Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  Blue Shields waited for him at the entrance to the courtyard, more torches in hand. Between their flames and the fire in the north Sarmin could see very well. And there was another light, subtle but insistent, rising from where the Tower once had been.

  Sarmin halted before a statue of Meksha. He saw no rubble or stone pieces; instead, piles of dust high as dunes, a domed roof big as a house and a great bell lay in the courtyard, surrounded by smaller debris – books, mirror-backs, cooking-pots. No longer did the gleaming roof pierce the sky. The great brass doors no longer warned of power within. The Tower no longer rose like a great pillar, commanding a view of the desert in every direction. Sarmin took a stumbling step forwards. News of this would travel the world swifter than a pigeon could fly, and soon every nation and people would know that Nooria’s mighty Tower had been struck low.

  A dust-covered, hulking man approached and he recognised Moreth, the young rock-sworn.

  ‘It is gone, Your Majesty,’ he said. In one hand he held a child’s ragdoll, covered with powdered stone.

  Sarmin pressed his lips together. ‘What happened?’

  Moreth was slow to speak, like the rock he had bound to him. ‘Farid might know.’

  ‘Farid is alive? Where is he?’

  ‘He went down there, Magnificence.’ Moreth gestured towards the ruin and scratched his head, looking miserable. ‘He jumped into the … Rorswan says that he still lives.’

  ‘Jumped?’ Sarmin looked at the hole where the Tower had been. ‘Show me.’ Moreth led him on, and he marvelled at the destruction. The first austere must have divined the state of Cerana’s mages. Now there would be no avoiding open war, though he did not think the first austere had ever intended he could.

  As he grew closer to the ruin a tingling lit upon his skin and his heart beat faster. There was magic here. Moreth stopped at the edge of the ragged pit and pointed. ‘He jumped into that old well.’

  Sarmin followed the line of his finger and saw a pool of scintillating light casting colours against the ragged walls of the pit. Around it several Blue Shields were struggling with a length of rope, presumably in an attempt to rescue Farid. Sarmin reached out a hand towards the magic, but it was too far away, fully half the diameter of the ruined Tower. ‘I will climb down.’

  ‘Your Majesty! Will you help with the rescue?’

  He did not answer but took hold of the rope that was secured by the great bell and grasped it. He had never in his life slid down a rope, nor climbed up one, but he was the emperor and he must be assumed to be capable of everything. He lowered himself too quickly and the hemp burned the palms of his hands. His slippered feet hit the bottom too soon, shocking him, jarring his knees.

  Grada slid down immediately after.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ A young soldier with green eyes made his obeisance; the others were still fussing with their rescue attempt.

  ‘Rise,’ he said with a gesture, passed the Blue Shield and forgot him. He stood on the edge of the pool, his slippers balanced on the copper rim, and held out a hand to the light. It was the brilliance of it that amazed, the brightness that flowed into him from his suspended fingers, warm and pillow-soft. And when he opened his eyes he saw each man in designs: Didryk’s ill-fitting ward laid over his surface, below that the person he presented to the world, and underneath that his true self, shown in a spectrum of colour. One of the soldiers was revealed to be twisted and malicious, but when Sarmin attempted to alter him, he found that nothing had changed in that way; he could not affect patterns, only see them for what they were. This was the wisdom Meksha had offered him.

  Sarmin waved a hand at the soldiers. ‘Leave us.’

  One by one they made their way up the rope as Sarmin settled in the dust and dirt next to the pool and watched the colours dance over its surface. This was what the Yrkmen had hidden: they had buried Meksha’s true blessing beneath the Tower. That explained the fading of their abilities, the dwindling number of mages: with less power there was less to send into every next generation. This was what had cracked the wall – the pool, paved over or blocked for many years, had finally pushed its way through the stone, causing the very earth to tremble.

  But though they had gained, they had also lost: they no longer had the portals to the other realms. Those spells had been woven into the stone, and the stone was gone.

  That was a worry for another time.

  ‘Can you see the magic, Grada?’ he asked.

  ‘Only out of the corner of my eye,’ she said, and that seemed to him a very good answer. When he turned to her he saw her in many different ways: assassin, daughter, worker, even lover. Her colours were violet and yellow, showing a loving spirit crossed by brutality, and that did not surprise him.

  ‘Farid will be well,’ he said. He stayed by the pool a while longer, absorbing its warmth. When it came time to rebuild the Tower he would put this pool in its centre, as Ghelen had before him in the days of the founding.

  At last he stood and did his best to climb the rope, though in the end the soldiers had to haul him up. As he straightened, dusting the dirt from his robes, he said to Moreth, ‘You must descend and have a taste of Meksha’s blessing.’

  Moreth looked at the pit with curiosity but said, ‘I dare not, for my control over Rorswan is weak, Your Majesty.’

  ‘As you will.’ The courtyard had fallen into darkness, even with the torches lining the walls, and with a start he looked to the north. Govnan’s great net had fallen, replaced by a featureless, blank space, emitting no light, taking no form. ‘The Storm,’ he said, looking away from it, dread curdling in his stomach. Grada took her place beside him, but for the first time her presence offered no comfort.

  The sound of running feet filled the silence, sandals slapping against the stone, and when he turned Azeem veered into view, his eyes wide, his robes in disarray. He reached Sarmin’s side, put his hands on his knees and took deep breaths. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, puffing, ‘the fighting has begun.’

  50

  Sarmin

  ‘It was Govnan’s fire, Your Majesty,’ said General Hazran, his bushy moustache drooping over his lips, his mind set on both duty and honour. ‘I believe it wrested control from him before it attacked the Yrkman army.’

  Sarmin slowed in his path to the throne room. That Govnan was dead had not occurred to him. He pressed his hand to his stomach, as if to push down the rising grief. There was no time to think of the old man, his bright eyes, his wise counsel. Right now there was a battle to fight, and the Storm approached.

  ‘If I may, Your Majesty,’ said General Merkel, ‘the Yrkmen attacked first. I hear the first austere attempted to assassinate you with a pattern-spell – and let us not forget they have destroyed the Tower!’

  ‘If that is what happened,’ said Arigu, his voice hinting at some deception.

  Sarmin gave him a sharp look.

  ‘They have been attacking us from the beginning,’ said Lurish, waving a hand. ‘The marketplaces, the temple of Meksha—’

  ‘In any case, Govnan’s fire made a great commotion among the ranks of the Yrkmen, killing many and sending others running in fear.’ Arigu smiled, his spirit flashing a spectrum of colours. ‘But then the austeres trapped them – and now they act as no more than lanterns, casting light over the battle.’

  There was a sudden silence as everyone considered Govnan’s likely death. It was Lurish who braved the quiet. ‘High Mage Govnan is gone – but what of our other mages?’

  ‘The mages survived the destruction of the Tower,’ said Sarmin, finally moving to the dais. Grada took her place at his right. ‘They join the fight at the wall.’ He did not mention that Farid was still at the bottom of a well, leaving only two, but the paucity of the Tower mages would not be secret for long. The soldiers would remember that only two had ever come to fight with them. They would talk, and the talk would eventually spread throughout the empire: the Tower was gone, and Cerana’s mages with it.

  Mesema came in through the si
de door, followed by her guards, and walked to the bottom step of the dais. In his sight the essence of her was undivided. Her pattern, herself and her soul were one and the same. There was no lie to her – and no lie to the love she gave him. He drew strength from that.

  ‘Arigu.’ He turned to the general. ‘I want to hear your plan should Yrkmir breach our walls.’

  A hush fell over the gathered courtiers. Dinar took a step towards the throne, his eyes glinting in the lantern light, as the general gave a lengthy pause. After a moment Arigu leaned in, too close, almost rude in his proximity. Sarmin could feel the tension in the sword-sons behind him. ‘There is an issue to be addressed, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Then address it.’

  Arigu cleared his throat. ‘The worship of Mogyrk has been made legal and its priests spread its poison throughout our city. A Mogyrk duke who killed several of my White Hats sleeps comfortably in the guest wing. The Felting chief rests in the temple of Mirra, secure in his friendship with the empress. Even the austere is safe from harm in the dungeon. Consorting with our enemies has led to weakness.’ Arigu turned towards the small, rapt audience, indulging his sense of theatre. ‘Now our own Tower has been destroyed. The Tower, a pillar of Nooria, key to our defences, is gone.’

  Sarmin watched the face of each man in the room. Dinar and Arigu would have planned ahead; they would have spoken to every one of his courtiers, convinced them of the rightness of their complaint. ‘The duke has protected all of you from pattern-attacks.’ He did not mention Banreh. He realised Arigu had tricked him into keeping Banreh safe just for this display, and it was not something he wished to admit. ‘And my wife has proven her loyalty time and again. Did she not help me execute Helmar?’ At the foot of the dais Mesema stood very still, like a mouse in the sight of a cat, her men nearly as still behind her.

  Dinar gave a chilling smile. ‘Before that she helped Beyon, heaven and stars with him now.’

  Beyon had been buried with all honours and no citizen knew he had been marked; but the palace knew. They had deposed him for it. Now Dinar was skirting the issue of Pelar’s parentage, so Sarmin spoke carefully. ‘My brother was never one of the Many.’ Azeem and Grada flanked him now, both silent, one out of consternation and the other out of rage.

  Arigu raised his hands, palms up, to show his honesty. ‘When I brought her from the Grass, I saw the empress – then the princess – caught in a furtive embrace with the traitor. Long before today she plotted with the chief.’

  ‘And I caught her with him in the temple of Mirra, in an intimate tryst,’ said Dinar. ‘Assar will attest to it. She is led by this chief and has sympathy for the Mogyrk cause.’

  Assar backed away, his eyes shadowed. Arigu gestured at one of Mesema’s guardsmen. ‘Sendhil, tell him.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the guard, presenting a sorrowful face, ‘the empress disappears for long periods of time, out of our sight, and I fear her secrets will lead us to the traitor and his Mogyrk allies.’

  ‘You see,’ said Arigu.

  ‘That is proof of nothing,’ said Grada. ‘I was with her – I am not Mogyrk.’

  ‘No. You are worse,’ said Dinar.

  She took a half-step, gripping the hilt of her Knife, but Sarmin cut her off with a movement of his hand. ‘What is this about? The Yrkmen wait at the gate. The Tower has fallen. The Great Storm approaches and yet you are here, spreading rumours and division.’ A buzzing came to his ears and his skin tingled with the Scar’s magic; he shook it off and focused on Arigu.

  ‘My men won’t give their lives for a corrupted empire. The city is rotting for the indulgences you give to traitors and Mogyrks, Magnificence!’

  A shocked silence fell over the room.

  ‘Give us the chief,’ Dinar said in a voice like smooth steel, ‘and put aside your wife. Then the men will fight. Your Majesty.’ To punctuate his demand Sendhil took Mesema’s arm as if he meant to take her to the dungeon, or worse.

  The sight filled Sarmin with cold rage and he snarled, ‘You would bring Nooria to ruin over this?’ They knew he would never give up his wife – they would never allow them to take her – but they also knew that he could never abandon his city’s defences. It was a trap, designed so he would fail, but what then? Would they install Daveed on the Petal Throne, with Arigu as his advisor? Or would they find Pelar and groom him to their purpose? Trying not to look at the rough hand clenching Mesema’s skin he did a calculation: he had Grada and the four sword-sons. They had double that number – if no one switched sides.

  Beyond Dinar’s dark robes he saw Duke Didryk, standing at the great doors, waiting to be announced. He carried no sword and his guards were not with him.

  Sarmin wondered if things might have gone better had he just killed Banreh when his mother told him to – or if he had allowed Dinar to carve the man to pieces. It had never felt like the right time, the right action. Was it Mirra’s mercy, or Meksha’s restraint – had he held Her gift even before he went to the pool?

  He understood Arigu’s fears: as a general, he depended on the strength of the emperor. Arigu saw no power in mercy; winning was all-important. Winning palace games, winning battles, winning wars: winning kept Nooria safe. And yet it was for Sarmin to shape the empire, for Sarmin to decide what things were worth killing for, what wars were worth fighting. What kind of man am I? What kind of man do I want to be?

  Sarmin approached the high priest. ‘Dinar has been making his sacrifices regularly: a prisoner here, an innocent victim there, sand-cats, birds, jackals – has it helped our city? Has it helped our palace?’

  ‘Herzu is displeased with you and with your love of Mogyrk. Sacrifices do little in such a circumstance.’

  Sarmin walked a slow circle around Dinar. He saw that the traitor guard still held Mesema in a tight grip and he clenched his fists. ‘You mean my curiosity, my wisdom, my love for Cerana. These are things you cannot understand. They disgust you.’ Grada moved closer, her hand ready on the hilt of her Knife.

  Arigu waved a hand, uncertainty in his face. ‘What we are asking for is punishment for the transgressors, no more.’

  ‘And tearing the skin from a man is fair punishment?’

  Dinar sneered and spat, ‘Herzu cares nothing for what is fair. Herzu is about power, and what can be done with it. Taking lives, taking thrones. If you are strong enough to do it, then it is yours to do. There is no fair.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sarmin, and plunged Tuvaini’s dagger between the high priest’s ribs as his brothers had shown him, as he had killed the Pattern Master. Behind him steel rang as all the sword-sons drew their hachirahs. Grada already held her twisted Knife and was scanning the men before her.

  Dinar fell to the ground, his eyes dark and lifeless, and Sendhil after him, stabbed from behind by one of his own men. Mesema stumbled and sat down on the steps of the dais, her face pale.

  Sarmin faced the assembled courtiers. He had decided who he wanted to be, and who should die and who should live. ‘I claim this palace for Mirra.’ Not one of them could look away. What do they see? he wondered. He turned to Arigu. To his credit the general did not even flinch. ‘I made an interesting discovery at Lord Nessen’s manse,’ he said, ‘but you already know about it. You took the slaves from the Grass, violating our ancient agreement with the horse tribes. Banreh learned of it and rightly fought against you.

  ‘Selling slaves who look like the empress and her family would bring you a great deal of money among certain nobles – but your man ran into trouble. He chose the wrong estate to shelter in. There was an altercation and Lord Nessen lost his life. Finally your captain brought the slaves here, only to find that the buying and selling of slaves is barred until my Code is finished. He knew Lord Nessen would not come to town, being dead, so he hid them in his manse in the Holies.’

  Arigu swallowed. ‘They are Mogyrk – rebels—’

  Grada held her Knife to his throat, and he fell silent.

  ‘Duke Didryk treated you well.’ Sarmin
motioned to the tall man standing motionless at the door. ‘How have the Felting slaves been treated, I wonder? I will find out shortly.’ Sarmin backed away. ‘You are guilty of prosecuting a war against my wishes, of making slaves of our allies and telling untruths before the throne. But you may still go free if you pledge your loyalty to me.’

  Azeem made a strangled noise in his throat; Grada glanced at Sarmin in amazement.

  Sarmin held his breath. The war, the throne, the very survival of Nooria depended on Arigu’s decision.

  Arigu stood motionless for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to his knees beside Dinar’s body, laying his sword crosswise before him. He laid his forehead upon it and spoke. ‘I pledge all of my loyalty, my breath, my vitality, and all of my words to you, my Emperor.’

  Sarmin let him wait. He met the eye of every man in the room until, satisfied they were cowed, at last he said, ‘Rise, Arigu.’ He climbed the steps to the dais and sat on the Petal Throne. ‘Lord High Vizier, let it be known that Chief Banreh is to be freed of all constraints and punishments. The Felting people will be given shelter in the guest wing, and he may join them there.’

  He looked at the shaken general. ‘Now we may speak of the war.’

  The men looked at one another and at the dead bodies on the floor. Nobody spoke, not even Azeem, though he was clearly struggling to find the right words.

  The gong sounded, breaking the moment; the herald rushed forwards, unusually flustered. ‘The Empire Mother, Your Majesty,’ he said.

  Ice washed over Sarmin’s skin. Something is wrong. The timing of her return, the fact that she would make her first appearance here, in the throne room, where all the generals had gathered … it was the first austere who had decided these things, not his mother.

  His fears were quickly confirmed. When she came to the door, passing Didryk without a glance, he saw her black eyes, her expressionless face, and beneath it, the hatred and malice of Yrkmir. ‘Mesema,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘hide!’