Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  No. Nessaket would not allow it; she would never be part of such a plan again. This was a simple power play, nothing more, men jockeying for position and influence. Not another coup. She would be in a better position now if she had been able to find the slaves – but she had run out of time … all of Nooria had run out of time.

  At least she did not feel Banreh’s pain as she had before. Now it whispered behind her thoughts, like grief, and she was glad of it, for she needed a clear mind. She gazed up at the statue of Mirra that rose above the bench, Her finely carved eyes flickering in the light from the torches, and for the Empire Mother’s sake Mesema said a prayer.

  A whisper of footsteps came upon the stairs and the guards shifted to allow Grada, lithe and liquid, to step through their midst. She looked at each of the men in turn before stopping at the bench. She watched Mesema, the blunt features of her face lost in shadow, until finally she said, ‘Your Majesty.’

  Mesema inclined her head at the Knife in the way of her own people. ‘Grada.’

  ‘May I speak to you privately, my Empress?’

  Mesema nodded and waved the guards back down the stairs, out of earshot, and the Knife waited, listening, until she was sure they were alone.

  Then she bent down and in Mesema’s ear whispered, ‘Do you trust each of those guardsmen with your life?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Don’t answer too quickly, Empress.’ Grada’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Think carefully on each one.’

  Mesema stood up and paced to the statue of Mirra and back again. The fire in the north cast the goddess’ face in darkness. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted at last.

  ‘One of them has told stories: he said you went out into the city to see Banreh before he came to the palace, and afterwards you went into the dungeon to see him again.’

  ‘But they couldn’t know I went to the dungeon – I did not take them, or tell them.’ Mesema clutched her roiling stomach. ‘And you’re the only one who knows I was in the city, and why – that was nothing to do with Banreh.’

  ‘Then how?’

  Mesema shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone followed me? But you would have noticed, Grada.’

  ‘Meere has heard the rumours, and they are said to come from one of your men.’ Grada frowned. ‘That could be a lie, but I think they would not risk an untruth, not when their message is so important. They want to remove your influence over the emperor, and replace you with Arigu’s niece. They find him too … soft … in your company.’

  ‘His niece, is it?’ Mesema wiped sweat from her forehead. Arigu had helped Tuvaini against Beyon; he did not move without a powerful ally to cover him. He was a coward. Sarmin would face down all of Yrkmir by himself if need be, but men like Arigu and Dinar sneaked and whispered. It disgusted her. ‘Dinar is working with the general, and he has just caught me with the prisoner again.’

  ‘Your Majesty …’ Grada seemed about to curse, but she held her tongue.

  Mesema knew she had made a mess of things; she needed no reminder. ‘Listen, do not be angry with me. It will not alter the situation.’

  Grada sighed and touched the twisted hilt of her Knife. ‘You must change your guard.’

  ‘No.’ When Grada frowned, she added, ‘If I do, they will know I am afraid. If I keep the same guard it will show I have no reason to be ashamed – and I will not provide them any further gossip.’

  ‘I am only concerned that this is more serious than it seems. Daveed—’

  ‘That has occurred to me too,’ Mesema admitted in a low voice. ‘But I do not believe it. This can wait until after the battle … if we survive.’

  Grada gave a slight bow. ‘If that is your decision, Your Majesty. But know that the Knife of Heaven will serve the empire if required.’ Mesema did not know whether Grada meant by that she would kill Dinar, Arigu or the child. The comfort she had felt with the Knife dropped away: Grada could kill even Sarmin, if she thought there was a call for it. She had been relaxed, as if confiding in a friend, but Grada was no friend, nor was Nessaket. Even Sarmin had to balance his affection for her with the demands of empire. She had no friends.

  She returned to the bench and faced the great web of fire. It had grown, stretching its tendrils higher into the air, adding green and yellow to its mix of colours. She had heard those in Fryth and Yrkmir could sometimes see bright lights in the northern sky and now she wondered if the army camped before the walls saw any similarity here. But such curiosity no longer mattered; it would never come to anything. They had failed. She had failed.

  The heat pressed against her skin; the Storm stood in the way of the mountain wind. And yet a small breeze picked up, blowing petals and dead leaves in a tiny whirlwind around her feet. They rose and blew through the hands of Mirra’s statue, then drifted towards Mesema, settling all around her with gentle touches of rose-scent.

  Mesema knelt before the stone goddess. Mirra had sent her a message, just as She had so many months ago, in a different garden, out in the desert. Mesema stood and studied the carved face, limned by the coloured lights of Govnan’s fires. Healing, peace, the growing of things: that was Mirra’s way – but it worked after wars, not during them. With soldiers camped outside the walls it did not seem to be Mirra’s time, but perhaps that was the point – it was easy to follow one’s beliefs when they were not being tested. It was always Mesema’s impulse to look for peace, to love, and she thought she had failed – but Mirra had faith in her. Perhaps there was still something she could do. If this was the only sign she was to receive, then she would pay attention. ‘Thank you, Goddess,’ she said aloud, ‘I will honour you as best I can.’ Light played along Mirra’s arms as if in answer.

  45

  Mesema

  Sarmin waited at her door, his eyes shadowed with fatigue. At first he leaned on the wall, his eyes on the rug, and she thought he was too tired even to meet her gaze. But then at last he found his way in, closed the door and settled on her cushioned bench, facing away from the mirror. He leaned forwards and put his head in his hands. ‘We have found Adam, but not my mother or brother. He says he let my brother go. I fear the first austere’s hand in this.’

  She went to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I regained my pattern-sight, but I can do nothing with it – it is like seeing the words, but not being able to read them. Neither Didryk nor Farid have the talent I once had. Yrkmir waits – the first austere waits – and Govnan cannot last forever. Mesema’ – he reached up and took her hand – ‘I wish I had sent you south. I wish my mother—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I think the duke regrets his alliance with me. The Yrkmen are strong, and their first austere has magics I cannot touch – not as I am. But I have both Adam and the duke, which is what they want. I could hand them over, say the words of love for Mogyrk … but would it save us?’

  She thought of the Red Hooves her father had held captive, and the things they had preached to one another while she played in the grass. ‘No, it would not. Listen: they want to wipe the world clean so that when it dawns again, all will be new. To them we are nothing more than filth to be washed away.’

  ‘Adam claims to think differently.’

  ‘Some of them carry the light of their faith, others carry the sword.’ It was so with all things, not only gods. She knelt down before him and brushed a curl from his cheek. ‘Do not betray the trust of the duke.’

  ‘He nearly betrayed mine.’

  ‘But he did not, my love.’

  He gave her a curious look.

  She blushed, because it was the first time she had ever said the words. She hid her embarrassment behind teasing. ‘Is it too soft to speak of love? Does this palace tolerate such emotion, or does Herzu keep a tight hand on us now?’

  ‘I care nothing for Herzu.’ He leaned down and touched his forehead against hers. ‘I am looking for another god. I have been reading an old book that belonged to Satreth …’

  She looked up at him in surprise. �
�Mirra touched me with her grace in Nessaket’s garden. Perhaps it was a sign.’

  ‘Yes.’ He frowned.

  She knew Mirra was the goddess of women and not easily embraced by men, but Mesema must follow through with the sign provided to her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Megra said something to me before she died – she said healing the Storm would be Mirra’s work.’

  ‘She did?’ Mesema smiled and leaned in to kiss him. ‘Is Azeem waiting for you? General Lurish?’

  ‘No.’

  She kissed him once more.

  Sarmin pulled away. ‘I should – the generals …’

  But she drew him close. The truce would last just a few days, and they had this time, so she would use it. He returned her kisses, his breaths heavier, his touches longer, and she stood, untied her dress and let it fall. Now she stood naked before him. She had never done that before; she had always been too worried about how she might compare to the more beautiful concubines, what he might think of the loose skin on her stomach from when Pelar had been born. But now she wanted him to see her, as she truly was. He stood and let his own robes fall, showing his thin body, his wide, bony shoulders narrowing into his hips, his pale legs. Together they moved to the bed. Though war waited not far away, they took their time, and when she finally trembled and shook above him the palace had gone quiet.

  He put a hand on her stomach and smiled. She rolled to his side and put her head on his chest. ‘Dinar and Arigu will use me to move against you.’

  ‘Because you are Felt.’

  ‘Because I have seen Banreh, because I am Windreader, they will paint me as the enemy. But I do not know if they will move now, or after the war.’

  ‘They will not move against me if they are satisfied, if they believe victory is at hand.’

  She watched the wall and said nothing. Victory did not appear to be at hand. Banreh’s death would have satisfied Arigu, but it had been Arigu himself who had advised Sarmin to keep the chief alive. She would not be surprised to learn that had been a trick, designed to make Sarmin look weak.

  At last she said, ‘We need to talk about the worst. If Yrkmir breaks through, if they get to the palace, we need to talk about that.’

  He said nothing so she went on, ‘Your mother has pika seeds somewhere in her room. Probably hidden among her cosmetics. I would rather do that …’ She rose up on an elbow. ‘Grada should go south to guard Pelar. He will be the true emperor.’

  ‘Emperor of what? If we lose, what is he?’

  ‘Alive.’

  He caressed her hair. ‘Do not take the pika seeds unless you are sure there is no rescue for you – even then—’ He kissed her forehead. ‘Even then, think carefully.’

  ‘I will.’ She sighed. ‘I am thinking of those slaves, taken from the Grass. I wonder if they are still alive, and whether they will live through this. I wish I had been able to find them.’

  ‘I wish so too.’ They lay in silence for a time, and then he said, ‘Show me that cut-up poem again.’ She sat up and reached for the book of poems, retrieved the bits of paper and scattered them over the sheets. Sarmin cocked his head one way and then the other. ‘Govnan is tricking the Storm because it can’t see true fire. Mogyrk Named all things, giving them symbols, and in so doing, gave his followers patterns to work with. But I think he did not Name everything, for he did not know everything.’

  ‘How could a god not know everything?’

  Sarmin sat up. ‘The Megra said something else to me before she died: “Just a man” – that’s what she said to me, and I thought she meant Helmar, but now I think she meant Mogyrk. He was not a god, but a man like Helmar – a man who thought he could remake the world and failed.’

  Mesema touched a ragged edge of paper. ‘And yet they worship him.’

  ‘A man can ascend to godhood – many of our emperors have done so. Except that Mogyrk never died. He is both dead and not dead.’ Sarmin frowned and looked towards the window. ‘Do you hear that? A buzzing sound, like a thousand bees, or a thousand people, talking far away.’

  She listened. ‘I don’t hear anything.’ She rose from the bed and picked up her dress from the floor. ‘Dead and not dead,’ she repeated. ‘Here and not here.’ She pulled the silk over her body. ‘Come.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To see someone.’ She tied the silk inexpertly; since Tarub and Willa had begun dressing her she had regressed to a childlike incompetence. She pulled up on the fabric as Sarmin rose and slipped into his robes. ‘It’s not far,’ she promised, walking to the door in her bare feet.

  She was surprised to find Grada waiting in the corridor. ‘Is there more news?’ she asked, but Grada only looked at Sarmin.

  ‘She is guarding me,’ Sarmin said. ‘Now, show me what you want me to see.’

  Mesema glanced at Grada before leading him down the hall. She would not ask why he needed the Knife at his side – she did not want to know. Inside Nessaket’s room Rushes sat, singing a song to the child in the cradle.

  Sarmin slowed and stopped before the doorway, shaking his head.

  ‘Just look at him,’ she said. ‘One more time, look at him.’ Now that he had his pattern-sight, things might go differently.

  He gathered himself. She knew he resented this boy, resented the affection everyone showed him, resented that he was the only person who still searched for Daveed. All of that showed on his face before he finally entered his mother’s room.

  Rushes leaped to her feet and he waved her off. ‘Sit down, Rushes. I am here only for a moment, to see the boy.’ And yet he paused again, just inside the door. Mesema took his hand.

  Finally he moved and Mesema walked with him, never letting go. And there he stood, looking down for a long time, until finally he gave a sob. ‘It is him,’ he said, letting go of her hand and lifting the boy from his silks. ‘It is my brother.’ He held Daveed against him, all chubby legs and curls and fists. ‘I didn’t see him – I was looking at him the wrong way, like through a mirror, backwards. But it is him.’

  He turned to Mesema, wide-eyed, the boy squirming in his grasp. ‘Now I realise— The letter! I must go and look at it again too.’

  He meant the letter taken from Lord Nessen’s courier, the one he had said meant nothing. She reached out to take Daveed from his hands, but he paused, pressing the boy against his chest and inhaling his scent. ‘My brother,’ he said, his voice filled with wonder. But his hesitation was brief; no sooner had Mesema taken Daveed from his hands than he was already at the door. ‘I will see you in the morning,’ he said, his eyes focused on her but also past her, towards the next thing he had to do.

  ‘In the morning, my love,’ she called after him.

  She replaced Daveed in his cradle and took a deep breath. ‘Rushes,’ she said, ‘I need to look for something among Nessaket’s things. Some seeds …’

  46

  Sarmin

  Sarmin entered his room to find Azeem gone. He leafed through the papers on his desk, looking for the scroll from Lord Nessen’s courier. Rahim had sent plans for war machines – too late for the upcoming battle. He glanced at the designs and put them aside. There were some communications regarding the provinces, others about the delivery of swords for the Blue Shields; all of these could wait. Again he heard the same buzzing sound he had heard in Mesema’s quarters. He walked to the window, parchments in hand, but his view did not encompass the Scar. He felt it along his skin, prickling the fine hair of his arms.

  He dropped the parchments on the desk, accidentally knocking free the scroll-tube he was looking for. It rolled along the wood and hit the rug with a soft whisper. He picked it up. Nothing had yet come of the surveillance on the man’s estate, though they still believed him to be a Mogyrk sympathiser. Sarmin had been certain the manse had something to do with his troubles, but this scroll had offered no clue the last time he read it. Now, as he unwound it again, he remembered the awkward handwriting, the spilled ink, the touching letter from a mother to her daughter. />
  But now he looked at it in a different way, just as he had looked at Daveed and finally seen him.

  He unrolled it the rest of the way and scanned it. It still read like a fond note, but the ink that appeared to be so carelessly spilled served to underline particular letters. The missive was long, and much ink had been spilled – but Sarmin traced each letter with his finger as he read them aloud, and finally he cracked the code. All this time it had been sitting on his desk and he had not realised.

  ARIGU’S MAN BROUGHT ALLIED SLAVES. LORD N REFUSED SHELTER. POISONED? APPROACH EMPEROR? RECOMMEND.

  Sarmin sat back in his chair, amazed by what he had seen with his new eyes.

  Arigu’s captain had prevailed upon the hospitality of a Fryth sympathiser, who had refused to let him enter with his bounty of illegal slaves. Lord Nessen had ended up dead. But where were the slaves? If the captain had left them at Lord Nessen’s estate in the north, he thought that would have been in the letter. No, somehow the slaves had been brought to the city. Grada and the Grey Service had been watching Lord Nessen’s estate in the Holies. She had told him she saw nothing but food go in.

  Sarmin stood and paced. Of course – the slaves were there. That is why she had seen nobody come out.

  ‘Grada!’ he called, ‘come! You will not believe what I found.’

  She entered. Her face was not curious; that was not one of her usual expressions, but what she did show was patient interest. ‘You were right to watch that house and bring me this scroll. Mesema was right to investigate. The Fryth slaves are there.’

  Azeem entered behind her, his hands folded around a leather-bound ledger. ‘Azeem!’ Sarmin beckoned him forwards. ‘Send a platoon of Blue Shields to Lord Nessen’s manse in the Holies. There are a number of Felting prisoners there who must be freed.’