Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (15 page)

‘And what of the city?’ asked Lurish, leaning forwards.

Sarmin already knew the answer to that. From high on Qalamin’s Deck he had seen the devastation, the jagged paths of collapsed roofs reaching from the Blessing, where bridge-stones poked their heads from the surface, up into the Holies where noblemen stood stunned in the wreckage of their gardens. It continued down into the twisting alleys of the Maze, now filled with rubble and broken bodies, and all the way south to the Low Gate. The lines of destruction came to a sudden stop just short of the outer walls.

He had not yet been told how many were dead.

‘There is extensive damage,’ Azeem answered.

The men muttered among themselves until Hazran’s voice rose and silenced the others. ‘But was this an attack?’

‘I have invited one of our palace scholars to speak on the possible cause.’ Azeem gestured to the guards and a balding man in worn velvet hurried down the silk runner with such haste Sarmin feared he might trip.

‘Your Majesty!’ The scholar knelt and touched his head to the floor.

Azeem said, ‘This is the palace scholar Rahim. He studies
rocks and the earth.’ He made it sound a simple thing, but Sarmin sensed a lifetime of study could never encompass all the things there were to learn about stone. He wondered what other scholars the palace contained, and the worlds they explored on his behalf.

‘Rise,’ Sarmin said, curious. ‘What news have you, Rahim?’

‘Not news, Your Majesty, only the yield of my long studies. I have read of earthquakes in many other lands, and those studies have allowed me to collect information on them, as a doctor might collect symptoms of an illness he has never himself witnessed.’

‘Then what is your diagnosis, Scholar Rahim?’

Rahim frowned and rubbed an ink-stained hand through his hair. ‘Just as a doctor can never be certain, neither can I, Magnificence. However this quake seems to presage a volcanic eruption.’

‘What volcano?’ asked Assar, looking from general to priest in confusion.

‘He speaks of Meksha’s holy mountain!’ Lurish jerked up in his seat.

Rahim made a devout gesture. ‘My readings indicate Her mountain has not erupted since before the founding of Nooria, General. But these’ – he produced three shiny black stones from his pocket – ‘these can be found around the Blessing, Majesty, and they show us that it
has
erupted in the past.’

Sarmin took one of the smooth-faced stones and turned it in his hand. Its sharp edges put him in mind of the jewelled dacarba on his belt. ‘Meksha’s mountain is a long journey from Nooria.’

‘It is, Magnificence – but we may nevertheless feel its effects.’ Rahim frowned. ‘There is much disagreement in the scholars’
wing, but some of us believe that an offering of sulphur and bitumen, poured into the mouth of the volcano, may calm its great fires.’

Sarmin returned the stone to the scholar. ‘And you, Scholar Rahim? Do you agree?’

‘I do not, Your Majesty.’ Silence fell around the room.

‘Well then, Rahim,’ said Hazran, ‘how long do we have?’

‘Days, weeks, months – our estimates vary. If you would like to see—’

Lurish made a noise of disgust. ‘We would be better off rolling dice, Magnificence!’

Sarmin ignored him. Gesturing to Rahim he said, ‘You are dismissed.’

As the scholar retreated, Hazran said, ‘I want to hear from someone who does not spend all his days among books and dust. What say you, Dinar?’

Dinar’s ruthless face turned Sarmin’s way. ‘I say Meksha has abandoned us. Uthman conquered this empire and earned Her blessing. Now we have become weak and She withdraws.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Your Majesty.’

‘There may be something to that.’ Lurish turned towards Hazran. ‘Think of our humiliation in Fryth. Our men came straggling back like beggars! Surely that was enough to anger the gods?’

‘But now we have the traitor,’ said Dinar, his eyes still on Sarmin. ‘His painful death would go far to appease Them.’

Sarmin met his cold eyes. The council might whine and object most of the day, but at the end of it, they listened to Sarmin. Through outright threats to the cutting of necks to gentle nudges, he had forced or eased them to his side – and yet Dinar could easily sway them away, for these were devout
men who held Herzu in their hearts. He had to find a way to control the high priest.

Assar of Mirra held up his hands. ‘There is more than one way to please the gods, Magnificence.’

Lurish snorted at that, and Hazran leaned back in his chair, looking pensive.

Sarmin looked at the desert headman. The others resented his presence at the table – Notheen was nothing more than a tribesman from the far reaches of the sand, a barbarian, in their eyes. But Sarmin knew he had wisdom and experience. ‘Notheen?’

Notheen looked at each man in turn, his dark eyes solemn. The words took a long time to come. ‘It is the end times, Magnificence. We live in the era of the Great Storm, which brings the desert to all of us.’

Lurish barked a laugh. ‘Does your savage myth include earthquakes?’

‘Earthquakes, fire, ash and dust,’ answered Notheen in a steady voice.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table.

Azeem cleared his throat. ‘There is more news, Your Majesty. We have suffered another attack, in another marketplace – this one a fish market.’

Another use of pattern-magic meant that Mogyrk’s wound would grow wider. Sarmin considered this with a cold dread as the other men spoke.

‘The same? With the bodies … turned inside out?’ asked Hazran.

‘Yes.’ Azeem looked down at the parchment he held. ‘Seventeen men and five women.’

Lurish hit his fist upon the table. ‘This is all Mogyrk!
All
of
it! Why do we wait to burn their churches and slaughter them all?’

I suggest you do not make them hate you
. Grada’s words. For each Mogyrk worshipper he killed there would be five more to take their place. The struggle against the One God had failed. Sarmin saw Govnan enter through the side door and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I will consider all that has been said here. You are dismissed.’

Dinar lingered beside the table. ‘The traitor relaxes in his cell while we suffer earthquakes and Mogyrk attacks … surely this is not your wish, Majesty?’

He was correct: the Empire Mother’s warning had been a good one. Sense told him the chief should die sooner rather than later, but he wanted to feel clean when that knife fell. He wanted to be able to look Mesema in the eye.

He showed none of this to Dinar. ‘My wishes are not your concern until I choose to make them known,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed.’

Dinar’s dark eyes narrowed, but he retreated, leaving Govnan alone at the table, Azeem beside him, scribbling on his parchments. Sarmin waited until the great doors had closed, then turned to the high vizier. ‘The priestess of Meksha who was here a few months ago … has she gone?’ The priestess had brought him Helmar’s writings, along with a warning.

Azeem looked flustered. ‘My apologies, Magnificence – I do not remember her. I can tell you there is no priestess of Meksha in the palace now.’

Govnan approached the head of the table, his eyes shining with secret knowledge.

‘How fares the Tower, High Mage?’

‘The crack has widened, Magnificence, but Moreth says the
structure remains sound.’ A smile played about his mouth, a strange reaction to their circumstance. Perhaps his joy at Mura’s return continued to lift his spirits. ‘And the palace?’

‘Some damage; the city is worse.’

Govnan nodded. ‘Indeed. I saw the city from the Tower.’

Sarmin watched him and waited.

‘That was not my news, Your Majesty, which is of two parts. First, the fruit-seller who was taken from the marketplace has found his way to the Tower. He was kept with Austere Adam and has learned something of the pattern.’

‘He watched them draw patterns?’

‘Austere Adam
taught
him patterns, Magnificence. I could not tell you why. An attempt at conversion, perhaps.’ He knocked his staff against the table. ‘Farid can call water and dissolve wood – the two spells he needed to survive and escape. But as far as I can tell, his skill is rote memorisation. He can draw the patterns that he has seen, but he does not appear to be a talented mage, not in the way we measure it in the Tower.’

‘The Megra said that about the austeres.’
Their magic was a cruder kind, old and learned by rote, a blunt power that could be put in the hands of any fool with half a mind and ten years to study it
. ‘Are there no books about the Yrkmen incursions of old? Studies of their magics?’ He could not forget what Ashanagur had said:
Mogyrk blinded the Tower
. What had the spirit meant?

‘All of that knowledge was lost to us in the great fires built by the Mogyrks.’ Govnan sighed, and Sarmin considered whether that could have been Ashanagur’s meaning. It seemed too simple, but sometimes answers were.

‘If this Farid has some pattern-skill,’ Govnan said, ‘perhaps there is something we can learn from him.’

‘Mmm.’ What Sarmin needed was Helmar – what he needed
was his own pattern-skill returned to him. He recalled Duke Didryk’s offer and felt a tingling along his skin. The temptation to answer that call was growing strong, but perhaps that was the duke’s intent: to make him feel desperate enough to agree to anything. Perhaps he was behind the marketplace attacks.

‘There is something more,’ said Govnan, his smile growing wide. ‘Magnificence, there is good news—’

But before he could finish, the gong sounded and the herald approached. ‘Your Majesty,’ he called out in his sonorous voice, ‘Prince Daveed and his nursemaid, Rushes of Fryth.’

Mesema found it difficult to sit still while Tarub applied paint to her face. Tarub did not want her to speak either, and pressed a finger over Mesema’s lips whenever she attempted to do so. The concubine Banafrit sat sewing on the bench under the window, the blue silk in her hands making a fine contrast against her skin, and Mesema’s fingers itched with their idleness. A distraction would be most welcome on this day, whether it be gossip about the Old Wives or news from Banafrit’s island home. Her enquiries regarding the Felting slaves had yielded nothing so far. Either they were well hidden, or they were not in the city.

Banafrit dropped a needle and poked about on the floor, holding her place in the silk with two fingers. Her shoulder knocked Pelar’s empty cradle, and Mesema looked away from the blankets inside it. Every time she was reminded of his absence she felt the loss anew. Banafrit continued to search until Mesema finally lifted an arm and pointed. ‘Take one of my needles, Frit.’

‘Your Majesty!’ Tarub stepped away, paint in hand. ‘Please! Your whole face will be red.’

Banafrit walked to Mesema’s side table where needles were kept in a tiny bowl, but then she noticed a book there and ran
her hand across the embossed leather cover. ‘What is this book about?’

‘It’s poems. You can’t read the words on the cover? I can teach you, if you like, as my husband the emperor taught me.’ She remembered sitting with Sarmin during those long happy days after Helmar’s defeat, learning the letters and the words, and wondered why Banreh, in all the years she had known him and their weeks together in that hot carriage, had never offered to do the same.

The concubine sat and pulled the heavy book onto her lap, turning the thick pages. ‘My father tried to teach me to read, but I can never seem to connect the letters with any meaning. It turns to a jumble in my head.’

‘Really? Well I could read it to you—’

‘Your Majesty!’ Tarub said again, picking up a cloth to wipe paint from Mesema’s chin.

‘But are you nearly done with my lips, Tarub? It has taken you a day and a night.’

‘It must be perfect, Your Majesty. If the emperor should see you—’

‘Forget
seeing
me – if the emperor should kiss me he will end up with rosy lips. If he should do more than kiss me, he will be covered with paint from head to toe.’

‘Your Majesty!’ Tarub covered her face with embarrassment as Banafrit giggled and shut the book. That encouraged Mesema to speak more wickedly. ‘I would have to give him a bath myself, as it wouldn’t do for a slave to scrub him in those places.’

‘But Your Majesty’ – Tarub’s hand shook as she replaced the paint pot before the mirror – ‘surely the emperor, heaven bless him, is clean as the gods, and no corruption or stain ever touches him.’

‘Judging by his attention to the empress,’ said Banafrit with a smile, ‘I would call him well corrupted.’

Mesema blushed, because she and Sarmin were not so close as that, not any longer. Banafrit for her part took on a stricken look and jumped from the bed, dropping the book to the floor, but before Mesema could ask why, the concubine had touched her forehead against the rug and Tarub had dropped also, looking pale as a ghost. Mesema froze, hoping it was not Sarmin behind her at the door.

‘Rise.’ It was Nessaket’s voice she heard, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The Empire Mother strode into the room, dressed in bright gold, with all of her earrings and bracelets in place, looking for the moment almost as healthy as she had been before the uprising. It appeared that she was about to use that good health to put fear in all the women of the wing. She stopped at the bench and examined Banafrit’s blue silk. ‘I have spoken to all of you about this sewing. It is slaves’ work.’

‘But Your Majesty,’ said Banafrit, scrambling to her feet, ‘there are no slaves to do it.’

‘How dare you speak back to me! Not only do you act against my wishes but you draw the empress into your crimes.’

‘Crimes?’ Mesema frowned at Nessaket’s reflection. ‘It is only a dress.’

‘I cannot tolerate it.’ Nessaket waved at the concubine. ‘Go. Leave the work. I will have it burned.’ Banafrit ran from the room, Tarub right behind her. Nessaket sat on the edge of the bed and sighed.

‘You scare them so. It’s not fair.’ Mesema stood at last, shaking out her arms and legs.

‘I am responsible for keeping this wing as it should be. We
are not a wing of seamstresses and scrubbers – yes, I have seen you dusting your own window-screen. I would rather have you run out into the city again! It simply will not do.’