Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

‘There may be something to that.’ Lurish turned towards Hazran. ‘Think of our humiliation in Fryth. Our men came straggling back like beggars! Surely that was enough to anger the gods?’

  ‘But now we have the traitor,’ said Dinar, his eyes still on Sarmin. ‘His painful death would go far to appease Them.’

  Sarmin met his cold eyes. The council might whine and object most of the day, but at the end of it, they listened to Sarmin. Through outright threats to the cutting of necks to gentle nudges, he had forced or eased them to his side – and yet Dinar could easily sway them away, for these were devout men who held Herzu in their hearts. He had to find a way to control the high priest.

  Assar of Mirra held up his hands. ‘There is more than one way to please the gods, Magnificence.’

  Lurish snorted at that, and Hazran leaned back in his chair, looking pensive.

  Sarmin looked at the desert headman. The others resented his presence at the table – Notheen was nothing more than a tribesman from the far reaches of the sand, a barbarian, in their eyes. But Sarmin knew he had wisdom and experience. ‘Notheen?’

  Notheen looked at each man in turn, his dark eyes solemn. The words took a long time to come. ‘It is the end times, Magnificence. We live in the era of the Great Storm, which brings the desert to all of us.’

  Lurish barked a laugh. ‘Does your savage myth include earthquakes?’

  ‘Earthquakes, fire, ash and dust,’ answered Notheen in a steady voice.

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the table.

  Azeem cleared his throat. ‘There is more news, Your Majesty. We have suffered another attack, in another marketplace – this one a fish market.’

  Another use of pattern-magic meant that Mogyrk’s wound would grow wider. Sarmin considered this with a cold dread as the other men spoke.

  ‘The same? With the bodies … turned inside out?’ asked Hazran.

  ‘Yes.’ Azeem looked down at the parchment he held. ‘Seventeen men and five women.’

  Lurish hit his fist upon the table. ‘This is all Mogyrk! All of it! Why do we wait to burn their churches and slaughter them all?’

  I suggest you do not make them hate you. Grada’s words. For each Mogyrk worshipper he killed there would be five more to take their place. The struggle against the One God had failed. Sarmin saw Govnan enter through the side door and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I will consider all that has been said here. You are dismissed.’

  Dinar lingered beside the table. ‘The traitor relaxes in his cell while we suffer earthquakes and Mogyrk attacks … surely this is not your wish, Majesty?’

  He was correct: the Empire Mother’s warning had been a good one. Sense told him the chief should die sooner rather than later, but he wanted to feel clean when that knife fell. He wanted to be able to look Mesema in the eye.

  He showed none of this to Dinar. ‘My wishes are not your concern until I choose to make them known,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed.’

  Dinar’s dark eyes narrowed, but he retreated, leaving Govnan alone at the table, Azeem beside him, scribbling on his parchments. Sarmin waited until the great doors had closed, then turned to the high vizier. ‘The priestess of Meksha who was here a few months ago … has she gone?’ The priestess had brought him Helmar’s writings, along with a warning.

  Azeem looked flustered. ‘My apologies, Magnificence – I do not remember her. I can tell you there is no priestess of Meksha in the palace now.’

  Govnan approached the head of the table, his eyes shining with secret knowledge.

  ‘How fares the Tower, High Mage?’

  ‘The crack has widened, Magnificence, but Moreth says the structure remains sound.’ A smile played about his mouth, a strange reaction to their circumstance. Perhaps his joy at Mura’s return continued to lift his spirits. ‘And the palace?’

  ‘Some damage; the city is worse.’

  Govnan nodded. ‘Indeed. I saw the city from the Tower.’

  Sarmin watched him and waited.

  ‘That was not my news, Your Majesty, which is of two parts. First, the fruit-seller who was taken from the marketplace has found his way to the Tower. He was kept with Austere Adam and has learned something of the pattern.’

  ‘He watched them draw patterns?’

  ‘Austere Adam taught him patterns, Magnificence. I could not tell you why. An attempt at conversion, perhaps.’ He knocked his staff against the table. ‘Farid can call water and dissolve wood – the two spells he needed to survive and escape. But as far as I can tell, his skill is rote memorisation. He can draw the patterns that he has seen, but he does not appear to be a talented mage, not in the way we measure it in the Tower.’

  ‘The Megra said that about the austeres.’ Their magic was a cruder kind, old and learned by rote, a blunt power that could be put in the hands of any fool with half a mind and ten years to study it. ‘Are there no books about the Yrkmen incursions of old? Studies of their magics?’ He could not forget what Ashanagur had said: Mogyrk blinded the Tower. What had the spirit meant?

  ‘All of that knowledge was lost to us in the great fires built by the Mogyrks.’ Govnan sighed, and Sarmin considered whether that could have been Ashanagur’s meaning. It seemed too simple, but sometimes answers were.

  ‘If this Farid has some pattern-skill,’ Govnan said, ‘perhaps there is something we can learn from him.’

  ‘Mmm.’ What Sarmin needed was Helmar – what he needed was his own pattern-skill returned to him. He recalled Duke Didryk’s offer and felt a tingling along his skin. The temptation to answer that call was growing strong, but perhaps that was the duke’s intent: to make him feel desperate enough to agree to anything. Perhaps he was behind the marketplace attacks.

  ‘There is something more,’ said Govnan, his smile growing wide. ‘Magnificence, there is good news—’

  But before he could finish, the gong sounded and the herald approached. ‘Your Majesty,’ he called out in his sonorous voice, ‘Prince Daveed and his nursemaid, Rushes of Fryth.’

  20

  Mesema

  Mesema found it difficult to sit still while Tarub applied paint to her face. Tarub did not want her to speak either, and pressed a finger over Mesema’s lips whenever she attempted to do so. The concubine Banafrit sat sewing on the bench under the window, the blue silk in her hands making a fine contrast against her skin, and Mesema’s fingers itched with their idleness. A distraction would be most welcome on this day, whether it be gossip about the Old Wives or news from Banafrit’s island home. Her enquiries regarding the Felting slaves had yielded nothing so far. Either they were well hidden, or they were not in the city.

  Banafrit dropped a needle and poked about on the floor, holding her place in the silk with two fingers. Her shoulder knocked Pelar’s empty cradle, and Mesema looked away from the blankets inside it. Every time she was reminded of his absence she felt the loss anew. Banafrit continued to search until Mesema finally lifted an arm and pointed. ‘Take one of my needles, Frit.’

  ‘Your Majesty!’ Tarub stepped away, paint in hand. ‘Please! Your whole face will be red.’

  Banafrit walked to Mesema’s side table where needles were kept in a tiny bowl, but then she noticed a book there and ran her hand across the embossed leather cover. ‘What is this book about?’

  ‘It’s poems. You can’t read the words on the cover? I can teach you, if you like, as my husband the emperor taught me.’ She remembered sitting with Sarmin during those long happy days after Helmar’s defeat, learning the letters and the words, and wondered why Banreh, in all the years she had known him and their weeks together in that hot carriage, had never offered to do the same.

  The concubine sat and pulled the heavy book onto her lap, turning the thick pages. ‘My father tried to teach me to read, but I can never seem to connect the letters with any meaning. It turns to a jumble in my head.’

  ‘Really? Well I could read it to you—’

  ‘Your Majesty!’ Tarub said again, picking up a cloth to wipe
paint from Mesema’s chin.

  ‘But are you nearly done with my lips, Tarub? It has taken you a day and a night.’

  ‘It must be perfect, Your Majesty. If the emperor should see you—’

  ‘Forget seeing me – if the emperor should kiss me he will end up with rosy lips. If he should do more than kiss me, he will be covered with paint from head to toe.’

  ‘Your Majesty!’ Tarub covered her face with embarrassment as Banafrit giggled and shut the book. That encouraged Mesema to speak more wickedly. ‘I would have to give him a bath myself, as it wouldn’t do for a slave to scrub him in those places.’

  ‘But Your Majesty’ – Tarub’s hand shook as she replaced the paint pot before the mirror – ‘surely the emperor, heaven bless him, is clean as the gods, and no corruption or stain ever touches him.’

  ‘Judging by his attention to the empress,’ said Banafrit with a smile, ‘I would call him well corrupted.’

  Mesema blushed, because she and Sarmin were not so close as that, not any longer. Banafrit for her part took on a stricken look and jumped from the bed, dropping the book to the floor, but before Mesema could ask why, the concubine had touched her forehead against the rug and Tarub had dropped also, looking pale as a ghost. Mesema froze, hoping it was not Sarmin behind her at the door.

  ‘Rise.’ It was Nessaket’s voice she heard, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  The Empire Mother strode into the room, dressed in bright gold, with all of her earrings and bracelets in place, looking for the moment almost as healthy as she had been before the uprising. It appeared that she was about to use that good health to put fear in all the women of the wing. She stopped at the bench and examined Banafrit’s blue silk. ‘I have spoken to all of you about this sewing. It is slaves’ work.’

  ‘But Your Majesty,’ said Banafrit, scrambling to her feet, ‘there are no slaves to do it.’

  ‘How dare you speak back to me! Not only do you act against my wishes but you draw the empress into your crimes.’

  ‘Crimes?’ Mesema frowned at Nessaket’s reflection. ‘It is only a dress.’

  ‘I cannot tolerate it.’ Nessaket waved at the concubine. ‘Go. Leave the work. I will have it burned.’ Banafrit ran from the room, Tarub right behind her. Nessaket sat on the edge of the bed and sighed.

  ‘You scare them so. It’s not fair.’ Mesema stood at last, shaking out her arms and legs.

  ‘I am responsible for keeping this wing as it should be. We are not a wing of seamstresses and scrubbers – yes, I have seen you dusting your own window-screen. I would rather have you run out into the city again! It simply will not do.’

  Mesema clenched her fists when she remembered her visit to Lord Nessen’s estate and the violence that had ensued, but still she longed to know if the Hidden God had truly sent her there. She knew Grada and others from the Grey Service were continuing to watch the manse of the Mogyrk sympathiser. She hoped that if Grada learned something, she would tell her.

  Nessaket was watching her, awaiting a reply.

  ‘So we have no one to do the work, Empire Mother. What do you suggest?’

  At that Nessaket frowned. ‘In truth I do not know. A year ago I would have ordered more slaves.’ She touched her head where she had been injured. ‘Everything has changed.’

  Mesema sat next to the empire mother. ‘I have heard rumour of slaves taken from my own lands, Felting slaves, here in Nooria.’

  ‘I have heard nothing of that, and it seems unlikely. It would be a great insult to you, Empress, and few would risk it.’

  ‘Perhaps it was meant to be an insult.’

  ‘I suppose you speak of Arigu’s alleged treachery, so let me offer you some advice.’ Nessaket folded her arms before her. ‘Arigu is far cleverer than you. If he did take these slaves, you will not find them so easily. And if you do find them, he will claim they came here by some other route.’

  ‘So you think I should not try.’

  ‘What do you think would happen if you did succeed? Do you think your husband will allow Banreh to live?’

  No. I do not think that he will. Mesema blinked back tears. ‘I think he would let the slaves go home.’

  ‘We shall see about that. He is the emperor, and he does not think as we do.’

  A knock came at the door and the two women looked at each other, caution bringing silence. Then Sendhil called out, ‘Grada Knife-Sworn to see you, my Empress.’

  She could hear the concern in his voice, but Mesema knew the Knife would not ask politely had she come for royal blood. ‘Let her enter, Sendhil.’ She stood as Grada filled the doorway, her dark eyes moving past Mesema, deeper into the room, seeking the Empire Mother.

  ‘You should come to the throne room, Your Majesty,’ Grada said, ‘for we believe your son has been found.’

  21

  Sarmin

  The doors swung on their hinges, heavy and slow, and Sarmin wanted to run forwards, to shout, make the men pull harder, faster, because he could not see his brother yet. Light spilled in from the corridor – he had not noticed he was standing in the dark – and he shielded his eyes for a moment. When he lowered his hand he saw a girl, her hair glowing crimson, carrying a bundle wrapped in silks. Her steps were hesitant and she cocked her head as if listening. A soldier took her arm and they walked the rest of the way.

  Rushes. He remembered her now, remembered her fright when she gave him the butterfly-stone. He reached into his pocket and touched it with his finger. It had been larger then, before he broke it. And he could still see her through Beyon’s eyes, his favourite child, running after a ball in the throne room. He smiled, for she had come home, and she had brought his brother to him. As she neared her eyes looked ahead, unfocused, blind, and her lips quivered. She was in the presence of the emperor and she could not see him and know that he was truly himself.

  ‘Be easy, Rushes,’ he said. ‘It is me, Sarmin.’ Not the false emperor the pattern had created.

  Her face turned his way. She was orchid-thin and pale as snow, save for her hair, which hung in tangles around her shoulders. ‘My Emperor!’ She took another step and waited, trembling. Inside her arms the baby stirred and he wondered how she could carry him, for he had grown very big, one chubby leg kicking away from its coverings and a broad forehead strewn with dark curls turning his way.

  ‘I will take my brother now,’ he said, so that she would not be startled by his touch. He lifted her burden and turned his back to the soldiers, taking in the smell of him, sweet like honey. This moment would be private. He lifted the silk from his brother’s eyes, then tore it away further, revealing all of him from his chubby toes to his copper eyes. His heart caught and he ran a hand through the boy’s hair, looking for the stubborn curl he remembered. He did not see it. The boy smelled wrong; his smile as he looked from the silks was wrong. The love that Sarmin had felt for Daveed failed to warm him. He looked at a stranger.

  He turned back to Rushes. ‘Did you have the child with you all this time?’

  She remembered her obeisance and threw herself upon the floor. When she spoke, silk muffled her voice. ‘The one called Mylo hit me very hard, my Emperor,’ she said, ‘and I did not wake up for days. When I came to myself, I could not see. But they gave Daveed to me then, for they said that he knew me and my presence would make him easy. I never let go of him after that – never, Your Majesty. They kept us in a little room and we never left it.’

  Govnan came forwards then and gazed down at the child in Sarmin’s arms, twisting his cane into the floor as he did whenever his thoughts went in a dark direction. ‘We tested his blood, Magnificence, and found it true.’

  ‘But this is not my brother,’ said Sarmin, and the words took the life from him. He crumpled upon the stairs of the dais, the boy clutched in his arms.

  Azeem took a halting step forwards. ‘At this age babies change very quickly, Magnificence. You have not seen him for many months.’

  ‘What do you know of babies, Azeem?’ he asked
, and spitefully, since the man had no wife and further, did not wish for one.

  Azeem stepped back and said no more.

  ‘They want me to embrace this strange child and call him brother.’ Sarmin leaned back upon the stair, speaking more to himself than anyone. ‘Where did they take Daveed, I wonder?’

  ‘Your Majesty—’ Govnan began, but at that moment Nessaket entered the room and cried out. She ran to Sarmin and fell to her knees, hands reaching for the child.

  ‘It’s not him.’ Sarmin felt as if he had looked into the Great Storm and let it take him whole.

  ‘But it is.’ Nessaket lifted the boy and examined him, her voice hushed, reverent. ‘It is my son.’ Mesema came in from the side door and smiled at the scene. He frowned at her – why did her visions show her nothing? If she could not see this boy was a stranger had she been blinded, the way Ashanagur said Mogyrk blinded the Tower?

  ‘There is some evil design in this,’ he warned as the women cooed over the child. Mesema looked up at him then, doubt crossing her eyes at last, but Nessaket touched her arm and murmured, and she turned away. Against all reason he felt it a betrayal.

  His mother looked up at him, the false princeling wriggling in her grasp. Her face did not look joyful – only content – but she smiled as she spoke. ‘I will take him to the women’s wing, with your permission, my Emperor.’

  ‘What else is there to be done with him?’

  She reproved him with a shake of her ink-black hair. ‘This is happy news, my Emperor, the best we might have wished for.’ She gestured towards Rushes. ‘I will take my servant Rushes with me. She has ever served me well. I wish to discuss her reward at a time of your choosing, Magnificence.’

  ‘Of course.’ None of this was Rushes’ fault.

  Nessaket took her leave, taking the child who was not his brother with her. But Mesema stayed, smelling of jasmine, as she always did of late. When he first met her she smelled of the outdoors and horses and things he had experienced only through being Carried – but now she smelled of the palace. She knelt beside him as his mother had and took his hands in hers. ‘I am so happy for you, my husband. In all the trouble we have had there is a hole in the clouds where the sun can shine through.’