Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘yes.’

  He paused. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rushes.’

  Farid returned to the stairs and placed the cradle at the edge of the first step. Then he set to making his pattern for the third time. He wished he had learned more than two, but then he remembered they were the tool of the enemy and shuddered. He barely needed to think about the shapes now; his hands moved automatically, his sore, damaged fingers pressing against the knife. When he was ready he tipped the cradle down the stairs, making a great noise, and waited at the edge of his design.

  Two men ran to the bottom of the steps and examined the contents of the spilled blankets. Whatever their purpose, they did seem to care about the child they had imprisoned. Not finding the babe they turned towards the stairs and as they rushed upwards, they caught sight of Farid and started shouting at one another to seize him.

  He pulled, a smile coming to his face. He would get out, and once free, he would find his father. He thought of the old man’s face, scored with wrinkles, his big hands as they lifted barrels full of pomegranates.

  The men fell through, landing upon the barrels and crates that had been stacked below, still moving, but not rising to their feet. Their legs were broken. And he was not well either. He gripped the edge of the wood, fighting the blackness at the edge of his vision.

  He gathered himself and returned to the room. ‘Come, hurry,’ he said, and when Rushes came closer he took the baby and clasped her hand. On the landing he guided her around the chasm and showed her where the steps began, all the while listening for Adam.

  ‘They’re not dead?’ she asked.

  ‘No, just hurt.’

  ‘Kill them.’

  Farid felt a pang of horror. He had never taken a life – he did not know how to thrust metal past bone and into living flesh. ‘No. Come on, let’s hurry.’

  But she paused, then whispered, ‘I have to get to the palace.’

  With all the strange things that had happened to him he did not find this as unbelievable as he might have. ‘All right.’

  They made their way to the bottom and looked around the dark room. Someone was watching them: he knew it. Someone was there, in the shadows, but whoever it was made no effort to intervene. He opened the door and peered out, then cast one last look into the shadows before pushing Rushes through and stepping out into the Maze.

  You will help me, but first you need to escape. The words hung over his victory as he ran towards the river, the babe in his arms and Rushes pounding after. Adam had let him go, but he wanted it to look like an escape. Everything so far had proceeded as Adam wished, and he did not know why, or what might come next. After they had run a few blocks he heard shouts, the clash of weapons and running feet. Were they being chased? But the tang of smoke carried on the air, suggesting another sort of conflict. He slowed, taking each step more carefully, listening to see which path might be safest.

  ‘Mogyrk scum!’ someone shouted, and the epithet was punctuated by a crash. Shortly afterwards cheers rang out, celebrating some small victory. A group of men ran Farid’s way and he pressed himself against the wall, pushing Rushes behind him. They hurried past, too busy fleeing Blue Shields to pay them any mind. Farid got them all into a doorway just as the soldiers rounded the corner, pounding after the first group. He realised one second before the guards did that they had run into an ambush: stones and jeers pelted down from the rooftops as rebels entered the street from both ends. They were well-armed, and smiling.

  Farid pressed himself further into the shadows.

  The guards were well trained and made of themselves a circle, using their shields to protect and defend, but the rebels were too many and soon the Blue Shields were bloody and limping. Farid still had his knife and he drew it from his belt, gripping the handle hard. If the rebels should notice his little group, come after the girl, Rushes … To defend her would mean certain death. He could take out one of the rebels, maybe two, before they overwhelmed him – but what choice did he have? He watched the fight, deciding how he would use his blade when they came, gathering his nerve. It was then more soldiers entered the fray, coming from the riverside, fresh and ready to fight, and he drew back into the shadows, feeling a fool. He was no fighter, nor a hero.

  The rebels scattered and the Blue Shields gathered their wounded. Farid did not move. He held a finger to Rushes’ lips, waiting for the road to clear. It was then one of the soldiers caught sight of him, and motioned to the rest of his men. ‘Look here, we got some more hiding.’

  ‘We weren’t with them,’ Farid said.

  ‘Look, it’s a little family.’ The man looked past him to where Rushes sat, the baby in her arms.

  ‘We were trying to get to—’ Where? The marketplace and his apartments were the other way. Who would believe they were on their way to the palace? ‘—the guard station.’

  ‘The guard station’s on fire. Did you light the match?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but there are Mogyrks in the Maze who likely did it.’

  ‘Listen to this man!’ laughed the soldier. ‘He’s a scholar!’

  Farid approached him, palms turned out, knowing it was important to convince these soldiers, knowing Adam must be captured and quickly. ‘Look, I can show you where they are.’

  ‘You trying to draw us in? Get us surrounded like last time?’

  ‘I told you, we’re not with them.’

  Another soldier, older, came to stand beside the first, and Farid was struck by his eyes, blue beneath grey bushy eyebrows. ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Farid.’

  The first soldier took a step back and hooted. ‘Not the Farid we’re looking for? That would be some luck.’

  The older man stepped closer, squinting into the dark doorway at Rushes. ‘Were you in the marketplace?’

  ‘Yes.’ When the soldiers looked at one another, he added, ‘I’m a fruit-seller.’

  ‘Come with me,’ said the old soldier, his blue eyes gone solemn, beckoning him with a gloved hand. ‘The Tower has business with you.’

  17

  Mesema

  Mesema lay where scented mountain beauty twisted around long blades of grass and the black summer soil warmed her skin. She twisted her hands in his curls as he kissed her, his cheeks rough, his chest smooth against her exploring hand. His lips wandered to her neck, his breath tickling the fine hairs and, further down, laying warm kisses between her breasts, one hand now between her legs. Her sister’s voice carried over the distance, calling to someone, and laughter rang out around the fire, but they were all far away, and the two of them were alone … She rolled and put him beneath her. The moon was in her face and her need was so great, greater than she had ever felt it, so that the touch of him made her think she might burst, or dissolve into nothing, if she just lowered her hips.

  Mesema woke with a start, her heart beating so fast she put a hand over her chest to slow it. She rolled to her side, then slipped out of her bed, glancing back at the pillows with horror as if the bed, not she, had been unfaithful. She stood in the middle of the room, the desert night cold against her skin.

  Tarub stood in the doorway. ‘I heard a shout, Your Majesty. Are you well?’

  ‘I am fine, Tarub. I need light.’

  Within seconds Tarub had given her enough light to make out the edges of the room, marked by Pelar’s empty crib, the mirror with all of her Cerani makeup and jewellery laid out before it and the humble chest full of her Felting possessions. She fell to her knees before the chest and lifted the lid, gazing within as if peering into the Grass itself. She pushed aside the woollen blankets her mother had made for her and the wedding dress she and the others had embroidered by firelight and searched with her hands to the very bottom, where she had stuffed her old cloak when she came out of the mountains for good. Using secret methods, her mother had made the wool a bright white, so the flowers stitched across it in blue and red stood out even more. She gathered the cloak in her
hands, ran her fingers along the hem. Once, Banreh had been writing in the carriage when it came to a sudden stop and his ink had splashed over the rim of its pot. She found the black spot and took a deep breath.

  She pulled the cloak up around her shoulders and regarded herself in the polished silver, but she did not look like a plains-girl. Her hair, the paint-stain lingering on her lips, even the way she stood spoke of the palace. She tore off the cloak and threw it on the floor.

  She stood in the silence of her room, so empty without Pelar, and closed her eyes. He had gone south, so far from the Hidden God that she did not believe He would ever find him. She turned to the shadowed cradle and lifted Pelar’s silks to her nose, filling her heart with his scent. Sarmin and Nessaket had been right: she should have gone south with her child.

  ‘The Empire Mother to see you, Your Majesty,’ said Tarub from the doorway, and Mesema turned, dropping Pelar’s wrappings.

  Nessaket entered and slid down upon a bench, rubbing her forehead with one hand. Pain had etched wrinkles around her eyes. She pretended not to notice the tears on Mesema’s cheeks. ‘I heard you scream.’

  ‘A nightmare,’ Mesema lied.

  Nessaket did not pursue it. ‘You spoke privately with the prisoner. What did he say?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I guessed. Now I know.’

  Mesema watched Nessaket’s face, knowing she walked on uneven ground. ‘He said Arigu betrayed him.’

  The Empire Mother clicked her tongue in disbelief. ‘He will say nothing useful before he dies, then.’

  Mesema stared, afraid to ask what the Empire Mother knew of Banreh’s death, but Nessaket read her face and said, ‘Don’t worry yourself, Daughter. I have made sure he will die without pain, away from Dinar’s knives.’

  ‘But—’

  Nessaket motioned to the cloak on the rug. ‘Are you going somewhere in that? Back to the dungeon, perhaps? Or out into the city?’

  Mesema picked it up, folded it and replaced it in the chest, blushing. So the Empire Mother knew of her adventure at Lord Nessen’s estate. ‘No.’ She closed the lid, and once more had nothing for her hands to do. She kept them still at her sides.

  ‘Good. When my son the emperor is dead, heaven and stars keep him, you may do as you like, but not before.’ When Mesema began to protest, she held up a hand. ‘You are young, and love can run you right through, hard as a spear. I remember that much. But do not risk this. You do not know what will arise should you take a wrong step.’

  ‘I love the emperor my husband,’ said Mesema, almost by rote. She sat on the bed and faced the Empire Mother. ‘Did you love Emperor Tahal?’

  Nessaket gave a little shrug. ‘We of the palace should not be concerned with love.’ That might be true, but Mesema had seen Nessaket’s face when she heard General Arigu was still alive.

  ‘I don’t know what I imagined when first I came here,’ said Mesema. ‘At first I thought I would lie on a couch all day, being fanned by slaves. But then the palace frightened me and I didn’t know if I would survive it.’ The emptiness, she did not fear; she had faith in Sarmin to stop it. But Yrkmir was something new.

  ‘You will survive, Mirra willing; you will. But I fear I will not. I survived my attack, but it drains me. Every day I feel a little less alive.’

  ‘It is because you are sad about Daveed.’ Mesema rushed forwards to take Nessaket’s hand. ‘But we will find him.’

  ‘I know we will, for better or for worse. And my little servant Rushes, too. I miss her almost as much, though everyone else has forgotten her.’ Nessaket patted Mesema’s cheek, then stood. ‘I must rest.’

  Nessaket left the room and Mesema clapped for Tarub; the girl would never forgive her if she dressed herself. A silk covering was chosen and wrapped around her. Willa drew a brush through her hair and pushed slippers onto her feet. To go before the emperor, a woman must bathe and paint her face – but that was a palace rule, not Sarmin’s. He did not notice how she looked. She left her room and made her way towards the doors to the palace, hearing her guards behind her, soft on their feet. Once out of the new women’s wing she squinted, for in the larger palace the lights, all lit, were harsh against her eyes.

  Sarmin’s room was further than it had been from the old women’s wing, and she passed many slaves and administrators, who threw themselves down upon the floor at the sight of her. She began to feel embarrassed, wandering the halls late at night, and wondered at the impulse that had led her here.

  Her guard Sendhil, the eldest of her men, said in a low voice, ‘Your Majesty, where are we going at this time of night? Protocol requires—’

  ‘We go to see the emperor, Sendhil.’

  His hand went to his grey moustache. ‘Ah. But there have been days you disappeared, Your Majesty, and in all our searching of the palace and its grounds we could not find you.’

  ‘Do not fear. The emperor will not learn of your failure.’

  ‘I am not concerned about that, Your Majesty. I am concerned for you.’

  Mesema remembered her rescue at Grada’s hands, and Banreh’s illicit kiss through the iron bars. Sendhil was likely correct: she should never follow her instincts. ‘Thank you, Sendhil,’ she said, hoping that would be the end of it.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he went on, ‘remember, it is required that we be present whenever a woman of your stature is near a man who is not the emperor, or a woman of lesser status, or in the view of—’

  Each word felt like another tether around her ankles. She took an authoritative tone. ‘I have told you it will not happen again. I have listened, Sendhil, and I hear, but you must know that what is improper in Nooria is not improper in my land. I will suffer no more instruction from you.’

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He slowed his steps and joined the men behind her.

  Relief filled her at the sight of Sarmin’s door and she entered, leaving his sword-sons and her guards doing an awkward dance in the corridor.

  Sarmin sat at his desk conversing with Azeem, who stood with a scroll in his hands. Never did she catch sight of the grand vizier without scrolls or a ledger. Sarmin looked as if he had been running, bright spots of red colouring his cheeks, but Mesema knew better: he had become healthier in the last few months, but not so much as that. When she entered they both turned her way, Sarmin registering surprise and some pleasure, Azeem looking horrified. Indeed, the wife of the emperor should never enter his room without invitation.

  But Sarmin smiled, strode to the doorway and took Mesema’s hands in his. ‘I was hoping to see you. You’re the first thing to look beautiful to me since I left the Tower.’

  It had been long since he had said anything of that nature, and she felt her cheeks go red. ‘Thank you, my husband.’ She had not known the Tower was so beautiful, to blind a man to the sights of the palace.

  Azeem gave a stiff bow and gathered more scrolls into his arms. ‘I will retire, with your permission, Magnificence.’

  ‘Of course, Azeem.’

  Azeem left, the back of his robes as straight and unwrinkled as in the morning when he first donned them. Sarmin turned to Mesema. ‘Your question to me regarding the river has yielded some insight.’ He led her to a bench where they sat side by side.

  She listened.

  ‘I’ve had a thought. Do you remember how you and I slipped through the pattern, unseen?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sarmin gripped her hands more tightly. ‘Well, the same might be possible with the Great Storm.’

  ‘But when I slipped through the pattern, I followed a path. There is no path through the emptiness.’ Mesema sat up and looked into his copper eyes. The moment reminded her of an earlier time when they had shared the tower room as a hiding place, eating scraps stolen from the kitchen. ‘But perhaps it is not so empty. The pattern took memories and images. The emptiness also takes. It drains everything, even colour. I thought it the opposite of the pattern, but …’

  ‘Maybe it is more closely linked to th
e pattern than we had believed.’ His enthusiasm was short-lived and he leaned back against the cushions, deflated. ‘But I cannot see patterns.’

  ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘you will.’ She thought how to broach the subject of Banreh and the Felting slaves, but just as she was about to speak, he caught her in an embrace.

  ‘I am glad you stayed in the palace,’ he whispered into her hair.

  Her heart burned when she remembered Banreh’s lips against hers, and she closed her eyes to shut the memory from her mind.

  Sarmin spoke again into her ear. ‘Do you think we will be husband and wife again, soon?’ His breath fell upon her neck, and she was reminded then of her dream.

  She blushed and pulled away. If she had not the courage to confess about Banreh, she would confess something else. ‘I require forgiveness, my husband, for motherhood has invested me with no more wisdom than I had as a child.’ She raised a hand to stop his protest. ‘I went out into the city. I had a vision from the Hidden God and I thought it showed me Daveed. I was foolish and tricked my guards. Grada brought me back.’

  His copper eyes went wide. ‘Why? Why would you go out there?’

  ‘How much time have you spent with your mother since her injury, Sarmin? Listen, she suffers terrible headaches. At times she is so dizzy she can barely move, but when her body is well, grief fills her mind. She cannot sleep – and so neither can I. All day I dread the night, and all night I curse the Mogyrks who took your brother. I had to do something. But I chose the wrong path, Sarmin, and men died.’ She wiped away a tear.

  Sarmin stood, his shoulders stiff. ‘You must leave such things to Grada. But I would hear of your vision, because none have been false so far.’

  ‘It showed me Lord Nessen’s house—’ The floor shook and the parchment on Sarmin’s desk slid to the carpet. The room heaved, sending the bench through the air, its pillows streaming behind it, and throwing Mesema to the floor. A shower of plaster fell over her back and then at last the room stilled.

  Mesema scrambled to her knees as Sarmin stood and looked about the room in horror. ‘What new manner of attack is this?’ he breathed.