Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  ‘I can handle my army, Your Majesty,’ said Arigu with a conspiratorial grin, ‘if you can manage the duke.’

  ‘Walk with me.’ Before leaving the room Sarmin turned to the low vizier. ‘Have him taken to Mirra, but keep it secret.’

  ‘Yes, Magnificence.’

  Sarmin walked the gleaming floor towards the back stairs that led to his apartments. The spiral stair had been grander, but now it was broken, and in any case, Arigu had seen it before. Any awe Sarmin might have inspired by leading the general up that way had long since been used up by his father Tahal. ‘Yrkmir approaches, planning an attack upon our great city.’

  Arigu raised a hand to his beard but did not speak.

  ‘You will command our defences.’

  ‘As you wish, Your Majesty. I will meet with Lurish immediately to coordinate our efforts. Except …’

  ‘Spit it out, General.’

  ‘Except that Yrkmen attack like cowards. They cast their evil spells, then set their archers upon those who remain.’

  Sarmin looked down at the big man. ‘Were you in Mondrath then, General, when Yrkmir attacked?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And how did you survive?’

  For a moment Sarmin thought the general would not answer, but finally he said, ‘The duke had put a mark upon me, Your Majesty. I’d been cut and he meant to heal me, or so he said. It’s a foul thing, wearing the marks, but it saved me.’

  ‘Well then, General, I am glad for it.’ Being marked had protected the general just as it had protected those in the marketplace attacks. At his door Sarmin said, ‘Azeem will arrange a room for you in the palace.’

  ‘With your permission, Your Majesty, I will sleep in the barracks.’ Arigu bowed and walked back the way he had come. He was the greatest general in Cerana, as well known for his political manoeuvring as for his battle strategy, and the man his scheming mother had favoured. There would be no private game between Sarmin and Didryk now. Arigu had thrown in his chips for a game between three, or four, if he counted Banreh.

  Sarmin leaned against the doorjamb and spoke to his sword-sons for the first time in an age. ‘If Azeem comes, tell him that I need history books. I want to know about Satreth the Reclaimer.’ His own history book had been destroyed by the false Beyon, using his hands, and anyway, it had contained little of military history. He wanted to know exactly how the Yrkmen had attacked so many years ago, and how the Reclaimer had defeated them. The sword-sons nodded and he shut the door.

  27

  Farid

  Grada had left Farid before the great doors of the Tower. He knew she expected him to be able to make his own way from here, but in truth he did not know whether to ring the bell or try to pull at the brass knobs. He was, after all, wearing the robes of a mage – but the doors were heavy and likely required real magic to open, and he had none of that. He turned back towards the unusual woman, only to see her disappear through the arched gate. He had never met a female like her, one who spoke frankly and carried herself more like a warrior than anything else.

  The courtyard lay empty around him, his only company some slimy green pools and the statues of Meksha, and he felt as if the Tower’s patron goddess was watching him with stony eyes, judging his worthiness. He ran his fingers along the brass surface of the door. If he knew the picture for metal, he could melt his way through … That made him smile, and when he turned back to look at Meksha’s unmoving face he felt more proud than embarrassed. He rang the bell.

  Mura answered with a smile. ‘You’re home.’

  He would not have called it ‘home’, though they had given him a room with a bed and a table. Home was his dingy apartment above the fruit market. Home was his father’s boat, with the barrels of fruit he carried up the river. But more and more he was feeling that patterns were also his home: he longed to study their forms, to draw them with his fingers, to feel the delight of pulling the essence of a thing from a network of lines and shapes. And if patterns were his home, then perhaps the Tower was too. His father had believed it.

  ‘Well, are you coming in?’ Mura turned and walked away from him, between the lines of rock-sworn mage statues. ‘Govnan has some wonderful news, and some ideas of how to—’ she stopped. ‘First, have you seen the Great Storm, to the north?’ She was already halfway up the first flight of stairs and she turned to wave her hand at the brass portals.

  Farid jogged after her to avoid them closing on him. ‘I’ve seen it – if you mean the greyness.’

  ‘It’s grown. To the northwest it now takes up the whole horizon, like a real storm.’ She paused, her hands on the railing, her eyes far away, focused on a memory of a different place. Then she met his gaze with a directness that shocked him. ‘But this storm doesn’t pass. It doesn’t let the sun through. It just creeps closer.’

  Farid frowned. ‘I thought you said you had good news.’

  ‘Yes. Come.’ She turned back and ran up the stairs again and at last they reached the library. Mura threw the door wide. Inside, Govnan and Moreth were standing, looking over some parchments.

  A tingling ran over Farid’s skin: he could see some of those parchments had patterns written on them.

  As they entered, Govnan looked up, his eyes bright, and beckoned them forwards. ‘Ah! Here he is. Did everything go well in the desert, then? Take a look.’

  Farid hurried to his side and identified the symbol in Govnan’s hands. Shack-nuth. ‘Fire.’ He felt disappointed. They had been over this before.

  ‘Do you know the one for water?’

  Farid nodded. A quill lay on the table next to a pot of ink, so he found himself a blank piece of parchment and drew the symbol with bold, angry strokes. He wanted to see the ancient patterns Govnan had shown him before, though it made him ashamed, for he could not forget how his mother had died.

  ‘Here is the good news,’ said Govnan, ‘and since you were not here, I will tell it again. The Great Storm has been approaching the Blessing for some time, and that has been a great concern to us, for all it touches turns to dust. We would not last long in the desert without the Blessing to feed and carry our crops.’

  Farid fell back in a chair and stared at the high mage. How could he not have known such threats existed? He had never even guessed at them … His hands curled into fists and he took a deep breath. ‘And now?’

  ‘Now the day has come, and we find the river is indeed a blessing.’ Govnan handed him a brass tube with pieces of glass at each end. ‘Use the spyglass and look. The Storm touches the river, but it does not consume the water, and this tells us there is a way to stop the Storm from growing, even if we cannot heal it.’

  Farid stood and walked to the window. He held the glass to his eye, found the Blessing and followed it north past the Worship Gate, to where it rushed through the farmlands on its way down from the mountains. And then he saw it: a blank wall on the western side of the river, and behind it a colourless void that extended as far as the spyglass could reach, covering the world from sand to sky. It made his stomach turn and he had to look away.

  But on the eastern side, all was as it ever had been. A strip of green led into the lushness of the pomegranate groves, dissolving into brush further east, and at last ended in the dunes, the start of Cerana’s harshest desert. ‘I understand,’ he murmured. The Blessing was acting as a barrier against the Storm. ‘Is it possible to direct the river across the path of the Storm from east to west?’ he asked, ‘as the farmers do in the fields?’

  ‘There is no time for that,’ said Govnan, ‘but I am not without hope. If pure water – the water of the gods – can stop it, what of true fire?’

  ‘Or true air,’ put in Mura, but Govnan waved her off.

  ‘Let us speak of fire first.’

  Mura folded her arms before her. Farid looked at Meksha’s sacrificial flame which was burning in its black basin. ‘The goddess’ fire?’ he asked.

  ‘No, fire from beyond our plane.’

  ‘The elements that are bo
und by this plane crumble,’ said Moreth in a mournful voice. ‘I raised many walls when Emperor Beyon’s tomb was dissolving, but the emptiness ate every one of them. Hashi threw wind at the void, but it died and went still. Fire grew cold and flickered out. We know this.’

  ‘But what about an unbound elemental, as you mentioned before, when we spoke with the emperor?’ Govnan leaned forwards. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight from the window.

  Mura leaned in too. ‘How could we bring an unbound elemental into this plane? It would be bent on destruction, nothing more.’

  Govnan tapped the Shack-nuth symbol on the table. ‘There may be something here.’

  ‘You would use the pattern?’ Farid asked, surprised. Surely that was anathema to the Tower?

  The high mage smiled. ‘I cannot say yet. There are so many possibilities – too many, perhaps. But this is exciting news, is it not?’ He studied Farid’s face. ‘You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?’

  Farid remembered his dark closet room. Had he really not slept since escaping Adam? He should be more tired, shouldn’t he? ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then sleep.’ Govnan waved him off with an imperious hand. ‘I will not have a mage stumbling around making errors because he is too tired to think.’

  ‘I wanted to look at the patterns—’

  ‘Now,’ said Govnan, his eyes narrowing in fury.

  Farid backed off. This was the high mage, not his father; he would not test him. He bowed and withdrew.

  In his little Tower room he found a pitcher of water and a silver mug, which he could not help but touch. This would have paid two years’ rent for his little room above the market. He held it up to his face and watched the distorted reflection. He looked like a monster. He held it this way and that, looking at his forehead, but he could see no sign of any pattern there. Didryk had said the austere was sneaky. He put the mug down with a clang and threw himself onto the bed, where he tossed and turned sleeplessly.

  Images of patterns and the Storm would not leave his mind, and at last he rose and settled himself against the window. His room faced south, towards the Low Gate, where the citizens were gathering to escape the city. The crowd looked like just a moving blur from this far distance, a more colourful stream than the river beside it. Farid focused on the Blessing. His father might be poling his little boat south at this very moment, taking himself to a safe place. He hoped so.

  Do I belong here? Farid played with the belt of his mage’s robe and thought about Austere Adam, the pattern, Duke Didryk and the Great Storm. He was, it appeared, the only Cerani who could see the pattern-marks, the only pattern-worker whose loyalty to the emperor was unquestioned.

  Yes.

  28

  Didryk

  ‘Here is your room, Duke.’ Azeem held the door open for Didryk. The grand vizier was long-limbed and lean, and he looked always to be in complete control, moving with a grace that spoke either of serenity or of long practise. ‘Is there anything else I or my staff may do for you before I take my leave?’

  Didryk crossed the room and looked out the window. It faced a courtyard full of flowers similar to his own in Fryth and he closed his eyes a moment, for he would never see that one again. For an age his land had been caught between the wolf of Yrkmir and the lion of Cerana, and it had finally found ruin on the teeth of both – and yet his will for revenge had begun to falter. The emperor had made a grand and generous gesture towards his faith.

  He reminded himself that no such generosity had been shown to Banreh. Didryk could feel his friend below him, in some dark place, his pain echoing in their shared marks. For most healers such a connection was useful; it told them what patterns were needed; but on this night it was torture. Their bond was stronger than usual and he attributed that to the closeness of Mogyrk in the east. He leaned out, studying the wings and doors in his view, wondering, Where are you?

  They had been through much, he and Banreh. Together they had uncovered Arigu’s dishonesty, realising the impersonal cruelty of the empire from which he came and pushing it aside. They had put their trust in each other, and for a long while they had won. But there could be no saving his friend now. Every day he thought of the Cerani invasion of his lands and the destruction that came after and wished that he could have saved just one person – his cousin’s wife, his own sister, any loyal friend. But he had not, and could not in the palace either; he could only follow the plan they had made. That was all that remained for either of them. He looked down on the courtyard, so far from his home, and told himself he could not turn from his purpose.

  First he must get the emperor to agree to use the pattern. It was a risk, feeding the Storm with pattern-symbols; everything must be timed with care.

  ‘Duke?’ Azeem continued to wait in the doorway. ‘I asked whether there was anything else I could do for you.’ Krys and Indri, Didryk’s guards, stood behind the vizier, peering in.

  Didryk looked around the room, rubbing at his wrist. Wine and food had been provided, the wine in a delicate glass, the food on a silver tray. He did not think it would be poisoned. The emperor would not have gone through so much pomp just to bury some pika seeds in his dinner – but perhaps Kavic had thought the same thing before he died. ‘Azeem,’ he said, picking up a fig from the tray though he lacked all hunger, ‘if I may ask, how did my cousin die?’

  Azeem stepped further into the room and folded his hands over his dark robes. ‘A terrible sickness swept the palace at that time, Duke, a sickness that turned men pale and robbed them of their wills. Many died during that time.’

  ‘And my cousin Kavic, he went pale?’

  The vizier bowed his head. ‘Many people did.’ His obfuscation was practised and perfect.

  Didryk popped the fig into his mouth and motioned for Krys and Indri to enter. The fruit had too many seeds; he choked it down. It was then he noticed a Settu board on a low table. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘they have left me a game to play. Do you know Settu, Lord High Vizier?’

  ‘Of course – I did not expect that you would.’

  ‘Arigu taught me.’ Didryk gestured at the board and sat at the table, pushing his chair back enough that his knees would not knock against Azeem’s. He was tall, even for his own people, and anyone who was not Fryth made him feel a giant.

  Azeem settled across from him and began setting his own pieces on the board. ‘Arigu taught you? I thought he was your prisoner.’ Behind him Didryk’s guards took up position at the door.

  ‘He was, but of course we had no prison for him. We ate, played Settu, talked and drank all together.’

  ‘I see.’ Now the vizier would be imagining what kinds of things they had talked about, especially during long nights when there was plenty of drink. He would look at Arigu and wonder if his ale-filled mouth had turned traitor. That pleased Didryk.

  The game was set and it was Didryk’s option to place the first tile. He set a soldier piece in front of Azeem’s Tower.

  ‘That is a bad move,’ said Azeem. ‘One soldier cannot hold against the Tower. Since the game is new to you, I will allow you to take it back.’

  Didryk smiled and withdrew the piece, putting down his River instead, creating an obstacle for Azeem’s soldiers. ‘Better,’ said Azeem, placing a Pillar. ‘I wonder, did you ever win against the general? He is said to be one of Nooria’s greatest players.’

  ‘I did not.’ Didryk pushed forward a Rock. ‘Though Chief Banreh won a match against him.’ Didryk had no sense of Banreh’s fine mind at the moment, only the pain that roared along his nerves.

  Azeem’s nose twitched at the name.

  ‘Have you ever won a game against the emperor?’

  Azeem’s hand hovered over his tile, then he pushed it forwards. ‘I have never played against the emperor, may the gods continue to shed their light upon him.’

  ‘Is it not allowed to play against the emperor?’ Didryk moved his soldier piece again.

  Azeem set out his first mage. ‘No one would gains
ay the emperor, should he invite a person to play.’

  ‘So he does not play?’

  Azeem reached for one tile, then changed his mind. ‘I have not seen him play Settu, Duke.’ He put a soldier into play and lifted his eyes to Didryk’s face. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘I am very well.’ Didryk touched his pattern-mark. Removing it would make everything easier, and yet he did not want to. He wanted to know when the pain stopped and Banreh died.

  ‘I do not think you will win this game.’ Azeem surveyed the board.

  Didryk shrugged. ‘I am learning.’ They played a time in silence, the tiles moving into place. He knew that if Azeem were to make his Push he would win, but he would not fell every tile – the grand vizier wanted to stretch out the game until he knew he could win them all.

  ‘I think you are greedy,’ Didryk said, pouring himself another glass of wine.

  ‘I am thorough,’ said Azeem, his brown eyes taking in Didryk’s expression. ‘May I ask you something?’

  Didryk motioned his permission.

  ‘What is it like to worship a dead god?’

  ‘I do not.’ Seeing Azeem’s wrinkled brow he added, ‘That is a misunderstanding common to those who live outside the empire. I understand why you think He is dead – because He is not alive either.’

  ‘If he is not in this world then how can he help you? Mirra tends the wounded. Herzu aids our warriors. Meksha lights our fires and keeps us warm on desert nights. But your god leaves you to your own workings. Alone.’

  Didryk remembered it was his turn and moved a tile at random. ‘He gave us all the tools we needed when He left us, and He waits for us, in the place between life and death, a bridge to the light and peace on the other side.’ Through habit he described it as he had been taught.

  ‘You mean that he is not alive and also not dead? That sounds like …’ Azeem’s dark fingers lingered over a tile, then he changed his mind and moved another.

  Didryk wondered why he still cared about a game he had clearly won.