Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  ‘I will consider it.’ He climbed into his carriage and looked out at the general, who put on a diffident air.

  ‘And the other thing, Your Majesty. Have you considered my offer?’ Grada climbed into the carriage and sat next to Sarmin, but the general paid her no heed.

  ‘That was only yesterday, General. I have hardly had the time.’

  ‘But I—’

  Impatience overcame him. ‘If you must have an answer now, then it is no.’

  The general bowed with a grim expression. ‘Magnificence.’

  Sarmin closed his carriage door and the horses began to move. He had never been in a carriage before, more of a hot box that swayed and made him ill. He should have been more politic with the general; he needed Arigu more now than ever before. But he had said he would never raise another woman to Mesema’s position. She was Pelar’s mother, his princess, the woman he loved. But he remembered that his mother had warned him of love, and the air inside the carriage stuck in his throat. Would he be an emperor tossed aside by his own emotions, left alone on the rocks like Satreth II or Kamrak, Uthman’s son? He had no choice but to wait and see.

  39

  Govnan

  Govnan had been walking towards the Storm, not quickly, for his old legs did not allow that. With every step he had to consider Metrishet, Ashanagur and the others; he had to control them, watch their movements. He had estimated that he would reach the void in another half-day, but while the sun was high in the sky the emptiness rushed forwards as if answering the call of a great pattern-work. He froze, expecting to be consumed by the Storm and for his efreet be loosed upon the world, but it stopped several lengths away. He faced west, not looking at the vast Storm, which would fill his vision and empty his mind if he turned his eyes north – but he could feel it, against his skin and deep in his bones.

  It wanted – it craved – it searched. The blankness begged for colour, form, vitality.

  The elementals would survive as Meksha’s water did, unseen and unclaimed by the Storm. Metrishet, Ashanagur and the others would form a barrier between the god’s wound and Nooria, their flames spinning a net of heat and colour. Govnan presented the image to the fire-spirits and willed them to make it so. They would need to spread their fire both wide and high, standing between the Storm, the northern wall and the river road that led down to the Storm Gate. Govnan set his will against theirs, and reluctantly, the spirits complied, weaving threads of fire so bright against the dullness that Govnan was forced to keep his eyes closed. He did not know whether the work took an hour, a day or an entire week; his own senses, joined with the efreet’s, had become alien to him.

  The wound met the first fiery web-piece and probed, searching for something to deconstruct, to undo – but it found nothing, as if it had reached the end of the world. In fact, it had only reached something the god did not recognise, so the fire worked only as a barrier. To heal the wound would require something more.

  Govnan’s legs shook. It felt a year since he had bound Ashanagur for the second time, though he knew it could not be that long. The sun was so distant and yet its power so close, warming his shoulders, hot on the skin of his face, and he knew what he controlled now was only a small part of what fire promised and threatened; so small was man against the forces of earth and sky.

  His mind had wandered, and already Ashanagur moved – only a finger-span, a test of Govnan’s will – but it had abandoned its work on the net and the emptiness flowed through the space like water through a broken dam.

  We must not be distracted. The web must be unbroken. He spoke for all of them, his voice foremost, but not alone.

  Metrishet answered, We are hungry. To the west there is flesh.

  Govnan explored the sense of his bound spirits, not with sight, smell or hearing, but an inner one that rushed along the sands, picking up on love-charms buried deep within the dunes, pattern-marks and old wards. As he reached out, the city’s wall flared to life, its ancient spells gleaming with power. The efreet sensed magic above all else besides fuel: anything combustible they perceived with a yearning, and during his many years with Ashanagur he had developed the ability to sniff out the many forms of its food. Now Govnan sensed the meat Metrishet desired to the south and west: row upon row of soldiers, a thousand and a thousand more. Yrkmir. And beneath them were patterns, not one great design, but a thousand small marks and circles, lighting his mind with the full force of the One God. He gasped, at last realising why the Storm had shifted so rapidly.

  It is not Cerani flesh, Metrishet continued. You will not mind if we eat it. Not a question.

  Govnan could not allow it; there would be no Nooria to protect if he allowed the void to flow past the Worship Gate. Sarmin had been clear with his orders, and so Govnan sent a negative along his bond to Metrishet. We stay here. But he wondered whether the emperor had a plan, and what magical defences he had managed. Helmar had come close to destroying them once before; now all of Yrkmir’s power stood in the desert outside the western wall. He shivered, though the late afternoon sun beat down on him. He had made his choice. He would remain at his station.

  He lingered on his sorrow for only an instant, for one of the smaller spirits now attempted to flit from his grasp. Kirilatat was its name. Govnan thought of Kirilatat as a woman though it was Metrishet who wore a woman’s form. He wrestled with its will. Stay in place. But he grew weak, falling to his knees. Yrkmir’s presence unnerved and frightened him. He could do nothing for the young mages, for the Tower, for all that the Tower stood to protect. He could do only as Sarmin had commanded. He geared all of his focus to the building of the net.

  We are hungry.

  He ignored the chorus of the efreet; he knew they could exist for years without eating. Ashanagur had eaten only five times in all the time Govnan held him before. It was a matter of will. Stay. He lifted his waterskin. An instant later he threw it to the ground. The liquid burned against his lips and left a trail that sizzled like burning oil as it dribbled down his chin. He was more fire than man now; water would no longer strengthen him. He untied a sack holding bread and cheese and wrinkled his nose in disgust. His own mind turned to the Yrkmen – so many of them, all that flesh living and unburned.

  Ashanagur expanded again, its flames licking against Govnan’s face, and Govnan lifted his chin, allowing it to heat his cheeks like the sun. When they had been joined before it had not been as two separate entities, and over the years he had forgotten Ashanagur’s beauty and power. So we eat? Ashanagur asked, low and seductive.

  Desire overwhelmed Govnan, so deep that his bones hummed with it and his throat hollowed. No. He struggled to master himself as well as the efreet. No. We build this net.

  Soon. Ashanagur mocked him. Soon.

  40

  Farid

  ‘There you are.’ Moreth shuffled into the library, walking past the pattern that shifted bright upon the wall and looked over the table, his eyes stony but showing grief nevertheless. The warding-symbol Farid had drawn on his forehead glowed blue and yellow. ‘Mura has been in your rooms and up and down the stairs looking for you.’

  Farid had been searching the ancient patterns for anything they could use against Yrkmir, but his understanding of them was coming too slowly. He put his work aside and looked up at the rock-sworn. ‘I am always in the library. Hasn’t she noticed?’

  ‘Always? You have not been here so long as that,’ Moreth said. ‘Rock and wind measure time on a different scale, and even on the human one, you are new.’ He went to the window and looked out over the northern quarter. ‘Have you seen Govnan’s fires?’

  ‘How could I not?’ Farid had watched them all night: Govnan had not slept, and neither had he. Both of them bore magic requiring more control than dreams allowed. His greatest fear was waking to find he had cast a spell upon the Tower.

  He cleared his throat. ‘If you see the fires it means the high mage is still alive and the northern wall stands safe.’ We will see about the western wall. Farid
felt a cold dread. The truce had yet two more days, but the Yrkmen soldiers and their pale austere filled his mind. He did not believe the truce would end peacefully – the emperor would not convert to Mogyrk; that was unthinkable.

  And that meant only one thing: war, blood, death. He spoke to Moreth again, speaking bravely for himself as much as for the rock-sworn. ‘The way I see it, we’re all soldiers, of a magical kind, and we have to work together to keep the city safe. I think Govnan knew this.’

  Moreth turned his head away. ‘Yes. He did. He does.’

  Farid stood. ‘Why were you looking for me?’

  ‘Your magic is different from ours. We have a problem our elementals cannot fix. Will you look?’

  ‘Of course.’ Before leaving the room he stopped and said, ‘Can you see anything different in this room?’

  He could see the colourful pattern on the wall, but Moreth looked around and shrugged. ‘Only the normal things.’ They left the library and began a slow descent. Moreth’s steps were solid and sure but Farid held on to the wall with one hand, noticing the cracks between the carvings, the cobwebs in the corners, the dust that lay over everything. They reached the rock-sworn statues and Moreth showed him yet another stairway, this one going below. Here Mura joined them. She smelled of roses, and he could see her own warding symbol glowing from her skin.

  This new stairway was underground and unlit. Moreth lifted a lantern from a hook on the wall and lit it before proceeding.

  Farid took the first step downwards and felt a prickling along his arms. He peered down past the lantern but saw only darkness. He willed himself to be patient as they continued, Moreth moving with consistent, plodding steps, Farid struggling with his robes and Mura coming up behind them, too fast to follow comfortably, always needing to stop and wait for them to move ahead.

  At last they reached the bottom, and Farid drew in his breath. He had a sense of great distance, as if he had dived from a great height and was still falling. This was how he had felt in his dream, walking upon the endless road, and he knew that he could remain in freefall or keep walking for twenty years and never reach whatever it was at the end of it. As in the dream, he kept moving, reaching out with his hand, no longer caring about his robes tangling around his feet. The wall consisted of smooth, magic-worked stone that curved into a perfect circle, but here it parted, allowing magic to seep into the Tower like water through a crack. He pushed his fingers into the rent and felt a frisson of excitement.

  ‘Can you fix it?’ asked Moreth.

  ‘Why do you want to fix it?’ Farid’s hands played over the jagged edges. He now had a sense of what it was that he would never reach, and it was sweet and bright.

  ‘Because if it continues to spread, the whole Tower will fall!’ Moreth exclaimed in impatience. ‘And it’s letting the magic out.’

  ‘It’s letting the magic in,’ Farid corrected him. ‘Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘I did feel it and I almost lost control of Rorswan.’

  ‘Maybe it gave him too much strength – that’s what it does.’ Farid could feel the magic against his fingers. If only he could widen the rent and allow more of it through, he was sure it could help them fight Yrkmir. He glanced at Mura. ‘Touch it – you’ll see.’

  ‘I will not, if it means Yomawa—’

  The great bell sounded high above them and Mura made a sound of impatience. ‘I will get the door,’ she said. ‘I am faster than either of you.’

  She left them, and Farid let go of the wall at last and looked around the lowest floor of the Tower. Something else was pulling at him here – not another rent, but a doorway. He could feel it, but he looked at the curved stone and saw nothing.

  ‘The portals to the other realms are here,’ said Moreth. ‘Can you sense them?’

  ‘Yes.’ Farid turned towards the stairs. He could have stayed next to the crack all day, like a drunk with a bottle of wine, but he did not want Mura answering the door alone. Too many things were possible in Nooria now. He took the stairs at a run and realised the magic had invigorated him. Though he had not slept, he no longer felt tired. His muscles were not fatigued. He hurried after Mura and reached the hall of statues just as she opened the door. He slowed, knowing that the dignity of the Tower did not allow for mages rushing about in the entryway. More soldiers stood at the door – not the same men who had brought him here.

  Mura finished talking to them and turned around, a scroll-tube in one hand. She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘A communication from the grand vizier.’

  Farid was gratified to know that even someone who had been at the Tower for years could still feel impressed and honoured by the palace.

  To Farid’s surprise Moreth spoke behind him. He had not known the rock-sworn could move so fast. ‘Open it.’

  They gathered around the scroll-tube like children around cake on a festival day. Mura removed the gleaming cap and pulled out the parchment. She unrolled it and said, ‘Ah. We are called to guard the wall, in shifts.’ She frowned. Perhaps she had not expected such a simple and obvious order.

  ‘Of course.’ He should have thought of that himself. Govnan would have instructed them to do so, but the high mage was gone. With a shock he realised he was the eldest mage remaining.

  ‘I will be first.’ Mura rolled the scroll back up and looked for a place to deposit the scroll-case, but found nothing and ended up holding it awkwardly in her left hand.

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’ It was a long way to the western wall. Farid looked down at his robes; he carried no weapon. If they met with any Mogyrks—

  ‘Our reputation protects us.’ Mura must have sensed his disquiet. ‘Our reputation, and the spirits we carry. But of course the grand vizier has sent a carriage.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Farid, embarrassed because he had no bound spirit, and also because he had not thought of a carriage. Mura handed the scroll to Moreth and Yomawa opened the door for her. Farid squinted into the bright sunlight. The courtyard was empty today – no stray mages being delivered, and no soldiers preparing for a desert expedition. They passed two statues of Meksha, and Farid wondered what the courtyard had looked like two hundred years ago when the Tower was full of mages who could tend to it. Had there been gardens? Fish in these greenish ponds?

  His foot fell on a glimmering path-stone and he stopped, lifting his foot. ‘Mura.’ To either side of his shoe pattern-shapes arced away, tracing a circle around the courtyard. ‘Get Moreth,’ he told Mura, ‘hurry.’ He crouched to examine the pattern lines. It was a destruction spell, but a symbol he did not understand. Hiss-nick. Adam had taught it to him – likely it meant stone. Did I do this?

  ‘There’s a pattern here,’ he said when the mages rejoined him. He showed them where to step in order to remain safe. ‘It’s of Mogyrk.’

  Moreth knelt and put a hand to the ground. ‘There are five people close by,’ he said, ‘two with the carriage and …’ He fell silent, then whispered, ‘Two more just jumped down from a wall. Running—’

  ‘Can you catch them?’ Mura laid a hand on Moreth’s shoulder, her eyes wide.

  ‘—away from us.’

  Farid jerked his head up and looked around the courtyard. ‘Where?’

  ‘To my right.’ The stone buckled around Moreth’s hand and rippled away in a liquid, shifting stream of sand and pebble. It flowed against the high wall, which billowed like a sail in the wind, shimmering a moment before returning to its rigid form. ‘Caught them,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  Mura was already running towards the gate and he followed. Though the stone had caught them, they might still have weapons that could put her in danger. As he passed the carriage, not looking at the drivers who turned and called after him, he realised he was the one at risk – he had neither bound spirit nor weapons. He would be useless in a fight, while Mura had her wind. He was a fool to think he could protect her – neither would he have been able to protect Rushes had those Mogyrks attacked them in the alley. He remembered how Grada had foug
ht the pale folk and his feet slowed. If he was not useful in a fight, he would be useful in some other way. To begin with, he could try to keep a level head.

  Moreth’s captives were further away than he expected and by the time he got there he was tired again. He bent, held his knees and caught his breath. The two men wore dark cloaks; they were struggling against the stone which had risen over their feet, trapping them where they stood. Mura stood a man’s length away and raised her hands. A strong wind blew along the wall and forced back their cloak-hoods, revealing Cerani faces, dark hair.

  ‘Men of Yrkmir,’ said Mura, her voice loud and threatening, ‘you do not belong here.’

  The men looked at one another. ‘“Men of Yrkmir”?’ said one. ‘We were just running—’ The other one punched his arm and he stopped talking.

  ‘Rebels, then.’ Mura faced them, her arms held wide, ready to counter any attack.

  But Farid frowned. This did not seem right. The men were too well-dressed for Mogyrk rebels and not well-dressed enough to be austeres – at least, he imagined all austeres dressed as well as Adam. He would guess these men were thieves, successful thieves. Who else would have remained in the city this long? Only someone who wanted to loot the empty houses.

  Moreth ran up beside him, balancing himself against the wall as if he felt dizzy. When he saw the two men he fell to his knees. ‘No, no, no …’ His hands went to the ground.

  ‘It’s all right, Moreth. Let them go; they’re not our men.’

  Mura turned and frowned at him. ‘You’re sure?’

  But Moreth made a high, keening noise and arched his back, then rolled to his side and curled into a ball, gasping.

  ‘Moreth— Moreth, are you well?’ Farid put a hand on his shoulder.

  Mura screamed and he jumped up, his hands in fists, but she was not under attack. She was looking at the spot where the two men had been, but nothing remained there other than a pool of blood on the stone, reflecting the light of the sun.