Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  Govnan sat down across from him. ‘I saw it from the Tower today and there can be no mistaking it. It darkens the sky and earth and crowds the mountains behind it from sight. We have a day, maybe less, before it reaches the Blessing, and three before it reaches the north walls of Nooria.’ He shifted. ‘Magnificence?’

  ‘And the crack?’ Sarmin asked at last, not shifting his gaze from among the brush-strokes. ‘The crack in the Tower?’

  ‘It widens.’

  Azeem cleared his throat. Sarmin had forgotten him. ‘Our citizens flee south. There are so many leaving through the Low Gate that a carriage can barely move once it passes Asherak Bridge.’

  What had once been Asherak Bridge, Sarmin thought to himself, and now consisted of rubble sticking up from the water, threatening the hulls of the barges and other vessels plying the Blessing.

  Azeem continued, ‘In better news, the scouts have not seen any signs of troops from Yrkmir.’

  ‘They are coming, nonetheless.’ Through the empty spaces. What did that mean? He would need to ask Notheen when next he saw him. Sarmin turned away from the wall; he would not be a pattern mage this night, nor any other. Govnan hunched in his chair, watching him with bright eyes, while Azeem stood to his left. The grand vizier held no parchments or ledgers; his elegant hands were folded over his robes.

  ‘What of my brother? Has Grada come with a report?’

  Azeem’s face told Sarmin the answer. He wanted to knock the man to the floor.

  ‘There is some good news,’ said the grand vizier. ‘Herran reports Ziggur’s company is heading east towards Nooria. With luck, General Arigu will be among them.’

  ‘There was no ambush.’ Sarmin stood. That was indeed good news. ‘The empress was correct.’

  ‘Yes, Magnificence,’ said Azeem without inflection.

  ‘But Arigu is only half of what we need to keep our walls safe. We also require a pattern mage.’

  ‘There is Farid,’ Govnan said, almost whispering. He drew two scroll-tubes from his robe. ‘I have brought the patterns he drew for me. He has an excellent memory.’

  Memory might be the only requirement for an austere. There were poets and there were scribes: the men who wrote soaring verse and metaphor, and the men who copied them from book to book. Farid might be no more than a man with a quill, but Sarmin would look at his work nevertheless. He gestured to the high mage. ‘Show me.’

  Govnan placed the first scroll upon the table and unrolled it to reveal a simple design more suited to mosaics than pattern-work. ‘This calls water,’ he said, and Azeem too leaned over it, his face caught between curiosity and disgust; Helmar had left him with a lingering distaste for patterns.

  The second pattern Govnan produced showed more complexity, but it was not at the level of Helmar’s work. ‘In both of these patterns, the spell takes effect in the centre. That fits with the destruction in the marketplace – only those within the circle were affected.’

  Sarmin picked up the second scroll. Each of these patterns existed on the parchment in only two dimensions. That had not been the case with Helmar. Helmar had made his pattern of the world, anchored among the dead and carried by the living, its threads whispering with the voices of the Many. Its breath had been the thoughts of the multitude, its sight their memories. What Sarmin looked at now was a mere drawing. He threw it on the desk. ‘I don’t see how this could create anything.’ He would hold out hope for Duke Didryk’s talent, now that he was on his way. ‘I will see Mura now.’

  Azeem glided to the door, silent as ever, and admitted the young mage. Sarmin knew the strangeness of the Tower was in part affected, allowing the ancient order to maintain its mystery and awe, but this mage did it well. Her eyes were focused far away and her robe moved absent of any wind. She fell into her obeisance, her spine straight, everything in her manner measured and perfect.

  ‘Rise, Mura.’ He waited until she faced him again. ‘You were the duke’s captive for many months.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘What is your judgement of the man?’

  She hesitated. She had been accused of treachery once already and knew better than to tempt it again. ‘He is passionate about his homeland, Magnificence. I overheard them talking from time to time—’

  ‘The duke and the chief?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. They mostly spoke in Frythian, but I did understand some of it. They both hold Yrkmir and Austere Adam in contempt. As for Cerana … They were proud of their actions against the White Hats, but they spoke well of the empress and they appeared to have real hope of an alliance.’

  Sarmin leaned back and watched the mage’s face. ‘And the duke’s pattern-spells? What did you see?’

  ‘I saw the duke cast only a few spells – the one that silenced Yomawa, and later, one calling water in the desert. I could not draw them for you. He is frugal with his talent, but I can tell you one thing: it frightens him.’

  Perhaps Duke Didryk understood the true cost, understood that every use of the pattern widened the god’s wounds. While Adam encouraged catastrophe, perhaps the duke really did think better of it. His hopes rose at the thought. He stood at the window and looked out into the darkness beyond the courtyard, though if Ziggur were anywhere close he would know it. ‘You are dismissed, Mura,’ he said at last.

  From the time of Uthman the Conqueror, Cerana had been a power beyond reach. The wide world feared its mages; its walls could not be breached; its army stood undefeated – except when it came to Yrkmir. And on that day when Yrkmen had sacked Nooria’s palace, Helmar had been taken. From them he had learned the tools he used to become the Pattern Master – but it had not been Yrkmir that had twisted him; that had come from his neglect at the hands of his royal family, from becoming a prisoner, from being put aside against a future need. Sarmin understood that well. In every Cerani history Yrkmir was the enemy – and yet Sarmin was beginning to think Cerana could fashion destruction quite well enough on its own.

  There had been no ambush in the desert; the duke had set his tiles on the board with no feint or trickery, and all had proceeded as he had promised. Sarmin should not be surprised; the man was Kavic’s cousin, and Kavic had been a direct and honest man. The politician in him knew an alliance with a Mogyrk ruler could help to ease tensions in the city. He might even be able to bring into question Yrkmir’s authority over the rebels and find his real brother at last.

  When the wrong boy had been returned to Sarmin he had felt powerless, helpless; but now his strength had been restored by new hope, flowing into his limbs and fingers with sweet excitement, just as it had on that first night when Tuvaini had opened the secret door to his room.

  I suggest you do not make them hate you. He remembered Grada’s words and smiled.

  ‘I will ally with this duke,’ he said into the dark.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Azeem fumbled for words. ‘This must go through the council. The priests—’

  ‘That will take too long, Azeem. Begin the proclamation tonight. Heralds will announce it throughout the city in the morning.’

  In a rustle of silk the grand vizier was gone. Only Govnan remained, still in his seat. Sarmin could hear him breathing. ‘What do you think Ashanagur meant, High Mage, when he said Mogyrk blinds the Tower?’

  ‘I do not know. Our power fades … but I do not see how that has anything to do with Mogyrk, or his wounds.’

  The Storm. Sarmin stared out into the night. ‘You must find a way to stop the Storm, Govnan. The emptiness cannot be allowed to destroy the Blessing or breach our walls while Yrkmir approaches. I cannot do it – I have lost the skill – but you command the Tower. The arcane secrets are open to you. You must find a way.’

  ‘Yes, Magnificence.’

  ‘If you cannot protect our Blessing and our walls, I will tear down the Tower and start a new one.’

  ‘There is no need to threaten, Your Majesty.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘If I do not find a way to stop the Storm, the Tower will already be gone.�
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  Sarmin turned to look at the old man. Govnan raised himself from the seat. ‘I am an old man, Magnificence, and sentimental. I have seen six emperors rule Nooria, and of all of them, you are my favourite.’ And now he did smile. ‘I will not fail you.’

  Sarmin found he could not speak, and so he bowed.

  Govnan bowed in return and left the room, his staff gripped in one hand, his steps slow and determined. Sarmin watched him go, then left the room as well, heading east, towards the women’s wing.

  *

  Willa opened the door to Mesema’s room. With a motion, Sarmin was rid of her. His wife stood inside, alone, her eyes wide with surprise, her face free of paint, clothed in a wisp of blue silk. The air felt moist and he caught the scent of roses; she had been in the bath. He began to explain why he had interrupted her evening, the awkward words ready to twist his mouth and put distance between them, but instead he stopped speaking, crossed the room and took her in his arms. ‘You were right,’ he said, whispering into the curls of her hair. ‘There was no ambush, and the duke is on his way to Nooria.’

  She raised her eyes to him and he looked down at her face in wonder. Cheekbones too broad, his mother said. Chin too pointed. And yet he could not stop looking. ‘And Arigu?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps Arigu also.’

  She did not ask about Banreh.

  ‘You were angry with me,’ she said, laying a palm against his cheek. ‘And I with you.’

  ‘I do not wish for that. I wish … I wish for you.’

  She smiled as he kissed each of her fingers. ‘Today I remembered that you taught me to read. Now I can open any book and learn what is in it. Poor Banafrit cannot read. Willa and Tarub cannot read, and those worlds are closed to them.’

  ‘You also opened a world to me.’

  She stood on her toes and their lips met. Her scent, the touch of her soft hair and the warmth of her body overwhelmed him. He did not know how long he stood there holding her against him, his hands searching for a way through the silk, before they stumbled together onto the bed. He tore at her silk wrappings, breaking her free, each sensation coming lightning-quick, her skin soft beneath his hands, her scent surrounding him. Every touch brought an agony of pleasure. Their bodies flowed together, all soft flesh and taut muscle, until release came shimmering and trembling over them.

  They pulled apart, smiling in the dark. ‘Mesema,’ he whispered, and she turned to him, her eyes lost in the shadows. ‘I think we will find our way through this.’

  She slid across the silk and kissed him. ‘My prince.’

  25

  Mesema

  Mesema woke to sunlight streaming through the window-screen and stretched. She had not slept so well since the day Pelar left. She smiled, but rolling to her side she saw his cradle was gone – given to Nessaket for the child – and the emptiness of the room filled her mind. She sat up, rubbing tears from her eyes, and called for Tarub and Willa. Sarmin had already risen and returned to his own apartments, preparing to receive the duke and Arigu in the throne room.

  Tarub entered first and brought her hands to her face. ‘Your hair, Majesty!’

  ‘Quickly,’ said Mesema, swinging her legs to the floor. ‘Get me ready for court.’

  Willa put a plate of food beside her. ‘First you will need to eat, Majesty, and to bathe, so that we may pull those tangles from your curls.’

  Mesema turned to look at herself in the silver mirror. Hair rose in a stiff point from the right side of her head. She reached out to touch it. ‘Why are reflections always backwards?’

  ‘To remind ourselves,’ said Nessaket from the doorway, ‘that we do not see the truth.’ Tarub and Willa threw themselves upon the floor and she waved a dismissive hand as she entered. ‘Get up and attend to the empress.’

  ‘Where is … Daveed?’ asked Mesema, taking a morsel of cheese from the plate. Sarmin was certain the boy was not his brother, but she did not think it possible for a mother to confuse another boy with her own son. Pelar would continue to grow and change in the southern province – but his eyes, his hair, the shape of his nose were imprinted on Mesema’s memory for ever. She wondered how much time Sarmin had spent with his brother, whether he truly knew the curve of his cheeks and the line of his forehead as well as Nessaket, who had borne him and birthed him. Perhaps his loss of the pattern-sight affected the way he saw the boy. She had also noticed that he could not understand music since closing the wound in Beyon’s tomb.

  ‘Daveed is with his nurses. I spent the morning questioning Rushes about Austere Adam, but she knows very little. He kept her in an attic room and she could not see.’ Nessaket wrapped a hand around the bedpost, looking at the state of the silks. ‘My other son has returned to your bed. That is well. Another few weeks and he might have started looking at the concubines.’

  ‘He wouldn’t.’

  ‘He has before.’ Nessaket’s voice brooked no argument. ‘You must keep him satisfied and diverted from conceiving more boys with his concubines. That is far more important than messing in politics.’

  ‘But you have messed in politics,’ Mesema argued. Willa entered carrying a heavy bucket of water and poured it into a wide copper bowl at her feet. Into this she threw rose-petals, soap and a handful of salt.

  ‘The Felt are your people and the traitor is their chief,’ Nessaket said firmly. ‘You must maintain a distance from him and his dealings, lest you be tarnished. I have warned you: this Fryth duke is part of Chief Banreh’s story, for good or ill, but you must step away from it.’ Nessaket watched Willa working the sponge over Mesema’s face and hair. ‘During Tahal’s time, my own father was involved in a scandal. Over too much drink he was heard criticising the emperor’s favourite general, and he was later implicated in a coup. I tried to defend him, and I nearly lost my place. Had I persisted, Beyon and Sarmin would never have been emperors. But I did not. I remained silent, as much as it hurt me, when my father was exiled from court.’

  Mesema kept a short silence out of respect for the story, then said, ‘But Empire Mother, no general of Cerana took your people as slaves.’ At this Willa started, and her elbow knocked Mesema’s book of poetry from the side table. It landed upside down and Mesema looked at the words, unrecognisable to her in reverse. As it had been with Banafrit, they appeared as nothing more than a jumble.

  As she studied the letters, an idea taking form in her, Nessaket answered. ‘You do not know that your people were taken slaves, either. You have found no evidence for it.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to all of the scribes yet.’ Tarub began working a comb through Mesema’s hair and she winced. ‘Nessaket, Mother. Listen – I do hear you, but Sarmin would never displace me, or Pelar.’ She closed her eyes, remembering how Sarmin had kissed her the night before. ‘I think he loves me.’ No man, not Beyon, not Banreh, had ever been so open with her.

  ‘You had better hope he does not love you,’ Nessaket said. ‘An emperor grants or withdraws his favour. He does not love, for that is a path to disaster.’ With that she stood, preparing to take her leave. ‘But since you have his favour at the moment, I have a request.’

  ‘Anything, Empire Mother.’

  ‘Will you help convince him that his brother has truly returned?’

  ‘Of course.’ In her mind she resolved not to convince him, but to prove it – though she did not yet know how to do that. Govan’s word and Nessaket’s certainty had so far counted for nothing.

  ‘Thank you, my Empress.’ Nessaket gave a formal bow and left the room. Distracted by her preparations, Mesema only watched the Empire Mother leave in the mirror.

  Tarub stuck a pin into Mesema’s hair. ‘I do not think you will be able to see the arrival of the duke, Your Majesty. Already the emperor has closed the doors and the first gong has sounded.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Mesema, ‘but I will try.’ Several minutes more, and her hair was finished, coiled around her head in an elaborate network of braids. Her face was carefully painted, and her skin
carried the scent of jasmine. Willa slipped pretty sandals on her feet and at last she was released from the room. Sendhil and her other guards trailed after her.

  ‘Come, Sendhil.’ Mesema hurried to the doors and out into the palace, taking the shortest path to the throne room, through the servants’ halls and back stairways. At last she came to the landing overlooking the Great Hall and stopped, surprised to see so many gathered there. So recently the room had contained nothing but broken mosaics – the ceiling above her still showed unfinished timber joists and jagged bits of plaster – but the debris had been cleared away and the floor beneath the boots of the Blue Shields positioned below gleamed in the sunlight.

  An old captain stood, with a dozen of his soldiers in formation behind him. Around them swarmed a few men of the court, the priests, generals and satraps who circled the throne like bees around honey. But one man stood out, taller even than Notheen, with skin as pale as the winter sky and a coat too heavy for Nooria’s climate. The man bent his head towards a Tower mage Mesema did not recognise. So this could be no other than the Fryth duke, Didryk, Banreh’s friend. As she stared down at him he looked up, and recognition flashed in his eyes. He gave a bow so slight that nobody in his vicinity noticed it, so engrossed were they in their own business.

  She inclined her head in the way of her people and he returned the gesture as the crowd began to move, sweeping the Fryth, the Blue Shield captain and all the soldiers towards the throne room.

  So that was Banreh’s ally. Mesema was relieved the chief had been set free. She turned towards the servants’ stair, but motion caught her eye and she looked back over the railing. In the corridor she saw a woman with long black hair walking towards the temple wing. ‘Your Majesty!’ she called, thinking it was Nessaket, but the woman did not acknowledge her.

  She hurried down the stairs and followed the black-haired woman into the corridor, but saw no one.

  Sendhil asked, ‘You are not slipping away again, Your Majesty?’ Always he worried. Her own father had never been so protective.