Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  ‘Not at all. I hope to join my husband the emperor in the throne room,’ she said, re-entering the Great Hall, but right away she saw Grada approaching.

  ‘Mirra help us!’ one of her guards said in a fearful voice. Those of the palace viewed the grey-robed, silent assassins as wraiths or demons, not men or women, and Mesema understood that. Once she had feared Eyul, but she had come to understand him. The Grey Service carried out their work with efficiency when called upon, but they were not ruthless killers. Eyul had borne the weight of his own deeds until his death.

  Now his heir came towards her, her dark eyes taking in the men behind her, the broken stair and all corners of the room. She stopped a child’s length away and looked her empress up and down, measuring. Though Mesema knew Grada intended her no harm, she felt spiders crawl over her skin. Nobody could – nobody would – stop the Knife if she decided to make a cut. ‘I came too late to meet with the emperor,’ Grada said at last.

  ‘The Fryth duke has arrived to discuss an alliance,’ said Mesema. ‘You may speak to the emperor afterwards, heaven bless him, if you wait.’

  ‘I must go and watch Lord Nessen’s manse.’ Grada’s face betrayed that she thought herself of better use elsewhere. She held up a scroll, capped at both ends with shining brass. ‘This letter was taken from one of the lord’s staff as he entered the city.’

  ‘Lord Nessen? So is he in Nooria, then?’ She was pleased to know there was news about the Mogyrk sympathiser at last.

  ‘No, he never arrived.’

  Mesema frowned. ‘And yet it appeared they were preparing for his arrival. You said great amounts of food had been carried inside.’

  ‘Just so.’ Grada tapped the scroll-end thoughtfully, and Mesema could not help but look at it, fingers itching.

  ‘What does it say, Grada?’

  Grada shrugged. ‘I cannot read it.’

  ‘I can read it for you.’ Mesema reached out for it, but Grada held up a hand. ‘No. This is for the emperor, heaven bless him.’

  ‘Well then, give it to me and I will make sure he receives it.’ Grada hesitated, and Mesema sighed and added, ‘Unopened.’

  ‘Very well.’ Grada dropped it into her waiting palms.

  A young Cerani man wearing white mages’ robes stepped through the doorway. He blinked at the height of the Great Hall, then stopped in alarm at the sight of so many guards. He looked from Grada to Mesema as he spoke, his voice uncertain. ‘Has anybody seen the high mage?’

  ‘I have not.’ The Knife assessed the man. ‘Perhaps he is in the Tower?’

  ‘Of course!’ His eyes went round when they fell on Mesema and her silks, and she smiled to herself, because he did not know her for the empress.

  ‘I am very happy to see a new mage in the Tower,’ she said. ‘We have great need of you.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ he said with a bow. Over his head she and Grada shared a secret smile.

  ‘I will walk with you,’ said Grada to the mage, ‘for the Tower is on my way to the Holies.’

  ‘The Holies! I never …’

  As Knife and mage passed through the doorway to the temple wing, Mesema looked at the missive in her hand. She could not carry a secret letter into the full court; she would have to take it to Sarmin’s apartments. Back up the stairs she went, Sendhil and the other men behind her, down one hall and then another, until Sarmin’s guards bowed and opened his doors. She went through to the desk and set down the scroll, feeling relieved now it was out of her hands and the temptation to open it had passed.

  She looked out of Sarmin’s window. He had a better view than she, for his room faced the Blessing and beyond it, the plateau of the Holies, which was high enough to obscure her view of the Storm Gate and its path into the western desert. Directly below lay the courtyard where nobles and generals often arrived in their coaches, and as she looked down she saw the dark-haired woman again, walking towards the gate. Mesema gripped the window-screen. The woman would never hear her if she called out from up here. Instead she stared, trying to determine whether it was truly Nessaket. This woman had the same long hair and the same golden skin, but the white covering wrapped around her did not look like anything Nessaket owned. ‘What—?’

  Mesema turned to Sarmin’s desk and found the spyglass he had lent her the other day. Stretching it to its full extent she focused on the dark-haired woman and gasped. She was wearing her own white cloak, the one her mother had embroidered with red and blue flowers – the one she had thrown to the floor when Nessaket visited her room the other day.

  The guards did not attempt to stop Nessaket as she passed through the gate – they did not appear to see her, and neither did Nessaket take any notice of them as she walked in a straight line, each movement measured and even. Outside the gate she turned and vanished from Mesema’s view.

  ‘No—!’ Mesema folded the spyglass and ran to the corridor, pushing past Sarmin’s guards, and for once Sendhil asked nothing; he only ran after her as she hurried to the old women’s wing. Without a word he helped her to pull open the heavy doors, and once inside, she ran through the old bedrooms to the garden stairs. On the roof at last she put the spyglass to her eye and searched for the Empire Mother, but though she peered at one street after another, examining every person she saw, Nessaket was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘No!’ She sat on the bench and twisted the brass spyglass in her hands, wondering how long it would be before Sarmin was finished with court.

  At last she gathered herself together and stood, looking out once again over the city, Sarmin’s city, glinting in the full sun. The Blessing caught her eye, sparkling as it did at this time of day, and she followed it south, towards where Pelar had gone. And then she followed it north, to the Worship Gate and beyond, where the Great Storm threatened. Sarmin had told her that by staring at the emptiness too long she too would be emptied, but she could see nothing to the north but the gate and the wall.

  She sat among Nessaket’s flowers and looked at the statue of Mirra. ‘Where has she gone?’ she asked the stone, but the stone did not answer.

  26

  Sarmin

  Sarmin leaned back in the Petal Throne and looked out over the gathered court. The politicking of his lords and generals defined Cerana for those who lived and worked within the palace, but it was these meetings between himself and foreign rulers that defined Cerana for the outside world. It happened so rarely that it was of the utmost importance to get it right. Anticipation and dread together set his skin tingling. To strike the right balance, to be welcoming and yet demand the respect the Son of Heaven deserved, was to walk on a knife’s edge. When Marke Kavic had arrived in the court, Govnan had been here to help him through a difficult moment in diplomacy, but he did not expect the high mage to be present today.

  Within minutes or hours the Storm would touch against the Blessing, and all things hinged upon that moment, for if Govnan could not protect the river, they would have to leave their great city, just as Notheen had long recommended. The desert headman was also missing from the assembly, as were many others – the softer men who might talk of war but shivered at hardship. The earthquake had been the final straw for them, and he wished them well on their way downriver or across the sands. He and Mesema might soon be joining them – but first he would find his brother, and to do that he needed Duke Didryk’s help. His fingers wandered to the butterfly-stone he kept in his pocket to remind himself how much that seemed impossible was not.

  General Merkel and Lord Benna remained, and with them an assortment of brave courtiers, all of them energised by the news that the Fryth duke had arrived. Some wore grim expressions – any alliance with Fryth would curtail their dreams of conquest – but others showed nothing but curiosity. Sarmin himself was looking forward to discovering who would be standing with him in the coming days, and who would oppose him. Dinar would be the man to watch as an alliance with the duke moved forwards. Now the high priest stood in the midst of a group of old warriors, his expression clos
ed, his words few. Though he thirsted for power, the man was always careful; he chose both his allies and his battles well. He would not speak against the alliance unless he saw a better opportunity.

  He watched the side door, but Mesema did not step through. He was surprised she would miss this. He remembered the feel of her, the way their bodies had joined together, and he pressed his palm against the carved metal roses of his throne to still his desire. He had always cared for Mesema and he had always wanted her, but something had changed, beginning with the day Chief Banreh had arrived and he was poisoned by jealousy. He knew his mother would not approve; in the Histories he had read many a tale of rulers thrown upon the rocks of their own passions. An emperor must always remain above such human foibles.

  And yet still he looked at the door again, wondering where she could be, longing for the sight of her pointed face, the feel of her gentle hand against his shoulder.

  The herald claimed Sarmin’s attention, announcing the duke and his two noble guards in his sonorous voice. Courtiers gaped and whispered at the sight of the tall Fryth, and struck various poses of disapproval or acceptance, though Sarmin set no tone to guide them. He kept his own face blank, though Duke Didryk looked so like his cousin Marke Kavic that he found it difficult: the duke looked out from the same deep blue eyes.

  Sarmin’s last memory of Kavic was filled with blood, for it had been his own hand that killed the marke, though not his own mind.

  Moreth had slipped in and stood now at the back, his grey eyes watchful. Sarmin did not see Grada but Herran stood in the shadows, his face betraying nothing. Other than Azeem, all of his closest advisors were absent. His mind went in a dark direction.

  ‘Do you see General Arigu here?’ he asked Azeem in a low voice. He did not know what the man looked like.

  ‘No, Your Majesty, I do not. I was told Chief Banreh escaped and the general went after him.’

  ‘Yes – I was hoping he had returned.’ Sarmin hoped Arigu would be successful, and soon; if he could not retrieve Banreh there would be trouble between himself and the army. To the soldiers and the court the horse chief had come to represent all of Cerana’s failings in Fryth; if Sarmin lost him, they would never be able to set those accounts to rights. And yet he did not like to think of what would have to happen to Banreh once he returned.

  ‘I am sure the general—’

  Azeem stopped when the duke drew near.

  The Fryth had brought only two guards, the merest nod to his status, though both were taller than any other man in the room. Their metal armour was etched in complex designs and buffed to gleaming. They shone in the light cast down from the dome like moving god-statues, and Sarmin could see there were men among the cushions who watched them with awe.

  The threesome approached the end of the silk runner and there stopped. They knelt into their obeisances as one, as if they had practised it. Unlike Marke Kavic and his austere, who had both waited too long to bend the knee, Didryk and his men performed on cue. The duke’s fine coat stretched straight over his back and his long hands rested flat on the silk carpet. He wore one ring of office, a golden band set with carved ivory. In his elegant simplicity he reminded Sarmin of Azeem, but Tuvaini had been a simple man too, at least in clothing, and he knew that did not signify an elegant mind.

  Sarmin waited, one minute and then the next, allowing the silence to settle in fully and for all minds to turn towards the expectation of his words. He had planned the same greeting he had given to Kavic, in honour of the fallen marke.

  ‘Rise,’ he said at last, and a breath went through the crowd. ‘Duke Didryk, welcome to Nooria, and may the sand take only your sorrows.’

  ‘I thank you, Magnificence.’ Didryk bowed his head.

  ‘As I told your cousin Kavic many months ago, heaven and stars keep him now’ – he paused and allowed the duke to make his own devout gesture – ‘my cousin, Emperor Tuvaini, initiated an attack upon the Dukedom of Fryth in error, believing it to be the cause of a plague we had suffered. But the pattern-plague that appeared to have come from Mogyrk hands was in fact the work of Helmar, also my kin, and rooted in our long division. I feared the effects of our aggression would bring only further conflict through time. Now I know I was correct.

  ‘Yrkmir approaches, having already ravaged your lands. In the aftermath of Helmar’s work the wounds from your god fester within our empire. Our own great goddess Meksha threatens to release the fires of Her mountain, and we suffer strange attacks in our greatest city. But through all this you stretch out your hand in friendship, and we accept.’

  Duke Didryk bowed and said, ‘We are pleased to offer our hand in friendship, and to begin to heal the wounds caused by our enmity.’ So far all had passed as if he and the duke had practised it together, and the smoothness of their meeting gave Sarmin real hope. He longed to ask Didryk about his brother, but he could not do it here, before all the men of court. He raised his voice so that it would reach the furthest corners of the room.

  ‘Ours will be the first alliance between Cerana and a Mogyrk ruler. To celebrate our new friendship I have prepared a proclamation.’ He motioned to Azeem, who produced a great scroll wound on mahogany rods. Amber glimmered from the rounded ends of the wood as he held it up before the eyes of the court.

  As Azeem unrolled the parchment and formally announced the alliance, Sarmin and the duke regarded one another. Kavic had been determined, but also curious and hopeful. Didryk’s blue eyes, so much like the marke’s, held more shadows; they carried the grief of the past war, as well as other sorrows Sarmin could not begin to guess. But he held the emperor’s gaze and did not hide from it.

  Sarmin was struck by a sudden inspiration, and when Azeem finished reading, he spoke. ‘On this day I dissolve the law making illegal the worship of Mogyrk. Mogyrk churches may now stand under the light of the sun, and its members will enjoy the protection of our guards and mages.’

  This time there were no indrawn breaths from the room, no gasps, no murmurs. A silence fell beneath the dome, and everyone sat so still that for a moment Sarmin wondered if a spell had been cast. Azeem’s hands fell to his sides, the scroll forgotten, its furthest end touching the shining floor. General Merkel looked green, as if he might be sick. But it was Duke Didryk’s face that concerned Sarmin the most: instead of looking pleased, he looked devastated. What secrets and grief did he carry, that a gesture towards peace brought him such desolation?

  A private talk might clear the air. Sarmin stood, his loose robes giving the appearance of smooth movement and not a series of painful unbendings. ‘Duke Didryk, I am sure you are tired from your journey. Azeem will see you to a set of comfortable rooms, and my own sword-sons will watch over your safety. Please, be easy, and we will speak before long.’ He turned, ignoring the wide eyes of court, and exited through the side door. In that small chamber stood one of the low viziers, Azeem’s functionary, who fell into an obeisance.

  Sarmin washed his hands in the rose-petal water that had been prepared for him. His sword-sons crowded into the small space, careful not to step on the low vizier. No sooner had Sarmin thrown down the silk drying-cloth than the outer door opened and a burly man entered, turning sideways, for the doorframe was too narrow for his wide shoulders. He reeked of sweat and his leathers had long since worn out, but Sarmin knew him for an important man.

  His sword-sons had rushed to stand in front of him, but he waved a dismissive hand. ‘The general, I believe?’

  ‘Your Majesty.’ One of the man’s arms had remained outside the door and now he entered the room fully, dragging Chief Banreh with him. The chief looked much the worse for wear. He had been beaten and was badly sunburned. His hands were tied behind his back and when Arigu kicked him, he landed against the wall, one knee buckling beneath him, the other leg held out to his side – the one Mesema had said could not bend.

  Looking down at the wreck, Sarmin regretted ever wanting to hurt the man.

  General Arigu knelt before his emperor. It ir
ked, but a proper obeisance was impossible in the small space. ‘Your Majesty, I have brought you a gift.’

  Sarmin looked to the low vizier, still face down on the floor. ‘Rise,’ he said at last, and the man stood and pressed himself against the wall, staring at the injured chief. Sarmin half wondered whether Banreh might be dead already. ‘You went against my word in Fryth, General. For that I should have your head. Instead, you offer me the head of the Windreader chief.’

  ‘His is prettier – or it was, Magnificence,’ said Arigu, standing to show a broad face and a friendly grin. ‘But it is also worth more than mine, for the time being. You have in your great wisdom entered into an alliance with the Duke of Fryth. Yrkmir approaches and a pattern mage will serve us well. But the man is passionate and unpredictable – the kind of man who, in the midst of peace negotiations, might take to cutting throats. But this one’ – Arigu nudged Banreh with his foot – ‘will keep him in line.’

  Sarmin considered Arigu’s description of the duke. He had not seemed like that kind of man at all. ‘How?’

  ‘They are close, Magnificence, blood-brothers and more. The duke set Banreh to escape across the dunes, but I chased him down. The duke thinks his friend is free – but now here is Banreh to hold against his uncertain loyalties. If the duke should prove unreliable, hold a knife to this one’s throat, or send him to the temple of Herzu – the nature of the threat does not matter. The duke will do as you wish.’

  ‘You are wrong about one thing, General.’

  Arigu raised his eyebrows. ‘Majesty?’

  Sarmin turned Banreh’s limp body so that his hands were visible and pointed at the mark on his wrist. ‘Didryk knows that Banreh is here.’

  Arigu’s mouth twisted behind his beard as he studied the mark. ‘It will still work in your favour, Magnificence.’

  ‘Your army wants him dead.’