Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (21 page)

‘Yes – I was hoping he had returned.’ Sarmin hoped Arigu would be successful, and soon; if he could not retrieve Banreh there would be trouble between himself and the army. To the soldiers and the court the horse chief had come to represent all of Cerana’s failings in Fryth; if Sarmin lost him, they would never be able to set those accounts to rights. And yet he did not like to think of what would have to happen to Banreh once he returned.

‘I am sure the general—’

Azeem stopped when the duke drew near.

The Fryth had brought only two guards, the merest nod to his status, though both were taller than any other man in the room. Their metal armour was etched in complex designs and
buffed to gleaming. They shone in the light cast down from the dome like moving god-statues, and Sarmin could see there were men among the cushions who watched them with awe.

The threesome approached the end of the silk runner and there stopped. They knelt into their obeisances as one, as if they had practised it. Unlike Marke Kavic and his austere, who had both waited too long to bend the knee, Didryk and his men performed on cue. The duke’s fine coat stretched straight over his back and his long hands rested flat on the silk carpet. He wore one ring of office, a golden band set with carved ivory. In his elegant simplicity he reminded Sarmin of Azeem, but Tuvaini had been a simple man too, at least in clothing, and he knew that did not signify an elegant mind.

Sarmin waited, one minute and then the next, allowing the silence to settle in fully and for all minds to turn towards the expectation of his words. He had planned the same greeting he had given to Kavic, in honour of the fallen marke.

‘Rise,’ he said at last, and a breath went through the crowd. ‘Duke Didryk, welcome to Nooria, and may the sand take only your sorrows.’

‘I thank you, Magnificence.’ Didryk bowed his head.

‘As I told your cousin Kavic many months ago, heaven and stars keep him now’ – he paused and allowed the duke to make his own devout gesture – ‘my cousin, Emperor Tuvaini, initiated an attack upon the Dukedom of Fryth in error, believing it to be the cause of a plague we had suffered. But the pattern-plague that appeared to have come from Mogyrk hands was in fact the work of Helmar, also my kin, and rooted in our long division. I feared the effects of our aggression would bring only further conflict through time. Now I know I was correct.

‘Yrkmir approaches, having already ravaged your lands. In
the aftermath of Helmar’s work the wounds from your god fester within our empire. Our own great goddess Meksha threatens to release the fires of Her mountain, and we suffer strange attacks in our greatest city. But through all this you stretch out your hand in friendship, and we accept.’

Duke Didryk bowed and said, ‘We are pleased to offer our hand in friendship, and to begin to heal the wounds caused by our enmity.’ So far all had passed as if he and the duke had practised it together, and the smoothness of their meeting gave Sarmin real hope. He longed to ask Didryk about his brother, but he could not do it here, before all the men of court. He raised his voice so that it would reach the furthest corners of the room.

‘Ours will be the first alliance between Cerana and a Mogyrk ruler. To celebrate our new friendship I have prepared a proclamation.’ He motioned to Azeem, who produced a great scroll wound on mahogany rods. Amber glimmered from the rounded ends of the wood as he held it up before the eyes of the court.

As Azeem unrolled the parchment and formally announced the alliance, Sarmin and the duke regarded one another. Kavic had been determined, but also curious and hopeful. Didryk’s blue eyes, so much like the marke’s, held more shadows; they carried the grief of the past war, as well as other sorrows Sarmin could not begin to guess. But he held the emperor’s gaze and did not hide from it.

Sarmin was struck by a sudden inspiration, and when Azeem finished reading, he spoke. ‘On this day I dissolve the law making illegal the worship of Mogyrk. Mogyrk churches may now stand under the light of the sun, and its members will enjoy the protection of our guards and mages.’

This time there were no indrawn breaths from the room,
no gasps, no murmurs. A silence fell beneath the dome, and everyone sat so still that for a moment Sarmin wondered if a spell had been cast. Azeem’s hands fell to his sides, the scroll forgotten, its furthest end touching the shining floor. General Merkel looked green, as if he might be sick. But it was Duke Didryk’s face that concerned Sarmin the most: instead of looking pleased, he looked devastated. What secrets and grief did he carry, that a gesture towards peace brought him such desolation?

A private talk might clear the air. Sarmin stood, his loose robes giving the appearance of smooth movement and not a series of painful unbendings. ‘Duke Didryk, I am sure you are tired from your journey. Azeem will see you to a set of comfortable rooms, and my own sword-sons will watch over your safety. Please, be easy, and we will speak before long.’ He turned, ignoring the wide eyes of court, and exited through the side door. In that small chamber stood one of the low viziers, Azeem’s functionary, who fell into an obeisance.

Sarmin washed his hands in the rose-petal water that had been prepared for him. His sword-sons crowded into the small space, careful not to step on the low vizier. No sooner had Sarmin thrown down the silk drying-cloth than the outer door opened and a burly man entered, turning sideways, for the doorframe was too narrow for his wide shoulders. He reeked of sweat and his leathers had long since worn out, but Sarmin knew him for an important man.

His sword-sons had rushed to stand in front of him, but he waved a dismissive hand. ‘The general, I believe?’

‘Your Majesty.’ One of the man’s arms had remained outside the door and now he entered the room fully, dragging Chief Banreh with him. The chief looked much the worse for wear.
He had been beaten and was badly sunburned. His hands were tied behind his back and when Arigu kicked him, he landed against the wall, one knee buckling beneath him, the other leg held out to his side – the one Mesema had said could not bend.

Looking down at the wreck, Sarmin regretted ever wanting to hurt the man.

General Arigu knelt before his emperor. It irked, but a proper obeisance was impossible in the small space. ‘Your Majesty, I have brought you a gift.’

Sarmin looked to the low vizier, still face down on the floor. ‘Rise,’ he said at last, and the man stood and pressed himself against the wall, staring at the injured chief. Sarmin half wondered whether Banreh might be dead already. ‘You went against my word in Fryth, General. For that I should have your head. Instead, you offer me the head of the Windreader chief.’

‘His is prettier – or it was, Magnificence,’ said Arigu, standing to show a broad face and a friendly grin. ‘But it is also worth more than mine, for the time being. You have in your great wisdom entered into an alliance with the Duke of Fryth. Yrkmir approaches and a pattern mage will serve us well. But the man is passionate and unpredictable – the kind of man who, in the midst of peace negotiations, might take to cutting throats. But this one’ – Arigu nudged Banreh with his foot – ‘will keep him in line.’

Sarmin considered Arigu’s description of the duke. He had not seemed like that kind of man at all. ‘How?’

‘They are close, Magnificence, blood-brothers and more. The duke set Banreh to escape across the dunes, but I chased him down. The duke thinks his friend is free – but now here is Banreh to hold against his uncertain loyalties. If the duke should prove unreliable, hold a knife to this one’s throat, or
send him to the temple of Herzu – the nature of the threat does not matter. The duke will do as you wish.’

‘You are wrong about one thing, General.’

Arigu raised his eyebrows. ‘Majesty?’

Sarmin turned Banreh’s limp body so that his hands were visible and pointed at the mark on his wrist. ‘Didryk knows that Banreh is here.’

Arigu’s mouth twisted behind his beard as he studied the mark. ‘It will still work in your favour, Magnificence.’

‘Your army wants him dead.’

‘I can handle my army, Your Majesty,’ said Arigu with a conspiratorial grin, ‘if you can manage the duke.’

‘Walk with me.’ Before leaving the room Sarmin turned to the low vizier. ‘Have him taken to Mirra, but keep it secret.’

‘Yes, Magnificence.’

Sarmin walked the gleaming floor towards the back stairs that led to his apartments. The spiral stair had been grander, but now it was broken, and in any case, Arigu had seen it before. Any awe Sarmin might have inspired by leading the general up that way had long since been used up by his father Tahal. ‘Yrkmir approaches, planning an attack upon our great city.’

Arigu raised a hand to his beard but did not speak.

‘You will command our defences.’

‘As you wish, Your Majesty. I will meet with Lurish immediately to coordinate our efforts. Except …’

‘Spit it out, General.’

‘Except that Yrkmen attack like cowards. They cast their evil spells, then set their archers upon those who remain.’

Sarmin looked down at the big man. ‘Were you in Mondrath then, General, when Yrkmir attacked?’

‘I was.’

‘And how did you survive?’

For a moment Sarmin thought the general would not answer, but finally he said, ‘The duke had put a mark upon me, Your Majesty. I’d been cut and he meant to heal me, or so he said. It’s a foul thing, wearing the marks, but it saved me.’

‘Well then, General, I am glad for it.’ Being marked had protected the general just as it had protected those in the marketplace attacks. At his door Sarmin said, ‘Azeem will arrange a room for you in the palace.’

‘With your permission, Your Majesty, I will sleep in the barracks.’ Arigu bowed and walked back the way he had come. He was the greatest general in Cerana, as well known for his political manoeuvring as for his battle strategy, and the man his scheming mother had favoured. There would be no private game between Sarmin and Didryk now. Arigu had thrown in his chips for a game between three, or four, if he counted Banreh.

Sarmin leaned against the doorjamb and spoke to his sword-sons for the first time in an age. ‘If Azeem comes, tell him that I need history books. I want to know about Satreth the Reclaimer.’ His own history book had been destroyed by the false Beyon, using his hands, and anyway, it had contained little of military history. He wanted to know exactly how the Yrkmen had attacked so many years ago, and how the Reclaimer had defeated them. The sword-sons nodded and he shut the door.

Grada had left Farid before the great doors of the Tower. He knew she expected him to be able to make his own way from here, but in truth he did not know whether to ring the bell or try to pull at the brass knobs. He was, after all, wearing the robes of a mage – but the doors were heavy and likely required real magic to open, and he had none of that. He turned back towards the unusual woman, only to see her disappear through the arched gate. He had never met a female like her, one who spoke frankly and carried herself more like a warrior than anything else.

The courtyard lay empty around him, his only company some slimy green pools and the statues of Meksha, and he felt as if the Tower’s patron goddess was watching him with stony eyes, judging his worthiness. He ran his fingers along the brass surface of the door. If he knew the picture for metal, he could melt his way through … That made him smile, and when he turned back to look at Meksha’s unmoving face he felt more proud than embarrassed. He rang the bell.

Mura answered with a smile. ‘You’re home.’

He would not have called it ‘home’, though they had given him a room with a bed and a table. Home was his dingy apartment above the fruit market. Home was his father’s boat, with
the barrels of fruit he carried up the river. But more and more he was feeling that patterns were also his home: he longed to study their forms, to draw them with his fingers, to feel the delight of pulling the essence of a thing from a network of lines and shapes. And if patterns were his home, then perhaps the Tower was too. His father had believed it.

‘Well, are you coming in?’ Mura turned and walked away from him, between the lines of rock-sworn mage statues. ‘Govnan has some wonderful news, and some ideas of how to—’ she stopped. ‘First, have you seen the Great Storm, to the north?’ She was already halfway up the first flight of stairs and she turned to wave her hand at the brass portals.

Farid jogged after her to avoid them closing on him. ‘I’ve seen it – if you mean the greyness.’

‘It’s grown. To the northwest it now takes up the whole horizon, like a real storm.’ She paused, her hands on the railing, her eyes far away, focused on a memory of a different place. Then she met his gaze with a directness that shocked him. ‘But this storm doesn’t pass. It doesn’t let the sun through. It just creeps closer.’

Farid frowned. ‘I thought you said you had good news.’

‘Yes. Come.’ She turned back and ran up the stairs again and at last they reached the library. Mura threw the door wide. Inside, Govnan and Moreth were standing, looking over some parchments.

A tingling ran over Farid’s skin: he could see some of those parchments had patterns written on them.

As they entered, Govnan looked up, his eyes bright, and beckoned them forwards. ‘Ah! Here he is. Did everything go well in the desert, then? Take a look.’

Farid hurried to his side and identified the symbol in
Govnan’s hands.
Shack-nuth
. ‘Fire.’ He felt disappointed. They had been over this before.

‘Do you know the one for water?’

Farid nodded. A quill lay on the table next to a pot of ink, so he found himself a blank piece of parchment and drew the symbol with bold, angry strokes. He wanted to see the ancient patterns Govnan had shown him before, though it made him ashamed, for he could not forget how his mother had died.

‘Here is the good news,’ said Govnan, ‘and since you were not here, I will tell it again. The Great Storm has been approaching the Blessing for some time, and that has been a great concern to us, for all it touches turns to dust. We would not last long in the desert without the Blessing to feed and carry our crops.’