A guardsman waited at attention beside a cart covered with dripping red paste.
As he approached the guardsman said, ‘This was pomegranate, High Mage.’
‘I see.’ Govnan turned to look at what lay on the ground – human, he thought, as shreds of clothing could be seen among the gore. Bones had snapped and turned out towards the sky, and the skin had either melted or turned inwards. Intestines slithered out onto the stone, glistening in the firelight. He choked back bile. He did not know whether a physician or a butcher would be better able to tell man from woman. And there were five more such deposits – two by the well, three scattered around the carts.
Sarmin had separated him from his flame-spirit Ashanagur and it sometimes felt as if he had lost half his intellect. Ashanagur might have identified the cause of death, though in Govnan’s experience, the efreet did not always share information. Now he had Moreth. That would have to do. Govnan knelt, wincing at the pain in his knees and hips as he settled against the ground.
He looked down at a stretch of pink flesh, smooth as a mirror. ‘Your robes, High Mage!’ cried Moreth. Indeed, blood had already soaked into the white cotton. ‘I have many,’ he said, and it was true, though there were few to wash them. The Tower had never kept slaves. When he was a young man the Tower had been teeming with mages and their apprentices, all sharing the work, but even that had been a decline from the days of Satreth the Reclaimer. In recent years they had been fewer yet. Now Mura ha
d been lost to the Fryth war, to his unending sorrow, and only Moreth, Hashi the wind mage and the Megra remained. Of those not of the Tower, only Sarmin knew its emptiness, the cobwebs in every corner. Its potency had long kept Cerana safe from all enemies – that was, when High Mage Kobar had held the seat. There had not been a day Govnan had served as high mage when there was not some magical threat haunting the empire. And now this.
The destroyed flesh yielded little more information close up than it had at a distance. He was sure now the bones had not been cut with any weapon; the breaks were not smooth and he saw no scoring that would indicate a blade. He smelled nothing like poison or the sulphur used in casting certain illegal spells. Before replacing his camphor-soaked cloth he said a quick prayer to Mirra; though he had never been a believer, he hoped this poor soul had been lifted. He gripped his staff and stood. ‘I need samples from the flesh of each of these and’ – he looked around at the positions of the dead – ‘I want a drawing, with distances. Get a draftsman from the Builders’ Tower to do it.’
‘You think there might be a pattern here, High Mage?’
Govnan disliked revealing the path of his thoughts, so he ignored the question. ‘Find what the spirit Rorswan has to tell you.’
Moreth knelt, pressed a hand to the ground and closed his eyes, becoming so still one might have thought him a statue.
The guardsman shifted nervously, looking at the stones beneath his feet. Most without talent did not realise the danger, but this one was clever.
The rock-sworn spoke in a grinding voice that crushed syllables as a millstone crushes wheat. ‘Magic here. Not the Tower. Pictures of light. A circle.’ He was silent again, and after a long while he stood, wiping sand from his lips. He met Govnan’s gaze, eyes dark with what he had seen, but he would not share it in front of the alert guardsman.
The guardsman took a step to his left, where the market narrowed into yet another airless street. Doubtless he was eager to leave this place. ‘Will you interview the witnesses now?’
Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken Page 3