Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (16 page)

Mesema clenched her fists when she remembered her visit to Lord Nessen’s estate and the violence that had ensued, but still she longed to know if the Hidden God had truly sent her there. She knew Grada and others from the Grey Service were continuing to watch the manse of the Mogyrk sympathiser. She hoped that if Grada learned something, she would tell her.

Nessaket was watching her, awaiting a reply.

‘So we have no one to do the work, Empire Mother. What do you suggest?’

At that Nessaket frowned. ‘In truth I do not know. A year ago I would have ordered more slaves.’ She touched her head where she had been injured. ‘Everything has changed.’

Mesema sat next to the empire mother. ‘I have heard rumour of slaves taken from my own lands, Felting slaves, here in Nooria.’

‘I have heard nothing of that, and it seems unlikely. It would be a great insult to you, Empress, and few would risk it.’

‘Perhaps it was meant to be an insult.’

‘I suppose you speak of Arigu’s alleged treachery, so let me offer you some advice.’ Nessaket folded her arms before her. ‘Arigu is far cleverer than you. If he did take these slaves, you will not find them so easily. And if you do find them, he will claim they came here by some other route.’

‘So you think I should not try.’

‘What do you think would happen if you did succeed? Do you think your husband will allow Banreh to live?’

No. I do not think that he will
. Mesema blinked back tears. ‘I think he would let the slaves go home.’

‘We shall see about that. He is the emperor, and he does not think as we do.’

A knock came at the door and the two women looked at each other, caution bringing silence. Then Sendhil called out, ‘Grada Knife-Sworn to see you, my Empress.’

She could hear the concern in his voice, but Mesema knew the Knife would not ask politely had she come for royal blood. ‘Let her enter, Sendhil.’ She stood as Grada filled the doorway, her dark eyes moving past Mesema, deeper into the room, seeking the Empire Mother.

‘You should come to the throne room, Your Majesty,’ Grada said, ‘for we believe your son has been found.’

The doors swung on their hinges, heavy and slow, and Sarmin wanted to run forwards, to shout, make the men pull harder, faster, because he could not see his brother yet. Light spilled in from the corridor – he had not noticed he was standing in the dark – and he shielded his eyes for a moment. When he lowered his hand he saw a girl, her hair glowing crimson, carrying a bundle wrapped in silks. Her steps were hesitant and she cocked her head as if listening. A soldier took her arm and they walked the rest of the way.

Rushes. He remembered her now, remembered her fright when she gave him the butterfly-stone. He reached into his pocket and touched it with his finger. It had been larger then, before he broke it. And he could still see her through Beyon’s eyes, his favourite child, running after a ball in the throne room. He smiled, for she had come home, and she had brought his brother to him. As she neared her eyes looked ahead, unfocused, blind, and her lips quivered. She was in the presence of the emperor and she could not see him and know that he was truly himself.

‘Be easy, Rushes,’ he said. ‘It is me, Sarmin.’ Not the false emperor the pattern had created.

Her face turned his way. She was orchid-thin and pale as snow,
save for her hair, which hung in tangles around her shoulders. ‘My Emperor!’ She took another step and waited, trembling. Inside her arms the baby stirred and he wondered how she could carry him, for he had grown very big, one chubby leg kicking away from its coverings and a broad forehead strewn with dark curls turning his way.

‘I will take my brother now,’ he said, so that she would not be startled by his touch. He lifted her burden and turned his back to the soldiers, taking in the smell of him, sweet like honey. This moment would be private. He lifted the silk from his brother’s eyes, then tore it away further, revealing all of him from his chubby toes to his copper eyes. His heart caught and he ran a hand through the boy’s hair, looking for the stubborn curl he remembered. He did not see it. The boy smelled wrong; his smile as he looked from the silks was wrong. The love that Sarmin had felt for Daveed failed to warm him. He looked at a stranger.

He turned back to Rushes. ‘Did you have the child with you all this time?’

She remembered her obeisance and threw herself upon the floor. When she spoke, silk muffled her voice. ‘The one called Mylo hit me very hard, my Emperor,’ she said, ‘and I did not wake up for days. When I came to myself, I could not see. But they gave Daveed to me then, for they said that he knew me and my presence would make him easy. I never let go of him after that – never, Your Majesty. They kept us in a little room and we never left it.’

Govnan came forwards then and gazed down at the child in Sarmin’s arms, twisting his cane into the floor as he did whenever his thoughts went in a dark direction. ‘We tested his blood, Magnificence, and found it true.’

‘But this is not my brother,’ said Sarmin, and the words took the life from him. He crumpled upon the stairs of the dais, the boy clutched in his arms.

Azeem took a halting step forwards. ‘At this age babies change very quickly, Magnificence. You have not seen him for many months.’

‘What do you know of babies, Azeem?’ he asked, and spitefully, since the man had no wife and further, did not wish for one.

Azeem stepped back and said no more.

‘They want me to embrace this strange child and call him brother.’ Sarmin leaned back upon the stair, speaking more to himself than anyone. ‘Where did they take Daveed, I wonder?’

‘Your Majesty—’ Govnan began, but at that moment Nessaket entered the room and cried out. She ran to Sarmin and fell to her knees, hands reaching for the child.

‘It’s not him.’ Sarmin felt as if he had looked into the Great Storm and let it take him whole.

‘But it is.’ Nessaket lifted the boy and examined him, her voice hushed, reverent. ‘It is my son.’ Mesema came in from the side door and smiled at the scene. He frowned at her – why did her visions show her nothing? If she could not see this boy was a stranger had she been blinded, the way Ashanagur said Mogyrk blinded the Tower?

‘There is some evil design in this,’ he warned as the women cooed over the child. Mesema looked up at him then, doubt crossing her eyes at last, but Nessaket touched her arm and murmured, and she turned away. Against all reason he felt it a betrayal.

His mother looked up at him, the false princeling wriggling in her grasp. Her face did not look joyful – only content – but
she smiled as she spoke. ‘I will take him to the women’s wing, with your permission, my Emperor.’

‘What else is there to be done with him?’

She reproved him with a shake of her ink-black hair. ‘This is happy news, my Emperor, the best we might have wished for.’ She gestured towards Rushes. ‘I will take my servant Rushes with me. She has ever served me well. I wish to discuss her reward at a time of your choosing, Magnificence.’

‘Of course.’ None of this was Rushes’ fault.

Nessaket took her leave, taking the child who was not his brother with her. But Mesema stayed, smelling of jasmine, as she always did of late. When he first met her she smelled of the outdoors and horses and things he had experienced only through being Carried – but now she smelled of the palace. She knelt beside him as his mother had and took his hands in hers. ‘I am so happy for you, my husband. In all the trouble we have had there is a hole in the clouds where the sun can shine through.’

He liked her metaphor, from another place where the sun did not beat down, where clouds changed the light and brought cool rain. But he must tell her the truth. ‘That was not my brother.’

She looked at their joined hands, some thoughts warring within her, but then she looked up at him again and her eyes were clear as she spoke in a voice so low only Govnan, standing beside them, might hear it. ‘Your mother believes he is. The high mage believes he is.’

‘Some spell … some trickery …’ Just as the pattern had created a false Beyon, so had it created this false Daveed. He looked to Azeem, squeezing Mesema’s hands in his as he spoke. ‘The Blue Shields accomplish nothing in the Maze. Tell Herran to
send his Grey Cloaks. Every house will be searched. My brother will be found.’

‘Very well, Magnificence.’ Azeem dipped a quill in his inkpot, his calm as cold and distant as mountain snow.

Mesema stared into his eyes. ‘My husband, if you find later that this child truly is Daveed, then only harm can come of this. The people of the Maze already suffer poverty and Mogyrk attacks and now they will find assassins among them.’

Startled, Sarmin glanced around the room. She had corrected him in court, where all must take him to be infallible – but his concern was for her, not himself. To his relief he saw that only the trusted high mage could have heard her. ‘I will not find that he is truly Daveed.’ As for the rest of what she had said, it reminded him of Grada’s warning.
Do not make them hate you
.

Mesema pressed on, in a lower voice. ‘May I speak of another issue that may have some bearing on the Mogyrk situation?’

‘You may always speak to me!’ He glanced up at Govnan, who made a show of creating distance – but not enough. He meant to listen. With annoyance Sarmin turned back to his wife.

She cleared her throat. ‘I am working to find proof that General Arigu betrayed my people during the Fryth war.’

He listened, though he knew it did not matter what new betrayal Arigu had committed. If the general ever returned, Sarmin would sit him in a place of honour, not disgrace. Arigu was the White Hat Army’s favourite general, and he needed the White Hats, especially now. In laying out their gambit Chief Banreh and Duke Didryk appeared to understand that, while Mesema, with her guileless expression, did not.

‘Arigu took Felting slaves, in violation of our ancient agreement.’ Her eyes spoke of urgency. ‘They are here, somewhere
in the palace compound, or nearby. Once I find them, we can prove—’

The sharp thing inside Sarmin twisted. First she had not believed him about the boy and now she had sneaked away to Banreh. He cut across her with a harsh tone. ‘You spoke to the prisoner?’

She lifted her chin. ‘He is my countryman, and chief of my people.’

Sarmin glanced again at Govnan. ‘You cannot think I will set him free, whatever you discover, especially now.’ In fact the chief would die, and Sarmin did not know how to tell her.

‘Not free, my husband,’ she said, ‘only out of the dungeon. There is no limit to how many of your men you may send with him when you answer the duke’s call. You can send the whole White Hat Army if you wish.’

‘I cannot,’ he said, ‘and you know it, for I have put them to search for my brother, and soon enough Yrkmir will be at our walls. This Didryk might be in league with our ancient enemy and hoping to ambush our men. He could be behind these marketplace attacks, and more.’ And yet Sarmin longed to meet this duke as a man in the desert thirsts for water.

‘The duke wishes to help us.’

‘Do you know anything beyond the words of the traitor?’ It was hard enough to quench his own longing; he could not quench hers as well. He dropped her hands.

She looked aside. ‘Arigu took Felting slaves, Sarmin.’

‘There were no Felting slaves. There have been no slaves at all.’ He glanced at his
Code
, abandoned on the table.

‘They are here somewhere, my husband, and I will find them. I—’ Her voice rose, and Sarmin glanced at Azeem, wondering how much he had heard of that last part.

‘Yrkmir comes, Mesema,’ Sarmin warned, ‘and these slaves will not matter after that. We must look to protecting our family.’

She stood, her blue eyes hard with condemnation, and he met them without apology.

Govnan stepped forwards, smoothing his beard with a veined hand. ‘If I may interrupt, Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘perhaps young Farid can be sent to this duke, with a small contingent? We may manage to retrieve Arigu. If they fail, and we lose them …’

Govnan meant to say the loss of Farid would not be great; but Sarmin was not sure that was true. While he might not have the talent to enter another realm and command its spirits, the Tower had no other mage who could work patterns.

A decision of empire, made on the great invisible scales, watched by heaven but weighted by men. Such decisions might leave one boy locked in a room and his brothers murdered, or kill thousands in the outer colony of another empire. A decision to weigh one life against many, and many against one: Beyon had gone mad with it and tipped the scales to excess, as if he would never feel a loss. But the death of his sword-son Ta-Sann had shown Sarmin the difficulties of Beyon’s way. It was not easy to send men into death.

But if the duke had some knowledge of Adam’s plans, if he knew where Daveed might be kept … his grief twisted him again. For his brother he would spend lives; for his brother he would take the chance. ‘Very well,’ he told Govnan. ‘But we must act quickly. I cannot have half the army searching the desert for days. I will question Banreh myself.’

‘I will prepare young Farid for his trip.’ Govnan moved towards the side door.

Sarmin stood and spoke to Mesema, leaning in, voice low.
‘Your chief will tell me what I need to know. If he will not tell me, then he will tell Dinar. You cannot return to him – do you understand?’

She backed away. ‘I wanted only to do the right thing.’

‘The right thing is for Cerana to survive.’

‘But what is it that will be surviving, Your Majesty?’ He noted her formal tone, her physical distance. ‘I should get to Nessaket. She will need blankets and toys for – for the child.’

She had not said
your brother
– because he was not. Sarmin knew it, because he felt no love for the child. ‘There are slaves—’ He recalled Chief Banreh’s accusation, and stopped.

‘I must go.’ She turned and walked from him, her silks fluttering, her guards clustering around her.

‘Azeem,’ Sarmin said, watching her go, ‘tell General Lurish we have need of a mediocre captain and six dozen average men.’ If this duke lured Sarmin’s soldiers into a trap, they would not be his best ones.