The Tower of Living and Dying

by Anna Smith Spark

  I just wanted to make things better, Orhan thought.

  The streets were largely empty, even the Street of Flowers. The low distant background noise of screaming hung in the air like the dust. Like the dust, one hardly now noticed it. One day soon, thought Orhan, it will stop and the silence will drive the last few survivors mad. A dead man lay sprawled on the flagstones, hands thrown out, his shirt torn, blood running from the cracks in his head. A hatha addict, or a Chathean merchant, or one of the Sorlostian merchants banished from Immish, also somehow being blamed. Or a man selling candles, or lavender flowers, or sysius berries, or bread. Desperate people will kill for desperate things. Fever and despair are already driving us mad. Orhan walked slowly with his entourage of guardsmen around him. Costing him a fortune, and the chances were one of them would go down with it and bring the plague raging into his house. No need for them, given the number of different ways he was dying. But not even a dying man wants to die.

  He found himself stopping in the Court of the Fountain, watching the water plashing, silver pale on the marble. Pretty. A warm gust of wind blew water droplets into Orhan’s face. Cool and sweet. A soldier with a sword stood beside the fountain, watching the few people milling around still trying to buy and sell and walk about like the world wasn’t coming to an end. Four people had drowned throwing themselves into the water to soothe their fever. Bad omens. Must be stopped.

  In your embrace I dream of water! Orhan skirted round it, trying to avoid looking at the fountain or the man’s blade.

  The Grey Square, alone in the city, was crowded. People came to the Temple day and night to pray and beg. A new rumour had it that the disease could be avoided by lighting a candle while repeating the Chant of the Sun. It was noticed, also, that the priestesses were not dying, so this must surely mean something. Orhan wished like the rest to believe that it was the God’s kindness. Knew really, like the rest, that it was some kind of pious lie. The priestesses wore masks, apart from the High Priestess. So no one could really say how many of them there were.

  A rational man, Orhan Emmereth. Darath would even say a cynic. But trying to cling to some broken fragment of hope.

  “Candied lemons. Candied roses. Candied salted cimma leaves.” A street seller, her tray piled high with sweets. All the pretty colours, the yellow-green of the lemons, pink rose petals, plump green leaves. Flies, fat and excited, buzzed around her, sated with dead flesh. Some things cost so much now no one could afford them. Other things no one wanted, and their sellers starved. “Candied lemons,” she called hopelessly, “candied lemons, a dhol a bag.” Orhan bought three bags, handed two over to his guardsmen. Dry and too chewy. Not sharp enough. The sugar crunched in his mouth.

  “Thank you, My Lord, thank you,” she said. Her voice was pathetic. “Here. Have a bag of roses with my gratitude, My Lord.” Orhan took the bag carefully, passed that too to his guards. Beautiful big petals, a deep glowing pink like the morning sky. All the flowers were blooming in rich profusion. Like a plant with silver-rot, the city seemed to be decking itself in beauty before it died.

  The square fell silent. From deep within the Temple, the twilight bell tolled. Scent of incense on the wind.

  A sacrifice night. A little girl with old, old eyes and bloody hands.

  The bell tolled again. In the Small Chamber, a man had just died.

  “Every night!” a voice shouted from the square. “We should be making a sacrifice every night! As we once did.”

  “We were a great power, then!” another voice shouted. “Never had the plague! Great Tanis is angry! We neglect the God, and this is our reward.”

  “Every night!” More voices shouting. “Every night!”

  And you’d volunteer, would you? Orhan thought.

  The first voice shouted, “I have a daughter. Great Tanis would be happy, to see her sacrificed. Strong, she is, to help the God. Every night! Every night!”

  “Every night!” More and more voices.

  “The Lord of Living and Dying! The living remain living, and the dead may die! Every night!”

  “This blasphemy, the High Priestess abandoning the Temple! Great Tanis is angry! Every night!”

  “Every night! Every night!”

  God’s knives, Orhan thought. Is this now what we’ve come to?

  If it makes them feel better, he thought then.

  He walked on. Empty streets. A knife-fighter wounded and panting, sweat clinging to his brow. Two more fighting together in a courtyard, a handful of spectators gathered round shouting, chanting one of the men’s name. As Orhan watched, the taller figure slipped, stumbling; the other was on him, cutting down hard with his knife; the loser fell back in a mass of blood. His eyes stared round imploring his audience to help him. Dying. Dying. Don’t want to die. The victor raised his arms. Bloody sweat on his forehead. His face fever bright. Two child whores drifted past the spectators with bells tinkling. Like the knife man, their faces oozed sweat beneath their paint. A man in a green coat pulled one of them roughly towards him. Child’s lisp: “One dhol. One dhol.” She’s dying, Orhan almost shouted. She’s dying, can’t you see? Man and child went off together down the street into the shadows. The air around them seemed to moan and laugh.

  Is this now what we’ve come to?

  He drifted aimlessly with his guards around him. Floating in the golden dust. A group of women kicked a man to the ground on a street corner, shouting that he was a Chathean plague carrier. Two children ran past, dressed in rags. Two houses boarded up and screaming. A shop boarded up. The planks had been smashed open to loot the shop. A cloth merchant’s, from the look of it. Orhan bent down, picked up a length of vivid pink and gold embroidered silk. Flowers, stems intertwining, the spaces between one picture the outline of the next. The same colour as the candied petals. The gold thread unravelling in his hands. A beetle was clinging to the embroidery. Fat and black. Bloodstained. He made a choking sound and dropped it back to the ground.

  Chapter Sixty

  The next day, Celyse came to visit. Orhan was surprised she was still leaving the house. But they were all taking risks now, abandoning caution, giving themselves up to the certainty of the plague. And life must go on, or something similar. The plague will not defeat us! We will survive! We are the richest empire the world had ever known! Keep our spirits up! and all that.

  “Hello, Orhan.” Her face looked thinner, her hair greyer. Her eyes were red with tears.

  “Celyse.”

  “Ameretha Ventuel died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Celyse sat down. “I should tell Bil.”

  “Bil won’t see anyone. Even me.”

  “No?” A harsh little laugh. “Wise woman.”

  “You’re hoping her son dies, I suppose?”

  Celyse’s face went rigid. “God’s knives, Orhan! That’s vile.” She stood up, started back towards the door. “I can see why Darath threw you out.”

  “Celyse … Wait. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Orhan grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You are becoming hateful, Orhan. That’s what’s happening to you. The things you say … You’re becoming what you did. Or are you just bitter you failed at everything? You even failed at punishing March, since he hasn’t had to live to see today.”

  “Shut up,” he said suddenly. “Stop it.”

  Celyse pulled her hand away. “I was worried about you. God’s knives, why do I bother? I thought you might want to talk about it. Need to talk. I was obviously wrong.”

  Need to talk?

  “Celyse? What?”

  She was through the door when she turned back at looked at him. “Orhan … I’m sorry, though. Truly. I’m sorry. If you need me … need to talk … Once you’ve stopped being so vile.”

  Need to talk? Sick panic. Terror. “What? Wait! What’s happened? What’s wrong? Wait!”

  Sick panic. Knew, in his belly. Almost screamed it. “Tell me!”

  Her eyes narrowed.
Shadow on her face. “You don’t know.”

  “Know what? What don’t I know?”

  No, he thought. No no no no no no no no no.

  Celyse sucked in a breath. “I wish your spies weren’t quite so hopeless, Orhan. Leada is sick. She fell sick this morning.”

  Reeled like someone had stabbed him. Like mage fire going off in his ears and eyes. Knife blades in his stomach. His hands twisting Tam’s wound.

  “At the House of Flowers, yes.”

  Why didn’t Darath send to tell him? Why didn’t—

  Celyse said perfectly calmly, clearly, tonelessly, “Darath has ordered the gates of the house sealed.”

  “But … But I …”

  She sighed. “Would have been sealed in too, if Darath hadn’t thrown you out.”

  Dead.

  Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  Screams welling up upside him. But … It can’t … But …

  Celyse walked over to him. Awkwardly put her arms around him.

  Fell into her arms and screamed in grief louder than Bil’s child.

  A boy brought date cakes, salted melon, iced lemon wine. Poured with a pretty curve of his arm. Warm wind blew in from the gardens, perfumed with honeysuckle and jasmine, ruffling the bells of Celyse’s headdress, the silver draperies hung on the wall. The sunlight had a heavy, yellow quality to it: Orhan had hoped and wondered that it might rain. God lives in His house of waters … Cool rainfall to quench the city’s fevers, wash them a bit cleaner, freer from disease. Drown the cursed flies.

  He drank. Sharp in his dry empty mouth. His hand shook on the cup. We always know we are all dying. But … But … Those we love … they can’t die. They won’t ever die.

  “He may recover,” said Celyse.

  “He may.”

  But … But …

  “Nistryle Caltren’s youngest son recovered.” She laughed in pain. “An orphan. Five years old. But he recovered. Do you know what I saw yesterday in the Court of the Fountain, Orhan? A woman was standing holding a basket. In the basket was a cat. She shouted that Great Tanis has abandoned the city. That Great Tanis the Lord of Living and Dying is an empty lie. ‘There is no such thing as living!’ she shouted. ‘Hail King Death!’ Then she killed the cat.”

  “The Chatheans sacrifice cats to ward off deeping fever. They drink the blood as a cure.”

  Silence.

  “What happened to her?” Orhan asked.

  “Who?”

  “The blasphemer. The woman who killed the cat.”

  “What do you think happened to her? She was mobbed. Everyone in the square turned on her. The guards at the fountain had to intervene.”

  “She survived?”

  “The guards dragged her off somewhere. Still shouting that life is a lie.” She laughed in pain again. “I don’t know what happened to the dead cat.”

  “People drank its blood, I expect.”

  “I was trying to make a joke there, Orhan.”

  “People are selling cats for ten dhol a body. Fifteen, if it’s still alive.”

  Bit her lip. “That’s disgusting. And blasphemous.”

  “It doesn’t work, anyway.” Pain. Such pain in his heart. I’d kill a hundred cats for Darath, otherwise, if I thought it even possible it might. “But that’s probably why they mobbed her. Not because she was blaspheming. To get hold of the cat.”

  Celyse left. Cakes and melon uneaten, wine undrunk. Loss of appetite an early sign of fever … But we mustn’t all become paranoid about our health.

  Orhan went to the Great Temple.

  Not quite true. He went first to the House of Flowers. The gates loomed over him, sealed shut. He went right up close, pressed his hands on the carved onyx. Even in the midday heat, the stone felt unnaturally cold.

  The last time. The last time he had gone through the gates.

  “Darath,” he whispered, running his hands over the stone. “Darath. Let me in. Please.”

  No response.

  We could have been somewhere in the desert together. Heading to Alborn to lead new lives. There is nothing left for me.

  No, he thought suddenly. That’s not quite true.

  If my son dies, he thought, I will kill myself.

  So he went on to the Great Temple. Through the Court of the Fountain, where a man stood and shouted “We’re dying! We’re dying! God has abandoned us and we’ll all die!” Through the Court of Petals, where a woman danced in silence for the dead. Through the Court of the Broken Knife, where the faceless statue with its knife and its burden stood and looked over at the horizon, and it seemed to Orhan that the statue had almost a visible face. A diseased, rotten, time-eaten figure, eyes fixed on nothing. The city embodied. The very image of Orhan Lord Emmereth Lord of the Rising Sun, ex-lover of Lord Vorley, ex-Nithque of the Eternal Golden City of Sorlost. A man sat beneath the statue, weeping. There was always someone weeping, in the Court of the Broken Knife.

  Yet, as he approached the Temple, Orhan felt somehow a warmth and a peace. In the Grey Square the wind was blowing stronger; a few children, untroubled by fear of sickness, flew their little coloured silk kites. His heart lifted, watching the colours float. Little jewels against the golden blue evening sky. Little bright fragments of hope. He’s not yet dying. He may recover. Some do. He’ll recover and we’ll stand here together in gratitude and watch the kites. In the Temple itself the throng was crushing. Flushed, feverish faces, desperate red eyed supplicants, the priestesses slipping between them with shadowed eyes beneath their masks. It was noted that none of them had died. The lapis and silver masks looked the more beautiful, against the hot frowning faces kneeling around them. But despite the crush and the heat of the candles the Great Chamber was calming to the mind. People stared and murmured at Lord Emmereth. Hissed. Made signs with their hands. The city’s saviour, some of them still thought him. If Amrath really had visited the palace, some still believed Orhan had been the one who had fought him off. At least, he thought wearily, he could not be blamed for the plague.

  They knew, he saw, that the House of Flowers was closed up with sickness. They pitied him, even those who thought him a murderer who had sold the city to a demon for a bag of gold. All and everything is washed away, all sin, all evil, in the face of such death.

  So many candles were lit the chamber shone without shadows. Light brighter and clearer than the light of the sun. The air so scented with spices it was almost solid before him. Tasted sensual in his mouth. He knelt, felt the eyes staring at him. Whispers. Hisses. Pity. Prayers and songs. It felt like someone running cool long fingers across his face and down his skin.

  “Great Tanis. Lord of Living and Dying. He Who Rules All Things. Oh Great Lord Tanis, I come before You, to ask Your blessing of my life. Grant that I will live and die, as all things must live and die. Grant that I will know sorrow, and pain, and happiness, and love. Grant that I will endure Your blessing and Your curse. Grant that I will be grateful for the gifts You give me, that I yet live and one day will die. Let Darath live. Great Tanis, Great Lord, let Darath live.” Closed his eyes, saw the golden light of the candles through them, the holy shining presence of the God. “Dear Lord, Great Tanis who rules all things, from the fear of life and the fear of death, release us. We live. We die. For these things, we are grateful.” Warm and soft. Soothing on his heart. He felt, almost, some kind of joy.

  The child High Priestess knelt before the altar, pulling at her hair with chewed hands. Thin white wrists. Orhan thought of the child whore he’d seen yesterday. Noted that none of the priestesses had died, and it would be a kindness if this child did.

  A figure came to kneel beside him. Orhan ignored it, staring into the candle flames, thinking of Darath and Bil’s baby and the God. We could have been running away, in the desert together. Or dying together in each other’s arms.

  I could run away with Bil and my son, he thought. Take them out into the desert. Try to let the baby survive. Fuck the city, as Darath so musically put it. The city, for a single child.
Go incognito, a bag of diamonds and no name. Live in Alborn. Be spared all this. Darath was right. We can just leave.

  A surge of terror suddenly running through him. The candles seemed to dim. Dark, cold wind in the Temple, making the light flicker, writhing sudden shadows, and there in the flames a young man’s face, beautiful, blood covered, eyes like knife blades. Red blood waves rising. Red blood boiling, crested with dark smoke. The eyes staring into him, filthy, oozing. Running pus like rotted wounds. Falling flashing shining shower of coloured glass.

  Orhan thought in sudden panic: I saw him. I saw Amrath. He’s riding across the world bringing ruin and blood. Nowhere will be safe from him. Every village and every man and woman and child will die under his sword. The world’s burning. There’s no escape. Nowhere to run to. We’ll all die in pain.

  Darath’s dead. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.

  Orhan shook himself. Closed his eyes. Candle flames, voices praying, bronze walls gleaming, priestesses in lapis and silver masks. Soothing. Soft on his skin.

  Night comes. We survive. A little while longer to live is still a little while longer to live.

  The light in the Temple blazed golden. Light. There’s always light. The child priestess rocked and stared at the High Altar. At least, thought Orhan, she’s alive. He moved to get up, go back to the House of the East, tell Bil to get some things together, run away out of the Maskers’ Gate into the barren desert tracts of sand. My son, he thought. I can still save my son.

  The figure kneeling next to him moved also. Gestured to catch Orhan’s eye.

  Secretary Gallus. Grey in his gold hair.

  “My Lord Emmereth,” Gallus said softly. “Would you believe me if I said I was surprised to meet you here? I need to speak with you.” He gestured towards the entranceway. “Please.”

  The dark of the passage rose up suffocating Orhan. He almost choked as he followed Gallus out. Death and horror. Amrath’s pale filthy staring eyes. This is death, this darkness, crushing, the weight of dying, the blind empty gnawing hunger of the void. This is what Darath will suffer. What he will become.