Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  Sarmin was not so good at keeping quiet. ‘Arigu?’ he said in a tone of disbelief.

  Azeem said something else, and then Sarmin leaned towards him, saying, ‘Whatever rumours he is spreading …’ Didryk heard no more, for the rest of the emperor’s words had disappeared under the clash of a gong.

  ‘What now?’ said one of the courtiers, a gaunt man Sarmin had identified as General Merkel from the Jalan Hills, next to Fryth. Didryk had met him long ago, when he was just a child, but the general had not recognised him. Merkel’s question was soon answered: a squad of Blue Shields entered, dust on their uniforms, their faces fatigued. They approached the dais and Didryk moved his feet out of the way as they prostrated themselves before their emperor.

  ‘Rise and report to me,’ said Sarmin.

  The soldiers stood and looked at one another, their eyes sad. ‘Your Majesty, it is the temple of Meksha in the East Quarter,’ said their leader, marked out by a golden crest on the tall hat he clutched under one arm. ‘It has been reduced to dust.’

  ‘Dust!’ General Merkel took a few steps forwards and halted, his eyes on the throne.

  The emperor did not move. ‘Tell me.’

  Didryk looked at the gleaming floor. He knew it had been an austere – he knew exactly what spell had been used. He also knew it could not have been Adam. He was now certain the first austere and his men were in the city – but he did not understand why they played at petty destruction. They had given Fryth no warning, but here in Nooria they were teasing the emperor, giving him plenty of time to counter any major attack. Was it so they could play with the fragile alliances at court? He looked from one man to the other, wondering who supported the emperor and who did not.

  The side door opened to allow a new courtier through. His robes left his muscled arms and calves bare, and tear-shaped tattoos marked his hands and the skin below his eyes, which flicked towards the throne with contempt. Here was one who could cause trouble for the emperor. He stalked towards the dais, and the men who had been listening to the soldiers turned to him instead.

  With a start Didryk remembered that he had come here to destroy Sarmin, not to watch enemies on his behalf, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. He need only wait until enough people had been marked and Yrkmir defeated, then he would make his own move.

  As the soldier and emperor continued to talk, Didryk shook off his thoughts enough to listen; he might yet learn something useful.

  ‘—the people inside?’ From time to time Didryk noted a childish, hopeful note in the emperor’s voice.

  ‘Suffocated, Magnificence.’ The soldier bit his lip. ‘We dug them out as quickly as we could, but we were not fast enough.’

  ‘Thank you. As usual, keep the area clear until the Tower can investigate.’

  ‘Magnificence.’ The soldiers bowed, backed away, and were gone.

  The tattooed man had made his way to the dais and now he bowed. Clearly he held high status if he did not prostrate himself – or was this a power play?

  ‘High Priest Dinar,’ said Sarmin, sounding bored.

  ‘Magnificence – I heard the news about the temple of Meksha. Our patron goddess is under attack – no wonder She brews fire in Her holy mountain.’ The priest looked over his shoulder at the courtiers, who were watching with rapt attention, and gestured towards Didryk. ‘Mogyrk worship is now legal and so we resort to Yrkmir’s ways, instead of traditions long established in Her Tower?’

  ‘My decisions in this matter are not your concern.’

  ‘In this matter, perhaps not, Your Majesty. But I have been awaiting another decision concerning the prisoner. When may I expect him?’

  With a jolt Didryk realised the priest was talking of Banreh.

  ‘When I deem it time.’ The emperor’s voice was cold.

  The priest bowed and spoke in a low but urgent voice. ‘Your Majesty, destruction is nearly upon us. We cannot risk angering the gods further.’

  ‘I am the Light of Heaven, Dinar. The gods speak to and through me. You are dismissed.’

  Dinar straightened, turned and walked out through the great doors, passing the small groups of courtiers. Their gazes followed him, their mouths stilled.

  General Merkel turned back to the emperor, his eyes narrowed in accusation, before he bowed and followed the priest. His action created quite a murmur among those who remained. Even Azeem was not happy, jerking his quill and causing spots of black ink to fly across his parchments. He placed it in its box and pulled out a rag to wipe the splattered ink, his lips pinched together.

  Emperor Sarmin spoke. ‘We will return to business this afternoon. You are all dismissed.’

  His cue at last. Didryk stood and bowed to the throne. ‘With your permission, Emperor.’ He could see Krys and Indri, standing behind the dais in the shadows between tapestries. In their heavy armour they must have been even more uncomfortable than he. They stepped forwards, relief on their faces.

  ‘Of course, Duke.’ Sarmin waved an idle hand. ‘Azeem will see you to your chambers.’

  Azeem folded his rag and put it aside. ‘Of course. This way, Duke.’ He led him past the murmuring courtiers and through the great doors. Didryk had noticed the carvings when he had arrived, but closer attention now revealed the gods in the wood, and the way their faces turned towards the emperor. Following their gazes he saw the sunlight falling from the dome, bringing a bright glow to the Petal Throne and illuminating Sarmin’s face. Surely most petitioners who approached him believed he was the Light of Heaven, as he had claimed. ‘It is quite a sight,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ said Azeem, leading him on down a great corridor, ‘may the gods preserve it.’

  Didryk followed, an echo of Banreh’s pain making him shiver though the palace was hot. The gods can do what they like, but I will not preserve it.

  33

  Mesema

  Didryk had done it to her. He had drawn his fingernail against her skin, quick as a rabbit, then dropped her arm as if he had done nothing. At first she had thought nothing of it, but now she recognised the feel of a binding-mark. Once she had been linked to Beyon, but he was gone for ever. She remembered the desperate look Didryk had cast her from the Great Hall and knew he had been asking – was now asking – for her help. She knew where to find Banreh, even without the mark, for Sarmin had told her he was in the temple of Mirra. She longed to go to him, but instead she guided Rushes up the stairs towards the women’s wing, her wrist thrumming. She would – she must – speak to Sarmin first.

  ‘Do you think the Empire Mother will return today?’ asked Rushes.

  ‘I hope so. I wish I knew where she has gone.’ Nessaket had been so peculiar as she left, and the guards had also been strange, as if they could not even see the Empire Mother. When Sarmin had called Mesema to his room in the time of Beyon she had walked in a trance and the guards had not noticed her either. Sarmin had used the pattern to pull her there – and that raised a question in her mind and a fear in her heart. Had Austere Adam drawn Nessaket to him in the same way?

  The doors to the women’s wing stood before them and two guards heaved them open. Mesema led Rushes to Nessaket’s rooms, where the babe was asleep in his crib. She patted his soft head. Without Pelar it was too quiet in her own rooms. This boy had brought some joy and comfort back to the wing, but Sarmin’s words concerned her. She lifted the babe and studied his face. He had Beyon’s fierce eyes.

  A surge of pain roiled from Mesema’s wrist, spreading over her skin, and her knees buckled. Banreh! ‘Rushes – take him.’ She spoke with urgency and as the girl took the boy into her arms, she doubled over, breathing heavily.

  ‘Are you well, Your Majesty?’

  ‘I am fine.’ She turned to go. ‘Take care of him, the poor child.’ What if Nessaket failed to return and Sarmin continued to reject him? She did not care to think of that. Sendhil supported her elbow as she made her way back to her room, and once inside she curled up on her bed.

  After an hour twisted and t
urning in the sheets she at last fell into a fitful sleep, waking some time in the afternoon with her hair stuck to her clammy skin. She slid from the bed, touched her feet to a spinning floor and just made it to her chamber-pot before sickness overcame her.

  Tarub ran into the room and placed a cool towel on her brow. ‘I saw you were ill as you slept, Majesty,’ she said. ‘Here, I will help you return to your bed.’

  ‘No,’ said Mesema, ‘I will go to High Priest Assar of Mirra.’ If this was how Banreh felt then she must see him. She could no longer wait for Sarmin.

  ‘But you are not well enough, Majesty! Let me call him to you.’

  ‘No.’ Mesema clutched her stomach, but the second wave of nausea had passed. ‘Just make me look decent.’

  Tarub clucked her tongue, but she summoned Willa and together the two women washed the sweat from her skin, put her in a new gown and combed her hair. Mesema looked in the mirror and found the result not beautiful – but that did not matter. She held the cool towel to her forehead one last time before exiting the room. Her guards followed, but not without question. ‘Willa said you were ill and not to be disturbed, Majesty,’ said Sendhil. ‘Are you certain it is safe to be walking through the palace?’

  ‘It is never safe,’ she answered, ‘but I must speak with Assar in the temple of Mirra.’

  ‘I hear the prisoner is there.’ Sendhil’s voice held a note of concern.

  ‘Assar will be with me, Sendhil,’ said Mesema, ‘and in any case the prisoner is the chief of my people.’

  ‘With the Empire Mother missing, we must be extremely careful. The wife of the emperor should not—’

  She sank her fingernails into the palms of her hands. ‘I told you, Sendhil, I will have none of your lessons.’

  They walked the remainder of the way in silence, though she could feel Sendhil’s worry and disapproval with every step. At last they wound their way to the temple wing. Mesema glanced into the temple of Herzu as they passed and broke out in a new sweat. Whether it was from the god of pain or Banreh’s sickness, she could not tell. Once in Assar’s realm the peace and greenery comforted her, though the flower-scents caught in her throat.

  Assar rushed around the fountain to greet her. He was not muscular like Dinar, but soft and well-covered; that combined with his large brown eyes to present a kindly image. She had always thought that if she were younger she would like to wrap her arms around him. ‘Empress –Your Majesty! It is an honour. Have you come to see the new roses?’

  ‘No, Assar. I am ill.’

  ‘Then please, Majesty, sit, and I will examine you.’

  Though the bench looked tempting she kept on. ‘No; I will see the prisoner. I know he is here.’ Her wrist felt on fire, and it pulled to her left. She followed it, passing roses and tall grass growing in pots.

  ‘I am not to allow visitors, Your Majesty.’

  ‘The emperor disallows even me?’

  ‘Not the emperor, Majesty.’ Assar hastened to step in front of her. ‘High Priest Dinar.’

  She stopped, lest she bump into him and cause her guards to overreact. ‘Dinar gives orders to the High Priest of Mirra?’

  ‘Not always, Your Majesty, but prisoners fall into his realm, and so—’ Assar gestured helplessly towards the jasmine. ‘The flowers are mine and prisoners are his. Please let me tend to you, my Empress.’

  ‘No, do not tend to me: tend to the prisoner, for that is what ails me – his pain.’ A sudden anger overtook her. ‘Why, Assar? Why would you not treat an injured person in your temple?’

  ‘Because the pain brings him closer to Herzu.’ Assar looked at his slippers and spoke in a low voice. ‘Herzu is the favoured god of this palace and always has been. He casts the illnesses and brings war to the men; I treat those who fall.’

  ‘But not all of them, I see.’ She stepped past him and continued, ‘Chief Banreh must at least have something for the pain. Dinar can speak to me personally if he does not like it.’ Assar and the guards followed behind her without speaking.

  Banreh lay on a stone slab behind a wall of flowering vines – or at least her wrist told her it was him; his face was too swollen to recognise, mottled as it was with red and blue and too pale in the few places free of injury. He wore nothing but strips of white linen wrapped from his ribs to the tops of his blood-smeared thighs. Her gaze went to where the bones in his leg were out of place. She had never seen his injury before, the old scars criss-crossing his knee and the shin bending the wrong way, for he had never swum in the spring streams or trained bare-legged in the summer. Now she saw the duke might have healed his leg, but not enough.

  ‘Mesema.’ He raised his fingers. She had not thought him conscious, but now she hurried to the head of the slab. His curls were gone and his green eyes were nothing but narrow slits. His words were slurred when he spoke, and that bothered her more than his injuries. He had always been well-spoken, always the diplomat. ‘Do you remember what Great-Uncle said?’ He spoke in their own language, in the affectionate tone.

  Without thinking she took his hand, feeling the weakness of his grip. ‘That I was to create a new leader, and with him, more glory than we have ever seen.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes, I had my son. Pelar.’

  ‘You think he meant your son? I have wondered.’ He licked his lips and she looked around for water. ‘Because he did not say “give birth”, only “create”. Is it not odd – I thought it could even be me.’

  ‘You? I did not create you.’ She realised that in his presence she was free of his pain: that must be the purpose of the mark, to monitor his health when he was not in sight. Banreh had said Didryk was a healer.

  ‘You had a hand in the man I became, just as you have had a hand in the man the emperor has become.’ He coughed, pink bubbles on his lips. ‘Or it could be you.’

  ‘Shush,’ she said, and looked to Assar. ‘I need water.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Sendhil, his eyes on where her hands touched Banreh’s, his voice a warning. She ignored him and accepted the flask of water from the high priest. She held it to Banreh’s lips. ‘Assar will do what healing he can now.’

  ‘Your Majesty—’ Both Sendhil and Assar spoke in unison.

  Banreh moved his head from side to side. It looked a painful movement. ‘Don’t worry about that. Mesema. Listen. Did you find the slaves?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Empress.’ Dinar’s voice resonated over the plants and fountains. He stood near the flowering vines, his broad shoulders blocking the view of the path behind him. ‘What an unexpected joy, Your Majesty.’ His dark eyes gleamed with triumph. ‘Are you catching up on family business?’

  He mocked her, and so she made herself haughty. ‘I do not care for your tone. I am speaking with the chief of my people.’

  ‘You are speaking with the traitor.’ He turned to Assar, who shrank from his glare. ‘You allowed this tryst to occur?’

  ‘I could not stop her,’ said Sendhil.

  For a moment everyone stared at the guard who had spoken out of turn. Then Dinar continued as if Sendhil had said nothing, ‘She is touching that man. Assar. I trust you will testify to that.’

  ‘Testify?’ Mesema’s hand where she held the flask was sweaty, and she gripped it harder so as not to let it drop.

  Dinar smiled. ‘Arigu could have chosen better, and at long last, he has.’

  ‘What are you—?’ Mesema put it together. ‘Arigu will not prevail. Sarmin knows what kind of man he is.’

  ‘But he will also know what kind of woman you are.’

  At last her guards drew their swords, for the insults had become intolerable. Mesema met his smile. ‘What did you think would happen? My guards are sworn to protect my honour. I am the empress. When my husband hears—’

  ‘When your husband hears that you were here, speaking with the traitor in secret words, holding his hand like a lover, he will have no choice but to cast you aside.’ Dinar spoke through a rigid smile. �
�Once they have heard the truth, the army will not have you. The priests will not have you. The Old Wives will not have you.’ He stepped forwards. ‘You, Mesema of the Grass Tribes, will be anathema.’

  Sendhil held his sword at the ready. ‘Your Majesty?’

  At that moment Mesema knew the best course would be to cut the man down – as a man and as a witness he was better gone. But she could not kill Assar, too – and how would she explain the death of the most influential priest in the city to the soldiers and the generals? She held more sway over Sarmin, and he held more sway over the military, making them roughly equal. For many years she had watched her father and she knew an equal enemy must be neutralised before he could be killed.

  She stepped back. ‘You should watch your words, Dinar.’

  The priest would not stop smiling: he knew she could not kill him. He gave a shallow bow. ‘Majesty.’ With a glance at Assar he was gone.

  Banreh coughed and she held the water back to his lips. ‘You must find the slaves,’ he murmured. ‘You must.’ His head fell back against the slab.

  But Mesema was not so certain that would be enough. While she and Dinar held equal power Arigu stood over them both, as the best strategist and the most well-liked general of the White Hat Army. Sarmin would forgive much from the man, especially with Yrkmir coming; this she knew. ‘I must go,’ she said, putting the flask of water beside him. ‘Assar, give him something for the pain.’ With that she turned and made her way from the temple, her men behind her, her thoughts running ahead, not even watching where she turned or climbed stairs. She did not even feel the pain of Banreh’s wounds returning until she had opened the door to her room.

  34

  Govnan

  Govnan stood at the desk of the high Tower room and looked out over the god’s wound, stretching from the river as far west as he could see and looming over the northern walls. A spyglass was no longer required to check its progress; anybody in the city could see it now, rising to the north as grey and featureless as fog. The attack on the temple of Meksha had been all that was needed to draw it closer. The pale sickness would be upon them soon, and the djinn who rode the emptied.