Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  ‘You should paint your room, I think. Trees, perhaps, like the last …’

  But the tender moment had passed, taken by his sudden fear, and Mesema took Pelar from his arms. She turned to put him in his cradle and Sarmin did not know how to reach out, how to claim her, as Beyon might have done. The stark room served only to remind him that he was alone. The Many were gone, with Helmar, Ta-Sann and his link to Grada. Mesema did not love him. Pelar was his brother’s son, the true emperor, and he just a pretender. Wife, son, throne: it was all a lie, balanced on the thin edge of power to which he clung.

  He turned to the door. ‘I will make the arrangements.’

  7

  Farid

  Farid spoke a few words of Frythian, having met some traders over the years, but his vocabulary was limited to numbers, weights and thank-yous. Nevertheless the Mogyrk Adam spoke to him in that language, now drawing an elongated diamond on the floor and saying something like ‘hiss-nick’. When Farid looked at these pattern-shapes he imagined them in blue, on his mother’s skin. They want to take what I am, she had told him before she died. I won’t let them.

  Farid’s gaze shifted to the two guards in the doorway. By their physiques he could see they had been called to fighting rather than trained to it – but then, he was no fighter himself. He had strength from lifting barrels and poling his father’s boat, and he could count on some extra power from wanting his freedom – but against three men, he would not win. Adam himself had the bearing of a soldier and was enough of a match without counting the others.

  ‘You are not listening,’ said Adam, speaking Cerani at last.

  ‘Because I don’t want to go to a marketplace and kill everyone.’

  Adam frowned as he wiped the symbol away. ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Why then do you keep me prisoner? Surely there are others like you who want to learn these things?’

  ‘There are not. They all were killed.’

  ‘Cerana kills all its enemies,’ said Farid with pride, making sure to speak loud enough for the men at the door to hear.

  ‘So they do. Let’s begin again.’ Adam drew another shape on the floor. ‘Shack-nuth.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means.’ Farid stood, using his height as a form of protest.

  Adam smiled. Farid could tell he was less than a threat to the man. ‘It is a Name. Shack-nuth.’

  ‘I won’t remember it.’

  ‘I see.’ Adam put down his chalk. ‘How many fruits did you have to sell on the day of the attack?’

  Farid remembered exactly. It was something he had always been able to do. ‘I started with fifty-two oranges and thirty-six pomegranates,’ he said, ‘twelve mangoes and just ten apples. I sold twenty apples the day before.’

  Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘How much money did you make, then? Don’t check your pockets.’

  ‘I sold ten oranges at two bits a piece. Five pomegranates – I haggled a bit and got five bits for two of them. Three bits for the others. The mangoes were getting soft – I knocked them down to half a bit and sold five that way. Muad stole an apple – I count that as a loss of two-and-a-half bits. I sold four more for a total of four copper nine bits. But I have more than that in my pocket.’

  ‘Because of the apple.’

  ‘Right – but of course now all my fruit is lost because of you.’

  ‘And you can’t remember this?’ Adam drew on the floor with his chalk. Farid recognised it: Hiss-nick. But he shrugged.

  Adam nodded to his men, who came into the room and picked up Farid by his elbows. ‘You may go to your room. Let us know when you are ready to begin again.’

  *

  That night Farid tossed and turned on his pallet. The Mogyrks had put him in an airless closet. For obvious reasons they offered him no windows or outside doors, and yet he could still hear a baby crying in the house next door. As soon as the child quieted and Farid’s eyes began to close, it started up wailing again. It was no good. He had prayed to Keleb for the air to cool, for the baby to quiet and for the Mogyrks to let him go, but nothing had any effect. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Hey,’ he called out to the guard he knew stood on the other side of the door, ‘is there any water?’

  He heard the man’s boots, then a silence that stretched until his sweat felt cold upon his skin. Then the door swung open and two hands laid a pitcher on the stained wood floor.

  ‘Let me go,’ he said, but the man only placed a lit candle next to the pitcher and closed the door.

  Farid held the pitcher to his lips, but he found it dry. Reaching inside, his fingers touched upon crumpled paper. ‘Mogyrk filth,’ he muttered, smoothing it open. A pattern had been drawn there, each shape flowing into the next, the web of lines suspending rather than connecting them. He frowned, turning it this way and that in his hands, trying to remember what he had seen in the marketplace. If he ever got free, the Blue Shields would want to know what these patterns looked like.

  In the light of the candle he could now see another pattern scratched into the wall. He stood to look, but soon realised great spaces had been left empty, as if the carver had been interrupted. He held the paper up to it: these shapes formed a different spell. The finished one drew his eye, the lines having found their natural ends, the shapes having reached a pleasing balance.

  Before she grew too old for such things, Farid’s sister used to take their father’s twine and wind it between her hands, her fingers spinning a complicated web. He would tease her by pulling on the lines, watching the empty spaces shrink and expand at his will, creating tension in her fingers until at last she cursed him and pulled free, leaving the twine a slack pile upon the floor. He ran his fingertips along the ink, remembering the feel of the rough string.

  Adam had shown him some of these characters: shack-nuth, hiss-nick. Nonsense.

  And yet, this design spoke of water to him. It waited somewhere in this collection of shapes and threads, caught like dew on a spider’s web. He needed only to free it. He found the line he needed and pulled.

  The pattern flashed, crescents and half-moons painting the ceiling in blue light, and a fiery glow wound his hands and arms in a design that reached further than the one in plain ink. It retreated into smaller and smaller lines upon his skin, so deep he thought he might fall into it, and a memory came to him of leaping off Asham Asherak’s great bridge at full dark, the water an unknown black beneath him and the warm stone under his toes, before the light bled away, shimmering one last time in the distant reaches of the pattern before leaving him alone, bereft in the tiny room.

  Water soaked the centre of the paper, spreading outwards. The pitcher! It was too late, but he caught some of it in his hands and slurped, ran his wet hands over his face and neck, then settled against the wall, his heart beating fast. What had he done? The light, the water … he ran a cool finger against his lips. He had used the pattern, the tool of the enemy, the poison that had killed his mother, and what he felt was … joy.

  8

  Mesema

  The men of the council spoke of the city as Tower and wall, palace and temple, landmarks of power that reflected their own standing in the world. Yet from where Mesema stood in Siri’s rooftop garden, the city might have been two great hands cupping the life-giving river. Without the Blessing, there would be no Nooria, no palace, no great Cerani empire. It carved a path from the mountains to the southern province and fed the crops that in turn fed the city. From the roof of the palace the river looked like a wide blue ribbon laid between domed roofs and sand-coloured streets – but Sarmin had given her a great treasure: a tube, with glass on either end, that made all things look closer. It had been a gift from the astrologers of Kesh; now Mesema held it to her eye.

  Three small fishing boats in flaking paint made their slow way downriver, pushed through the shallow passage by twelve royal guards disguised as polemen. She tried holding the astrologers’ device even closer, but it did not further improve her view. Somewhere under stained tarpa
ulins her son Pelar was hidden, with his nursemaids and the wind mage Hashi. They would pass through the Low Gate to the south and continue towards the coast.

  A flatboat passed by, going north towards the grain markets, its men too busy with the contrary flow to pay the royal hideaways any mind. But if Pelar should cry out, ask for his mother … She took a step towards the edge and imagined leaping from the roof garden, running down those narrow streets and swimming to the boats, imagined the look on his face when she gathered him in her arms. It was not too late to bring him back.

  But she stayed where she was. After her trip into the city she knew her instincts were not to be trusted.

  She and Sarmin had said their goodbyes in the private audience chamber, then handed Pelar to his nursemaid. He had been jolly, not knowing what was to come. At some point, on the road or in the boats, he must have realised she was not there, and it crushed her to think of it. But it would not have been wise to follow the prince and his entourage to the Blessing; they were travelling in secret, in boats secured from merchants fleeing Migido. It would not do for refugees of the Great Storm to learn their emperor was sending his own son south while they remained here with the god’s wound inching forwards, ever closer to Nooria. Even so, she longed for one last good-bye.

  The sun came around the mages’ Tower and lit the river in shades of green. She turned the glass away from the boats; she had lost the strength to watch them go. Nor could she bear to see the Holies, where Grada had killed three men to defend her, and she jerked the glass away when its view landed there. Instead she traced the water’s path north beyond the Worship Gate, so called because it faced Meksha’s mountain. It had been barred, and travel north of the city had been forbidden. The Great Storm presented too great a danger.

  She lifted the glass, hoping to catch sight of it.

  ‘So he is gone.’ The voice came from behind her. Mesema lowered the astrologers’ device and turned to see Nessaket standing over the roses, her shoulders stooped like an old woman’s. Behind her stood the ever-present guards. No one came to the garden without them, not since Jenni – working for the treacherous Lord Jomla – had attacked them on the night of the fire, the same night rebels took Nessaket’s son Daveed. Nessaket pointed towards the Blessing. ‘You should have gone with him, Empress.’ Since her injury she had taken to a plain way of speaking, like a Rider, though she would not have appreciated the comparison. The head blow she had suffered left her dizzy and prone to headaches, but her eyes remained clear.

  ‘I will not leave you before Daveed is found,’ Mesema said.

  ‘You should have gone,’ Nessaket repeated. ‘This city will turn to dust at last, and we with it.’

  ‘Sarmin halted the emptiness once before,’ Mesema said, too sharply, but then, Nessaket should have known better than to suggest failure. ‘He will halt it again, and we will find Daveed.’

  ‘It is better we do not.’

  Mesema took the Empire Mother’s hand and guided her to the bench. ‘Come, Mother,’ she said, ‘your headaches tire you and you say things you do not mean. Sarmin will not leave his brother in Mogyrk hands.’

  Nessaket sat and did not speak again for a time. Mesema stretched out her legs, still aching from all those stairs.

  ‘Perhaps he has a nursemaid who coos over him,’ said Nessaket. ‘Perhaps at this moment he is laughing, and reaching for a shiny toy. Perhaps he could grow to be a merchant or a priest and nobody will know who he truly is. But here … here he is one extra boy. It is easy to love a tiny child, but as he grows, Sarmin will watch him and wonder and begin to fear.’ She turned away, her eyes dark with memory. ‘No, he is safer elsewhere. And so are you.’

  ‘I listen, and I hear, my mother. But you do not know the future any better than I.’

  ‘Do you not know the future?’ Nessaket glanced at her sidelong.

  Mesema squeezed her hand. ‘The Hidden God is not always clear.’ She closed her eyes, remembering the events at Lord Nessen’s house. ‘I must believe Daveed’s safest place is with his mother.’ She looked out over the city: Sarmin’s city. Those streets under the bright sun were filled with his people and he was responsible for all of them – merchant, beggar and prince – yet he had managed to save only his son so far.

  It was not unusual at this time of day for a carriage to creak its way up the palace road, but it was unusual to see one with a painted roof. Mesema held the glass to her eye and studied the unique emblem, two pine branches enclosing a hammer. She had seen it once before, when the Fryth delegation had arrived bearing Marke Kavic. She tried to read the faces of the men who flanked this carriage, but the spyglass wavered in her hand.

  Nessaket stood, her black hair tinted orange in the sunset. ‘Daveed.’ Her voice carried urgency and also hope, which Mesema found unexpected, considering all she had just said.

  ‘You think …?’ Mesema rose to her feet.

  Nessaket did not reply but hurried towards the stairs, forcing her guards to dance out of her way. Mesema turned back towards the distant ships. My son. He was as safe as she could make him; she could do no more. She hurried after Nessaket, pinching the flesh of her palm to keep the tears away, letting one pain serve as a distraction from the other.

  She followed Nessaket through the halls of the old women’s wing, her breath harsh in her throat. The burnt sections had been taken down and removed, making the space feel hollow. Once this wing had assaulted her eyes with its colourful walls and floors, its never-ending parade of luxury. Now the guards’ boots echoed in the empty space.

  They passed through the great doors and entered the palace proper, making their way down the curved steps and across the marble. Nessaket held her head high, but her shoulders were tense with fear. When Mesema had first met the Empire Mother, that day in Herzu’s temple, she had never expected she would one day be sitting beside Nessaket and holding her hand, or sharing her deepest troubles. First they had become wary allies, and then something more.

  Nessaket said not a word during the journey, and the men were silent as ghosts behind them, so that when two of Sarmin’s personal guard threw open the newly carved God Doors, the bustle and movement inside the throne room took Mesema by surprise. The chattering of the courtiers carried to all corners, and beneath the lantern-lit dome, chin propped on his hand, sat Sarmin on his throne, a dozen men clustered below him on the dais. All were engaged with a petitioner, who held a number of scrolls. As Azeem took the first and began to unroll it, Sarmin caught her eye and offered a fleeting smile. Though he was becoming a cunning and fearsome emperor in the eyes of the court, for her he tried to be the prince she had first known.

  Mesema began her way down the silk runner, matching steps with the Empire Mother. To her right, ragged petitioners stood in a long line, and on her left, nobles and wealthy merchants rested on cushions. She put a hand on Nessaket’s elbow when she swayed: another dizzy spell. Sarmin waved them forwards and together they fell into obeisance, Mesema’s head not a foot from the slippers of the men who sat on the lowest step. Sarmin concluded his business with a few words and the exchange of more scroll-tubes.

  Then his voice grew softer. ‘Rise, my wife; rise, Empire Mother.’ As they stood he looked at Nessaket with a frown. ‘My mother is tired. She requires a cushion.’

  Azeem looked around, his mouth pinched beneath his long nose. Nessaket never sat, so the question of where to place her had never before been raised. The men on the bottom step muttered, not wishing to be displaced. With her head Mesema motioned to a stray cushion near the edge, apart from the others. Surely that would not be improper?

  Azeem made a show of preparing it, then Mesema helped Nessaket to sit. For all of her weakness, Nessaket sank to the cushion as gracefully as ever and sat with her back straight, her eyes watchful.

  With that settled, Sarmin turned his attention to his wife. ‘How is my son Pelar?’ He had not been able to watch the boats as she had, for he had had to go directly from the private chamber to the thron
e room.

  ‘He is very well, Magnificence.’ A flicker of sadness in his eyes, then he motioned for her to take her place behind him. She could not tell him about the carriage she had seen. In court she must always behave as if Sarmin knew everything already, but she pressed the back of his hand in passing, a warning.

  Azeem spent some time organising the scrolls upon his table and marking his books. Petitioners shifted on their feet. Guards suppressed yawns. The noise among the courtiers had reduced to a murmur when Nessaket first sat among them, but as they waited, the volume increased until voices once again filled the room, calming only when the harpist began a tune upon his strings. Mesema watched the door.

  At last the gong sounded, startling everyone except for herself, Nessaket and the emperor – Sarmin managed never to look startled by anything.

  The music stopped with a sudden twang as the great doors parted for the immense herald. He walked along the runner without hurry, his steps evenly paced, his long years of practise ensuring he was always calm and reserved, no matter the situation.

  ‘Captain Yulo of the White Hats, Magnificence, Mura of the Tower, and a prisoner.’ He bowed his way from the room, walking backwards.

  Mura of the Tower! They had assumed her dead. Govnan had grieved for her as for a daughter – and yet, here she was, her white robes tied with a gleaming blue sash, approaching the Petal Throne. She was younger than Mesema had expected, and short, her head coming only to the captain’s shoulder. Her eyes contained the brightness of the sky, and she did not focus on anything in the room but rather, seemed to look through it all into a world beyond.