Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  The duke said, ‘I will accompany you back to the Tower.’

  ‘We had hoped you would, Duke.’ The ‘we’ came from his mouth as easily as ‘four bits for this mango’. He pressed his lips together. He had to remember his humility.

  The assassin, Herran, still standing by his side, gestured at the man in elegant robes. ‘Lord High Vizier Azeem, perhaps you should come too.’

  So that elegant man was the grand vizier. He felt a fool.

  Azeem closed the shining door with care and turned down the corridor. ‘This way,’ he said, and everyone followed him without a word. Farid thought Rushes must be somewhere in the palace and wished he had time to look for her. He hoped she and the baby were well – or even better, not in the palace at all but travelling down the river, far from the Yrkmen.

  They travelled along simpler halls where the servants walked, warding-patterns bright on their skin, past the kitchen where he smelled baking bread and roasting meats and out into a courtyard filled with barrels and crates. On one side laundresses plied long sticks to stir the palace linens in great coppers; on the other an old man sat on a chair twisting the necks of chickens. At the sight of Azeem many of the workers gasped and hurried to drop to the floor, but he paid them no notice and glided to an iron gate which led to a yet more elaborate gate, which led to an even larger and more impressive one. There Azeem stopped to speak with an officer, a captain, and twelve more men joined their party, all dressed in the blue uniform of the royal guard, proud feathers rising from their hats.

  Finally they reached the street. It felt hotter outside the palace gates. Sweat trickled down Farid’s back. They moved with haste to the Tower.

  Almost no one else walked the streets. Once a noble’s carriage passed by, and a lone man stood holding skewers of cooked lamb as if he meant to sell them to nonexistent passers-by. When he saw them, with the soldiers marching behind, he skittered away like a thief, reminding Farid of the men who had died. Finally he saw the Tower rising above them, casting a shadow from east to south, and felt a moment of hope replace his worry: it had not been destroyed. He had not destroyed it.

  The duke stopped at the edge of the pattern and held out an arm to keep anyone else from moving forwards. ‘It is here,’ he said to those who were blind to it, crouching and running his finger along the stone. ‘Farid, here: let me show you.’

  Herran, standing by his side, looked around as if puzzled by what he could not see. The grand vizier did not look puzzled. His careful eyes were fixed on the duke.

  Farid crouched next to Didryk. The duke gestured at the shapes. ‘You know when you put yourself into a pattern, it is as if you are opening a bag and letting everything inside come out.’

  ‘Ripping a cord.’

  ‘Ripping a cord: yes, good. But when you want to ruin a pattern you must close it tight, so it cannot open. Try.’

  ‘What if I—?’ He glanced up at the Tower.

  ‘I will not let you “rip the cord”, as you say. Now, try.’ The duke sounded angry.

  Was he upset at his fellow Mogyrks who had laid the pattern, Farid wondered, or was he more upset that he had to help save the Tower? He wondered if he would be as forthcoming as the duke if his city had been destroyed.

  But for now he had to put wondering aside and focus on the glimmering shapes below him. He thought again of his sister’s twine, strung between her fingers in an intricate web. Instead of pulling so the string fell, could he pull so the string drew tight? He gritted his teeth. If he got it wrong …

  He took a long look at the Tower. Inside stood the statues of the former rock-sworn. He could not allow it to turn to dust.

  ‘Trust me,’ said the duke.

  Farid stared at the shapes again, focusing on the symbol he thought meant stone. I will pull you out. As he stared, the shapes shifted and the lines around them bent as if melted by the sun. Again he looked up at the gleaming Tower, standing white against the blue of the sky, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘You see?’ The duke stood and scuffed at the stone. ‘You did it.’

  ‘I broke it – but can another person fix it?’

  ‘I think it is good that there are guards,’ said the duke by way of answering.

  Farid lowered his voice. ‘When first we met, you said Adam had put a mark on my forehead, but that you couldn’t tell what it was for. Can you tell me now?’

  Didryk frowned and touched his finger to Farid’s skin. ‘It is a compulsion – he has twisted the symbols so much that …’ He paused, then drew his finger away. ‘I think I can remove it for you.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  As he touched Farid’s forehead once more, Didryk said, ‘Such a small mark cannot be specific. It can only urge you upon a path – for example, a malicious mark could drive a man to drink, but not to drink any particular brew.’

  ‘Could it drive me to use the pattern?’

  Didryk said nothing, but he glanced over to where Azeem and Herran stood side by side, watching them. Then he pushed hard against Farid’s skin and Farid had to steady himself so as not to stumble backwards. He felt a sensation of unravelling, of falling apart, and a bright pain bloomed in his mind. Didryk lowered his finger and stepped away.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Didryk nodded.

  ‘There are other patterns in the library,’ said Farid, ‘ancient patterns drawn on parchment, from the time of the First Yrkman War.’ And I put one of them all over the walls while I slept. ‘Govnan did not know what they were. I hoped you could tell me.’

  But when they stepped towards the Tower, Herran held out an arm, stopping the duke. ‘The emperor must give permission for anyone to enter the Tower.’

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ Azeem said.

  ‘Another time, then.’ The duke agreed so easily that Farid became frustrated with him.

  ‘But I will need to know,’ said Farid, speaking more loudly, ‘I will need to know all the symbols and their meanings if I am to be of any help at all.’

  Didryk regarded him a moment. ‘I will teach you, if the Emperor is willing. I will ask for his leave.’

  Farid frowned as Grand Vizier Azeem, Duke Didryk and the two Fryth guards turned away, but Herran paused, his grey gaze moving from fountain to statue to courtyard wall. ‘I will arrange for the Grey Service to watch the Tower compound along with the Blue Shields,’ he said to Farid.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It is not the custom,’ said Herran, and Farid could not help but hear the accusation in his voice. Before I came, there was no need to guard the Tower. And Herran did not even know the whole of it. The assassin turned away and followed the vizier. At the gate the Blue Shields had already taken up their stations.

  Farid settled on the stone of the Tower steps. He was still not able to open the door.

  43

  Didryk

  Back in the palace, Azeem directed Didryk down a different path, towards the temples he had visited when he had first arrived. ‘Where are we going, Lord High Vizier?’ he asked. Sarmin had taken him to a new place and ruined his life – or else saved it. Now Azeem meant to take him somewhere new. He did not know if he could face it.

  ‘The emperor bade me take you to your friend.’ Azeem did not pause as he spoke.

  They passed the dark temple of Herzu, the god of pain, famine and fear – the patron god of the palace, he had been told. He felt eyes watching him from the darkness; as he passed he resisted the urge to stop, turn and protect his retreat. Krys and Indri walked stiffly beside him, staring straight ahead.

  The scents of blooming flowers met them at the entrance to Mirra’s temple. Her high priest kept a lush and green space. ‘This way,’ said Azeem, breaking his silence, and led Didryk and his men down paths lined with tall decorative grasses and rose bushes. They passed a gurgling fountain and Didryk could not help but pause and watch his own wavering reflection in the surface. Water had been so rare in the last few months.

  Azeem stopped before a curtai
n of flowering vines and remained there, gesturing for Didryk to step behind.

  Banreh was lying on a stone slab, a pillow made of his own folded clothes resting beneath his head. He had been cleaned and bandaged, but otherwise Didryck could not see that his injuries had been treated. His breathing came shallow – that was thanks to the queenflower drug, most likely.

  Krys breathed a sigh of relief. ‘He is alive!’

  ‘Mogyrk be praised, my lord,’ said Indri.

  Didryk placed a hand on Banreh’s chest and tried to evaluate what had been broken in him. He had no physician’s skill, only what he had gleaned from the books in Adam’s library and the injuries he had seen when Arigu attacked his city. His ribs, he thought, and maybe one of his lungs, and there was slow bleeding, somewhere inside. Quickly he traced the patterns that would show his friend’s body how to heal. Such things did not work immediately. Sometimes they did not work at all, so Didryk was surprised to see the strength and power of his commands. Already bruises were fading, cuts changing from angry red to pink. He knew that Mogyrk’s Scar was near, but every time he was reminded, it surprised him.

  He knew he might be healing his friend only to see him hanged – or worse. For his part, Banreh did not stir. Didryk had hoped to speak with him, but what could they say? Azeem would hear it all – and in any case, they had already said everything they needed to tell each other that day in the desert.

  Banreh had insisted that Arigu would bring him to the palace. He had refused to try escaping, and he had refused the queen-flower drug that would have eased his pain if they beat him. The man was too stubborn, and there had not been enough time. Didryk knew why: Banreh had only this one chance to save the enslaved Windreaders. But was this the only way – to turn himself over to be beaten and tortured? Who then would lead the freed slaves back to the Grass?

  Didryk was certain a trip to the dungeons or that dark temple of Herzu was next for Banreh and he trembled with rage and helplessness. Yrkmir stood outside the gates of Nooria and the Storm grew near. Soon they would all die – and there would never be any reason to it. Once again nobody would be saved.

  Low voices drifted over the humid air of the temple: They were no longer alone. Didryk clasped Banreh’s hand and let it go. He could not stay any longer.

  Azeem led, sweeping past a group of priests without a word, and Didryk and his men followed once again. The temple wing showed beauty in every corner, from fountains and mosaics to tapestries and friezes. Didryk’s own home bore some simple decorations of polished wood and amber, but the emperor’s palace never seemed to tire of ingredients for its walls, ceilings and floors – gems, gold, paint, tapestries, on and on, until his eyes saw nothing but a blur. So much richness. Why had they wanted Fryth as well?

  But it had not been Sarmin who wanted Fryth, he reminded himself. It had been Emperor Tuvaini, who had sat on the Petal Throne for mere weeks.

  And how long will Sarmin last? Who will take his place?

  They passed into a plainer corridor and Didryk realised Azeem was taking a longer route – buying time? What was happening in the throne room? He knew he would never get anything out of the man, who was unflappable in his ability to give every kind of polite answer except for the one Didryk sought. He gritted his teeth.

  A group of Blue Shields approached and he saw a prisoner in their midst, wrapped in the red robes of an austere.

  Adam.

  At last his rage found a focus. He had found it impossible to hate Sarmin in all his strange nobility, or Azeem and his calm diplomacy, the guards, with their firm commitment to duty – he had been unable to dislike even the earnest young mage, who remained so determined to defend his city, as Didryk himself once had been … but the second austere stood before him now – Adam, who had so calmly accepted the ravages of Yrkmir and its first austere; Adam who had stood by and let Kavic be slaughtered; Adam who had once been his teacher. Now he turned his face towards Didryk, perhaps sensing the fury rolling from him, and their eyes met.

  ‘Didryk.’ Adam spoke in rapid Frythian, ‘You were right about Yrkmir. They want to start it all again—’ A Blue Shield hit him in the gut with the hilt of his sword. ‘The first austere is mad. I let the boy go – the emperor must believe me!’ Another blow and he fell silent, drooping in the arms of the soldiers. They dragged him down a set of stairs that led to a heavy door. The dungeon.

  Through it all Didryk said not a word, and his men stood still and silent behind him.

  Adam was a zealot, blind to all but his own mission, never seeing the damage he did, and yet always ready to judge, to punish. But his instinct was to save souls, not destroy them.

  After all your grand plans you will end up beneath the palace in a dark cell, my teacher. Didryk did not feel the satisfaction he had expected.

  Azeem led him on without expression. ‘I will take you to your quarters.’

  Didryk had no choice but to continue on the path he had begun, to help the emperor against Yrkmir. ‘If I may request parchments and ink – I could make the mage Farid a guide for Mogyrk’s symbols and their meanings.’

  ‘Of course: parchment and ink will be delivered to your rooms shortly.’ Azeem’s shoulders relaxed.

  ‘Thank you, Lord High Vizier.’

  As they moved through the door to the Great Hall, High Priest Dinar entered on the other side, coming from the throne room. Didryk’s feet slowed and stopped as he came under the focus of the priest’s snakelike eyes. They faced one another for some time, unmoving. Dinar meant to unnerve him, to frighten and intimidate, but Didryk did not flinch or look away; he poured all of his frustration into their unspoken battle, and at last Dinar laughed and turned away.

  Didryk called it a small victory.

  ‘Give us the word, my lord, and we will cut him down,’ Indri said.

  ‘There will be no cutting down of anyone.’ That was why he had got in the habit of leaving his guards in the room. They were too prone to think of honour before sense.

  They passed through the vestibule and made for a back stairway.

  ‘Did you enjoy the visit with your friend, Duke Didryk?’

  Surely the vizier only meant to be polite, but the question was out of tune and it hit Didryk where he was sore. ‘It was as I expected.’ Then he asked in a cutting way, ‘Do you have friends, Lord High Vizier?’

  Azeem paused. ‘In my position one does not have friends. Perhaps when I retire, I will play Settu with the other old men.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Didryk took the steps two and three at a time. Azeem, being shorter, had to hurry to keep up. When they reached the corridor Didryk continued to outpace him until he arrived at his room.

  As Krys and Indri went inside he turned back and asked the grand vizier a question. ‘Who is your patron god, Azeem?’

  Azeem froze and looked down the length of the corridor at him.

  ‘Is it Herzu, god of war and famine? The patron god of this palace?’ He expected the man to say yes; then he could tell him exactly what he thought of his so-called god.

  ‘No.’ Azeem held his hands out before him. ‘It is Mirra, goddess of fertility, who makes life in the desert possible.’

  ‘Mirra,’ Didryk repeated. He had not guessed that. With his line of attack stalled, he had nothing to do but retreat. ‘Thank you, Azeem.’ He went inside and shut the door.

  44

  Mesema

  Mesema sat in the rooftop garden in the lowering dark. In the west, she saw the river and the Holies, and beyond them, the western wall and the gathering of the Yrkmir army. Their campfires appeared, one by one, as pinpricks of light against the shadowed sands, like stars in the night sky. But stars were nothing compared to the conflagration in the north. There, arcane fires of blue and orange wove their threads across the front of the Great Storm, forming a tapestry that blazed against the horizon, five times higher than the walls and stretching far into the western sands. The wall, the water that ran through it and the northern dunes were lit as if by day – b
ut the Yrkmen camped far enough to the south that darkness yet fell upon them.

  Mesema had begun to lose confidence they would succeed. Sarmin had not found a way to heal the Storm, and though it appeared Govnan had bought them some time, there was precious little of it left. She had not forgotten the pale sickness, how it had drained Pelar – he had been so fragile, so weak. And what the high mage blocked for them was nothing compared to Mogyrk’s Scar.

  Now the only enemy who had ever captured the palace had returned. Mesema did not care to think of what might occur should the Yrkmen sack Nooria – what might happen to Sarmin, to herself … She wondered where Nessaket had gone, whether she was safe and could remain so. She sorely missed the Empire Mother’s advice. Nessaket had warned her of Arigu and cautioned her to stay away from Banreh, and she had ignored her and made a mess of things. Besides the emperor, Arigu and Dinar were the most influential men at court. And together … she thought of the few men who remained in the city. While all of them might be relied upon to support Sarmin in other matters, this might drive half of them away – those who were military men and admired Arigu, and those too devout to oppose the high priest of Herzu. The pressure to put her aside would be strong, but Sarmin would refuse; she knew that. And his continued refusal would put him in a precarious position.

  Surely the two would not make their play in a time of crisis? And yet it had happened before: it was during the height of the pattern-sickness that Tuvaini had manoeuvred his way to the throne. The soldiers had come to take Beyon’s wives – she still dreamed of that night, the terror in the women’s faces, how the blood had spilled across the floor. She glanced at her men who hovered by the stairs. If Arigu sent his soldiers after her, Sendhil and the others would be little protection against them. But with Pelar safely out of their reach there was nobody to put in Sarmin’s place – unless they meant to use Daveed.