Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  Farid looked up and down the street, but he could not see the men, either dead or alive. He turned to Moreth, his hands shaking. ‘What happened? Where did they go?’

  ‘Moreth is newly sworn,’ said Mura, breathing hard. ‘He lost control of Rorswan and let him swallow those men. He never should have been—’

  Farid looked at Moreth. ‘You murdered them?’

  ‘His spirit took them. Govnan trained him too quickly; he does not yet have enough control.’ She walked towards Moreth, her eyes on the stone beneath her feet. Farid realised the danger and stepped back, though he too was still standing on the paving.

  Mura put a hand on the rock-sworn’s shoulder and spoke in a calming tone. ‘Do you have control now?’

  Moreth nodded and Mura rubbed her forehead, leaving a red mark beneath her ward. ‘There is nothing to be done about it. Moreth, I cannot leave you alone. You and I will go to the wall together. Farid will go to the palace and report about the pattern.’

  ‘I will need help to get rid of it.’ Farid could not take his eyes from the pool of blood in the street.

  ‘Then do that.’ Mura tried to pull Moreth to standing, but he was twice her height and weight. As she struggled with the rock-sworn she glanced back at Farid. ‘Well, go!’

  Farid ran.

  41

  Sarmin

  Sarmin stood on Qalamin’s Deck, the early morning cool against his skin. Grada, as always, waited beside him. ‘This is my city,’ Sarmin said, waving a hand from the darkened Low Gate all the way north to the Worship Gate, nearly obscured by the fog of the Great Storm. In between stood the Storm Gate, where Yrkmen and White Hats stared at one another across the great wall. A month ago he might have seen colour and movement below him, heard the shouts of citizens as they passed through the streets, but this dawn the city lay empty, its wounds from the earthquake open to the sky, and the only smoke rose from the distant camps of the Yrkmen.

  Sarmin raised his spyglass and focused on the Maze, where the rebels’ knives and rocks had gone still. Somewhere amongst those twisting alleys and piled rubble Adam must be crouched, giving orders, planning his coordination with the Yrkman army. He might have Sarmin’s mother with him, held against her will. But even the walls and stone defied Sarmin, for he could see nothing there. He turned the glass towards the northern quarter, lying in the shadow of the Storm, and then moved to the ruined marketplaces to the south. He saw nothing so clear and easy to define as an austere laying patterns or Yrkmen soldiers marching down the street; all looked calm, like the quiet before a storm. The Holies were spread out in front of him, clean and sparking in the dawn, and to his right, the Mages’ Tower and the Tower of the Knife raised their proud domes towards heaven.

  A buzzing beat around his ears and he shook his head in annoyance. He turned his spyglass east. Mogyrk’s Scar was there, and if they beat Yrkmir then he would have to go to it. There would be no ending the wounds unless the Scar was ended first. But what the lens showed him brought out a cold sweat against his forehead. He saw a churning wall of light and movement, like a sandstorm without any sand, where objects flickered in and out of his sight. He saw a tree rise and disappear; a lake evaporated. This was not a wound, not a void, but something else – something more. He lowered the spyglass and Grada moved closer, curious for the first time. ‘What is it, Your Majesty?’

  ‘It’s the Scar. It has drawn close.’ He ran his hands down the silk of his robes, as he had seen Azeem do many times. He found it comforting. ‘Very close.’

  Movement caught his eye. At last he saw people in the streets – but these were not his ordinary citizens, running back and forth to the market or carrying rice from flatboats on the river. Through the glass he could see that these men wore torn, ragged clothes that showed the filth of the Maze. Most of them were cut or bruised; only half wore shoes. But their faces showed a determination and a clarity that made him wonder. In their midst stood a man in red robes, his yellow hair gleaming in the soft light of the dawn. This man stood perfectly still, his arms by his sides, and he stared up at Qalamin’s Deck as if he knew Sarmin was standing there, staring down at him. Austere Adam. Nessaket was not with him.

  ‘He surrenders,’ said Grada, looking over the edge, and he resisted the urge to pull her back, away from the fall. Far beneath them, Blue Shields surrounded the man and his ragged crew. He snapped his spyglass shut. ‘Come. We have been too long away from the throne room.’

  *

  ‘We must kill him, Your Majesty,’ said General Merkel, waving his thin arm at the great doors. ‘As punishment for the deaths he has caused, the damage to our buildings and the consternation of our citizens.’

  ‘The emperor, heaven bless him and keep him,’ said Dinar to the general, ‘does not make decisions that quickly. The first prisoner we took remains in the temple of Mirra.’ A smile played over his lips as Grada’s hand moved towards the hilt of her Knife.

  ‘The duke is well enough under your thumb, Magnificence,’ Lurish said. ‘It is time to show the troops that vengeance will be had upon their enemies.’

  Dinar smiled again. ‘Indeed. The duke has finished the wardings we needed. The Yrkmen want him and Adam both – why not throw both men’s heads into their midst?’

  Assar shook his head. ‘Why not return them both alive, as was requested? Perhaps that way we can avert any more deaths.’

  This led to open laughter, but before anybody spoke again Sarmin whispered to Azeem, ‘Make sure the duke stays safely away from these men until I have rendered my decision.’ He would not lose his second ally from Fryth in less than a year. It was not just his court watching; the whole world was watching. Beyond his borders lived kings and emperors and chieftains with whom he would one day need to negotiate; killing envoys was not the reputation he desired to cultivate.

  In any case, he liked the duke.

  Azeem stepped from the dais and spoke quietly to Herran just as the gong sounded. The herald crept down the aisle, his smooth expression betraying none of the excitement of the moment. ‘Austere Adam, Your Majesty.’

  The austere walked down the silk runner, and despite their earlier threats the men of court backed away from his path. He had an air of dignity and physical prowess, the sort of man most people were not brave enough to confront without significant preparation. He walked all the way to the end, his chin held high, and Sarmin started to worry, for the last time Austere Adam had come to this room he had refused to bend his knee until Govnan took action with his staff. If Adam would not kneel today he would likely die for the infraction before Sarmin could say a word about it – and then he might never find his mother or his brother.

  To his relief Adam knelt without prompting and touched his forehead to the purple silk.

  A collective sigh, felt rather than heard, rose from the assembly.

  Sarmin waited a long while, and another long while after that, and the men of the court started to fiddle with their robes, to cough, to sneak looks at one another. The door shut behind Azeem and Herran and Sarmin felt the same buzzing in his ears that he had felt on Qalamin’s Deck, but now he recognised it as the noise of the Scar, a clattering of things, the whispers of all the life that flowered and died there, over and over, in a confusion of sound and motion.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Rise, Austere.’

  Adam rose to his feet. Dinar stood just behind him. Though Dinar was the bigger of the two, they were of similar build, and Sarmin wondered what it was in the life of a priest that lent itself to such muscle.

  ‘What brings you here, my enemy, in this time of war?’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Adam, meeting his gaze with eyes of indigo, deeper in colour than even Didryk’s, ‘I hope that we will be allies, not enemies, once we have finished talking. I have commanded my men to lay down their arms.’

  ‘That is nothing to me. They have already done enough harm to warrant their executions.’

  Adam shrugged. ‘My men know that they are going to paradise, an
d soon.’

  Sarmin regarded him in surprise. If he did not care for the lives of his men, what then did he care about – and why had he come? He went directly to his own concern. ‘Where are my mother and brother?’ At this the courtiers looked to one another, startled, for they did not know the Empire Mother was gone.

  Adam looked surprised. ‘I do not know where your mother is, Magnificence. I have not seen her. I had your brother and I let him go.’

  Lies and more lies. ‘Why? Why did you let him go?’ Sarmin leaned forwards, anxious to hear whatever reason Adam might offer. The austere had switched his brother with another boy, and Sarmin would get the truth out of the man eventually.

  ‘Because I could not send him to Yrkmir. The first austere is mad, Your Majesty. The child would not learn about Mogyrk, not the way children are meant to learn of him, in his light and love. So I allowed Rushes to escape.’

  ‘Blinded.’

  Adam looked chastened, but Sarmin was sure he was only pretending.

  ‘I did that early on so that she could not escape – or if she did, she could not tell anyone where we were.’

  ‘Not so that you could change my brother for another boy?’

  Again the courtiers murmured, and Adam looked at him wide-eyed. ‘No, Your Majesty! The boy who escaped with Rushes and Farid was the same boy I took from the palace.’

  ‘We can have no alliance if you continue to lie.’ Despite his words, a certainty took hold in him: he feared the austere spoke the truth. Mother, Daveed, where are you? He motioned to the Blue Shields and ordered, ‘Take him to the dungeon.’ With Adam safely in a cell he would have time to think – but he would need to send more than Blue Shields if he was to ensure the man did not die before he reached the dungeon. Herran had left with Azeem, so he turned and gestured to Ne-Seth and another of the sword-sons. ‘Go with him. Ensure his safety.’

  Adam struggled against the arms of the Blue Shields who held him. ‘Your Majesty! I come to offer you salvation. Death is near! You must bring yourself and your brother into the light before Mogyrk—’

  The doors closed behind him and Sarmin heard no more.

  The courtiers stood in silence for a time. At last Dinar spoke. ‘Would we truly seek an alliance with a Mogyrk austere?’

  Sarmin leaned back in his throne. ‘If I wish it.’ Didryk had never met the first austere; Adam clearly had. There was information there.

  ‘Magnificence,’ Dinar said, picking his words, ‘the gods have been very clear. The earthquake, the wound that grows to the north … I worry we may anger them further with our actions – or inaction.’

  ‘Which gods? I would think Herzu might enjoy the Storm.’ Did it not sow fear and kill indiscriminately?

  ‘He cannot exist there.’ Dinar blinked, and for the first time Sarmin saw fear in those dark eyes. For decades the high priest had been one of the most powerful men in Nooria. Now Mogyrk’s wound threatened to take that power away from him.

  Sarmin stood. Herran, Azeem and two of his sword-sons were not in the room and though Grada stood behind him, he felt outnumbered. ‘I will consider your words as I retire.’

  As he swept from the room, his nameless sword-sons close behind him, he heard the doubts of the courtiers in their murmurs and their shuffling feet. Something must be done to reassure them of the right of his ways, to affirm that enemies were punished and the empire, embodied in himself, was strong enough to prevail. Perhaps it was finally time for Banreh to die.

  42

  Farid

  Farid hurried to the palace, though once again every inch of him called out for sleep. His muscles screamed when he moved them, his eyes stung and a dizziness pervaded his mind, but he had to find the duke – the duke would know how to destroy the pattern around the Tower. Adam had impressed many things upon him in their short time together, but he had not given him any clue about how to get rid of a design already laid. He frowned, remembering Adam’s words: You will help me, but first you need to escape. When would he unwittingly aid the austere? Had he already done it, when he drew the ancient pattern on the walls of Govnan’s library?

  Or it was me who drew that pattern in the courtyard, me who tried to destroy the Tower?

  He must put his hopes in the duke. He remembered Didryk teaching him the warding pattern he had since put on five hundred foreheads. The duke had taught him as much as he needed to know and nothing more: a line here, a circle, another line, and a triangle to hold it all inside. Pull. Farid had hoped to learn more from the man after that adventurous trip to the desert, but either the duke had been too busy, or he had no intention of upholding his end of the deal.

  Farid’s mage robes granted him instant access to the palace; the Blue Shields standing at the gate took one glance at him and stood aside. Govnan had given him this Tower uniform as a prop for his mission into the desert, but it gave him a power and access that he never would have dreamed possible when he was selling apples and pomegranates in the tiny market off Ashem Street. The distinctive weave of white cotton and linen threads set him apart, and the belt of shimmering blue silk could have only come from Govnan’s own chest. They were impossible to imitate and harder to obtain, and they labelled him a mage of the Tower even if he carried no bound spirit.

  In the Great Hall he paused, orienting himself. Men were still working to restore the dome high above, plastering around the exposed beams. In a few months it would be covered with mosaics of scenes from Cerana’s great past; Uthman’s founding, the defeat of the Parigols and the blessing of Meksha would take up a large part of it, but Farid wondered what else they might paint. The defeat of Helmar Pattern Master, perhaps.

  He took his eyes from the dome to find a grey man staring at him – grey-cloaked, grey-haired, grey-eyed. He stood so still that at first Farid had thought him a pillar against the wall. Now he backed away. This man must be a member of the legendary Grey Service, the emperor’s spies and assassins. They watched one another for a moment, and finally Farid said, ‘I did not see you.’ A stupid thing to say to a man who likely sees everything.

  The assassin inclined his head. ‘What brings you to the palace, Mage?’

  ‘The duke.’ Not even the assassin’s eyes moved, so he babbled, ‘I need to find the duke on a question of magic – a threat to the Tower.’

  Now the assassin stood away from the wall and glanced up at the workers as he walked forwards. Farid made himself not shrink away. ‘Be careful what you say in open spaces,’ the man said to him. He now stood very close, close enough to slit Farid’s throat, but he only took his arm and pulled him down a corridor lined with tapestries. The grey man said, ‘You are the new mage Grada told me about.’

  So Grada was Grey Service too? Of course she was. Because she was a woman it had not occurred to him, but she wore the robes and she wielded her knife with experience. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘It is gratifying to see devotion from a mage not one week in his robes.’ Somehow Farid felt the old assassin was mocking him. ‘I am Herran.’

  ‘Farid.’

  ‘Farid of the fruit-market.’

  Again Farid sensed some joke was being made at his expense, but he realised that compared with the threat against the Tower, such insults did not matter. A week ago he might have made some retort, but today he was focused on his mission. ‘Yes. Do you know where to find Duke Didryk?’

  ‘The duke has retired to his rooms.’

  ‘May he come to the Tower?’

  Herran did not reply but continued to steer Farid towards a set of stairs set behind the broken ones in the Great Hall. Farid followed him down elegant hallways where the doorknobs glowed in the lantern light and the highly polished wood shone. In Farid’s rented rooms above the marketplace, the wood that lined the walls had been roughly hewn and dull. Running his hands along the windowsill had been enough to give him splinters. Thinking about his old place made him remember the creaking bed and the threadbare old blankets, and he realised how much he would have loved to return,
even if just long enough to get some sleep.

  At last they stood in front of one of those elegant doors. It looked just like every other they had passed, but Herran walked straight to it with no hesitation.

  Farid pulled the sash tighter around his waist. He wanted these men to respect him, to believe he was worthy to be a mage of the Tower. He swallowed as he faced the door. Duke Didryk held all the secrets he wanted to know – how to break a pattern; the meaning of the design he had drawn on the walls of the library; why he had been called by Mogyrk instead of Meksha or Keleb, gods he had worshipped all his life.

  Herran knocked, and the door was opened a crack by a redhaired Fryth who towered over Farid and the assassin both, but who was still not as tall as Didryk. He looked from one to the other and finally said in a rough accent, ‘No Cerani.’

  ‘Didryk,’ said Herran, motioning past the door.

  Someone spoke from within the room and the red-haired man opened the door the rest of the way. Farid had thought his Tower room luxurious, with its silver mug and high window, but the room he looked into now showed not one uncovered surface. Tapestries hung on every wall. A carpet covered the floor. Everywhere there were scattered cushions embroidered with golden threads.

  A dark-skinned man dressed in elegant robes stood to greet them. He glanced at Herran only long enough for recognition, but his gaze lingered on Farid for several seconds. Farid looked back at him, then with a shock realised he might be standing before someone royal. He prepared to go into an obeisance, but before he could lower himself the man gave a slight bow and motioned them forwards. ‘Come.’

  Duke Didryk was sitting before a Settu board, studying the placement of the tiles. From the look of it, they had just begun a game. When he saw Farid he stood, knocking the table, and the pieces scattered. ‘What is it, Farid?’

  Farid looked at the red-haired guard and the other, blond and threatening, and his words came out in a tumble. ‘A pattern was laid around the Tower, Duke. It’s destructive, but beyond that I can’t tell what it is. We caught some men but they – they died.’ He did not mention they probably had been innocent. He pushed aside the memory of their blood, and of Moreth, rolling in the ecstasy of killing, and swallowed; this was not the time, with everyone watching him. He continued, ‘We can’t go back until the pattern is destroyed – but I don’t know how.’