Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (12 page)

‘Doorways into the elemental realms,’ said Govnan placing a hand on Moreth’s shoulder. No heat came from the flames, no sound or sensation from the other portals.

‘Why are we here, High Mage?’ Yet Sarmin stepped forwards.

Govnan pointed into the burning arch with a steady hand. ‘I need to go back, to revisit Lord Ashanagur in the City of Brass.’ Something flickered past the archway, something fast and large and trailing strands of fire like burning hair. ‘He will tell us something of Meksha.’

Sarmin took another step. The place mesmerised him; every part of it was suffused with the fascination that burns in a dancing flame. ‘Will he?’

‘Yes. Come.’ Govnan entered the realm of fire, and Sarmin followed.

No heat burned him; no smoke filled his lungs. Those were the by-products of combustion in his own world. Here all was pure flame, and he walked on it and through it. It licked his skin, touched his hair, slid against his lips in seductive caress.

Govnan led on without pause, seeming to know his way through intersecting rivers of liquid fire, blue and orange. At last he stopped near a vast expanse of molten rock, golden in colour but reflecting the sun’s crimson across its rippling surface. Beyond it stood a great city, its walls shimmering with heat.

‘The City of Brass,’ said Sarmin.

‘And the Lake of Fire, Lord Ashanagur’s home,’ Govnan replied, swinging his cane in a circular motion towards the centre of the lake. In seconds a pillar of flame rose from the depths. From it rose a churning ball, streaked with black and green, fire dancing along a surface twice Sarmin’s height. It
pulsed before the mammoth sun, spitting showers of sparks down into the liquid metal, before moving towards them, dragging behind it tendrils of white flame.

In Sarmin’s tower room it had taken the form of a fiery man. Now Sarmin understood Ashanagur was no man.

‘Ashanagur,’ said Govnan, his voice regaining some of the timbre Sarmin had thought lost to age.

The spirit’s voice hissed and crackled. ‘You have returned, High Mage, old Flesh-and-bone. And you, who gave me my freedom. And this.’ It darted towards Moreth, who flinched. ‘Is this my payment for the crime of trespass?’

‘No. I plan to offer you something greater than one man.’

‘What could be greater than a life?’

‘Freedom.’

Ashanagur rose up towards the great sun before swooping towards them again. ‘I have my freedom. Not one fire-sworn remains in your world.’

‘I could bind you, right now.’

‘You are frail. You diminish in the way of your kind, old Flesh-and-bone.’

‘I am stronger than I ever was.’ Govnan drew a rune upon the air and Ashanagur shrank away. ‘But I did not come to bind you. I came to ask a question.’

Ashanagur drifted, fire spitting from its form, until it had reached the centre of the lake. There it remained, pulsing black and green, its colours reflected in the molten rock. Sarmin thought it would return to the depths, but in time it spun back towards them, trailing orange fire, until at last it settled before Sarmin. Even the white flame that trailed away from it was longer than Sarmin was tall. ‘I owe this one a favour,’ said Ashanagur. ‘I will answer the question for it.’

‘Very well.’ Govnan paused a moment, then asked, ‘It is about Meksha.’

‘I rule this plane, not some god of flesh!’

‘Indeed, She could not power the heat of Her mountain without help from one so great as you.’

Ashanagur gave a quick spin. ‘She does require my help.’

‘As She always has, from the beginning?’ Govnan inched towards the question of Meksha’s strength, but Ashanagur dismissed him with a bright shimmer.

‘What is the beginning? She always has been in the Tower, as have I.’

‘One more,’ said Sarmin, stepping forwards, the toes of his slippers nearly in the rippling lake. ‘One more.’

Ashanagur darted at him, stopping only a hair’s width from his face. ‘For you,’ it said.

‘Have you seen the emptiness of the Great Storm?’

‘I have. It does not see me, just as you do not see it – Mogyrk blinded the Tower.’

‘How did Mogyrk blind the Tower?’

Ashanagur rose high above him and was silent. But at last it said, ‘Both of you creep around the same question.’ It hovered over Moreth, its tendrils caressing his face and shoulders as the rock-sworn cringed in horror. ‘You may ask it, if I may have this one as payment.’

‘No.’ Sarmin pulled Moreth away from the flames. ‘I thank you, Lord Ashanagur.’ He turned and walked a path of blue flame, his mind on Ashanagur’s words, his feet cutting a path from memory.
It does not see me
. The pattern lied, but perhaps it could also be lied to – or tricked. Without his ability to see patterns, Sarmin lacked the skill to try. But it all had something to do with Meksha and the crack in the wall. To his surprise
he passed through the gate and found himself standing once more at the base of the Tower, Moreth and Govnan beside him. Compared to the plane of fire, this world was drab and grey. He blinked, unable for the moment to differentiate wall from stair.

‘Your sight will improve in time, Your Majesty,’ said Govnan.

Sarmin barely acknowledged the high mage. ‘I must go,’ he said, starting towards the stairs and the sword-sons at the top. ‘I have much to do.’

Farid woke from a dream. In it Adam stood over him, carving a pattern-shape into his cheeks, so when he opened his eyes he rubbed at his face and looked about the room until he was sure he was alone. Unable to return to sleep he stood and walked to the wall. He trailed his fingers over the design engraved there, following the lines with his eyes, trying to sense which felt unfinished or broken. He still had no sense of what the design might achieve when it was finished; the outlines of the shapes gave him no sense of their purpose. And yet, as with a cart half-empty, he longed to fill in the rest of it.

The baby began to wail in the house next door and he hissed with impatience. The noise made it difficult to concentrate.

You can leave any time you wish
. That was what Adam had said to him, and since then he had been given no more food. He had come to believe – to hope – that the unfinished pattern was his escape route.

Whatever Adam thought, he was not going to help the man once he was free.

He was going at this all wrong. He was looking too closely. He stood away from it, the candle clutched in one hand. It was a question of balance, of full and empty spaces together. He
looked until his eyes unfocused, shutting out the noise, the heat, the pain of his empty stomach.
Just see
.

He approached the wall again and placed the candle on the floor. He made a line with his fingernail in the soft wood, then another.
Yes
. Then, quicker, a circle here, a half-moon, line, two mirrored crescents, until he was working feverishly, using both hands. Sweat dripped down his back and thirst dried his tongue, but he did not pause. Hours passed, or minutes. Splinters tore at the flesh of his fingertips, marking the wall with blood. He knew what this design would do. It would reach into the grains and whorls of the wood, snake into the very fibres of the tree-flesh, and rip them asunder. The wall would cease to be. He made the last stroke and the scored lines disappeared, replaced by curves and angles of soft blue light. The design floated before his eyes, and behind it was the wall, whole, unscarred. He
pulled
—

—and stumbled into the night-time of the next room, coughing up the dust in his throat. This space was empty save for a table with a knife upon it. He knew as well as he knew the look of his own hands that Adam had put the weapon there for him. He lifted it and listened for the guards. He knew they had clubs and swords, but would they use them? After a moment he decided, yes, they would. Adam wanted him to
escape
; they could not merely let him go – even if they only played at fighting, he was weak with hunger and untrained with the knife.

And so he set to the next wall. The baby cried on the other side of it. No matter – he would run past the mother and the screaming child and then he would be in the Maze. That held its own dangers, but at least he was armed and that would be enough to keep most people at bay. He thrilled with each stroke of the weapon. Joy filled him, knowing where each shape
belonged, sensing exactly where a line should stop, like a musician with his instrument. As a boy he had been given a broken harp and he had taken great joy in the meagre sound of it. This was far better.

He did not hear the guards or Adam as he worked. He thought of the pretty, cruel guard who first had held him. He would not mind fighting that one. Farid scored the last line, and
pulled
.

Darkness
.

He stumbled and fell, sneezing; the baby screamed and someone coughed. He sat up, wiping snot from his nose. He could not see anything. His candle had been burnt down to a nub and must have flickered out at last. After a minute the baby quieted and he heard a girl whisper, ‘Where does that lead?’

‘What?’ He sat up, looking into the blackness.

‘The hole you made. I can smell fresh air. Does it lead to the street?’

‘No. It’s another house. Don’t go in there.’ He regretted opening the hole if it meant those men would now come through and cause trouble for her.

The girl was quiet a time, then said, ‘I need to find a way out of here.’

You too?
Farid wiped sawdust from his face. ‘I can’t see you. Where are you?’

‘In the corner.’

He strained, but saw nothing. ‘Why don’t you have a light?’

‘I don’t need light.’ So she was blind. ‘You must be careful.
He’s
downstairs.’ The way she said it gave him pause. The house where he had been held was small. It made sense the Mogyrks might occupy all of the houses in this row. And if Adam were on the first floor … He gripped the knife in his hand.

‘He pretends to be nice,’ she said. ‘When I first saw him I
thought he was so kind – the sort of man you could really believe might bring you into a better place.’

‘Where’s your family?’ he asked. ‘Is there somebody who is looking for you? I can send them word.’

He did not expect her to laugh, but she did. ‘You would not believe me.’

‘I’ll tell the Blue Shields about you,’ he said. The confidence was more for himself than for her; he still had to get past whoever waited downstairs. ‘No: I’ll bring you with me.’ He opened the door a crack and peeked out. A narrow landing led to a flight of stairs. No guard stood at this level. He crept out and paused on the first step, listening. He heard nothing, but Adam could be crouching there, waiting to pounce once he came into view.

He took another step, and another. No alarm was raised, from this house or the other, but now he heard murmurs and froze. There were two men, maybe three. He could not fight his way out. He would need to be clever. He returned to the girl’s room and lifted her baby’s cradle. ‘Are you ready to leave? Tonight?’

‘Please,’ she said, ‘yes.’

He paused. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Rushes.’

Farid returned to the stairs and placed the cradle at the edge of the first step. Then he set to making his pattern for the third time. He wished he had learned more than two, but then he remembered they were the tool of the enemy and shuddered. He barely needed to think about the shapes now; his hands moved automatically, his sore, damaged fingers pressing against the knife. When he was ready he tipped the cradle down the stairs, making a great noise, and waited at the edge of his design.

Two men ran to the bottom of the steps and examined
the contents of the spilled blankets. Whatever their purpose, they did seem to care about the child they had imprisoned. Not finding the babe they turned towards the stairs and as they rushed upwards, they caught sight of Farid and started shouting at one another to seize him.

He
pulled
, a smile coming to his face. He
would
get out, and once free, he would find his father. He thought of the old man’s face, scored with wrinkles, his big hands as they lifted barrels full of pomegranates.

The men fell through, landing upon the barrels and crates that had been stacked below, still moving, but not rising to their feet. Their legs were broken. And he was not well either. He gripped the edge of the wood, fighting the blackness at the edge of his vision.

He gathered himself and returned to the room. ‘Come, hurry,’ he said, and when Rushes came closer he took the baby and clasped her hand. On the landing he guided her around the chasm and showed her where the steps began, all the while listening for Adam.

‘They’re not dead?’ she asked.

‘No, just hurt.’

‘Kill them.’

Farid felt a pang of horror. He had never taken a life – he did not know how to thrust metal past bone and into living flesh. ‘No. Come on, let’s hurry.’

But she paused, then whispered, ‘I have to get to the palace.’

With all the strange things that had happened to him he did not find this as unbelievable as he might have. ‘All right.’

They made their way to the bottom and looked around the dark room. Someone was watching them: he knew it. Someone was there, in the shadows, but whoever it was made no effort
to intervene. He opened the door and peered out, then cast one last look into the shadows before pushing Rushes through and stepping out into the Maze.

You will help me, but first you need to escape
. The words hung over his victory as he ran towards the river, the babe in his arms and Rushes pounding after. Adam had let him go, but he wanted it to look like an escape. Everything so far had proceeded as Adam wished, and he did not know why, or what might come next. After they had run a few blocks he heard shouts, the clash of weapons and running feet. Were they being chased? But the tang of smoke carried on the air, suggesting another sort of conflict. He slowed, taking each step more carefully, listening to see which path might be safest.

‘Mogyrk scum!’ someone shouted, and the epithet was punctuated by a crash. Shortly afterwards cheers rang out, celebrating some small victory. A group of men ran Farid’s way and he pressed himself against the wall, pushing Rushes behind him. They hurried past, too busy fleeing Blue Shields to pay them any mind. Farid got them all into a doorway just as the soldiers rounded the corner, pounding after the first group. He realised one second before the guards did that they had run into an ambush: stones and jeers pelted down from the rooftops as rebels entered the street from both ends. They were well-armed, and smiling.