Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (23 page)

Soon he would meet with the Emperor of Cerana, and somehow he must gain his trust. Something told him it would be harder to gain Azeem’s. Whoever had laid the pattern in the marketplace had both helped and hindered him, increasing the emperor’s desperation and at the same time reminding Cerana how dangerous the pattern could be.
Yrkmir
– but if they were here already, why did the first austere not order a full-on attack?

Servants arrived carrying a wide vessel filled with water and rose petals; when Didryk dipped his hand in, its warmth surprised him. He washed and shaved and ran wet fingers through his hair. After that he felt hungry at last and took a few bites of cheese, all he had time for before Azeem returned. He followed the vizier down gilded and over-decorated halls to the private apartments of the emperor, listening to a list of yet more rules and protocols, agreeing to all restrictions and demands.

Sarmin paced his room, twenty by thirty, twenty by thirty. Azeem did not arrive with the books he had requested, nor did Mesema take the notion to visit. He sat at his desk; a scroll lay there and idly he rolled it back and forth over the rosewood surface, thinking about Duke Didryk. He could not discard the idea that the duke had some deeper plan, some deception, in mind. And yet down to his bones Sarmin knew that he must try to repair that brief, broken friendship between Fryth and Cerana, to reach out, as he had done to Marke Kavic, and welcome another son of the cold mountains into the desert.

Finally he stood and looked out over the courtyard where the great men were taking their leave. His proclamation had caused a stir and he saw many aggressive postures in the crowd, turban-feathers bobbing, heavy rings glinting in the sunlight with every emphatic gesture. He wished he could hear their words. At last the courtiers climbed into their shining carriages, surrounded by more bodyguards than stood with Sarmin himself. They were frightened, and not without reason; between the rebels, the pattern attacks and the approaching Storm, the city was no longer safe for them. Sarmin’s window faced west, not north, but even so he could sense a darkness at the corner
of his vision, a gathering cloud a thousand times larger than the one that had surrounded his brother’s tomb.

When the last courtier passed through the Elephant Gate, his carriage of polished wood catching the afternoon sun, Sarmin turned from the window and summoned his sword-sons. One came forward, a tall man with a bit of vanity in his oiled ringlets, his beard shaped carefully below his lips.

‘What are you called?’ Sarmin at last pushed aside his fear of asking for a name. His death would be no less meaningful for the lack of it.

‘Ne-Seth, Magnificence.’ The sword-sons kept the names given to them in their training – not Cerani names but names of power, telling who they had been and who they had become when born again into the service of empire.

‘Ne-Seth.’ The name meant nothing to Sarmin. ‘Come.’ He left his apartments and made for Mesema’s room. High above in the Great Hall workmen had already replastered the dome and were preparing for artists to press new legends upon it in gems and glass: Uthman versus the Parigol Army, Ghelen the Holy versus the southern sorcerer – perhaps even Sarmin the Saviour versus Helmar the Pattern Master. As he walked, it occurred to him that the new women’s wing was too far from where he slept and conducted his business – or Mesema at least was too far.

Tarub answered the door, but quickly made her obeisance and disappeared into the corridor. Mesema paced in the room beyond, a spyglass clutched in her hand. When she saw him she cried out and rushed forwards, her arms wide, and he caught and held her, breathing in the scent of her hair.

‘It’s your mother,’ she said, pulling away, but he caught her hand, keeping her close. ‘She left the palace – I saw her from
the spyglass. It was too far for me to call to her. I don’t know where she could have gone, and there are fires in the city!’

Sarmin frowned and thought about the places his mother might go. ‘The White Hat barracks are outside the palace compound,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she has gone to her lover Arigu.’

Mesema gasped. ‘She would be so bold? But she told me—’ She faltered and turned away. ‘I did not think such a thing was allowed.’

‘It is not allowed, but my mother is twice widowed and nobody will take her to task as long as she’s discreet.’ He turned her face back to his and pressed his lips against her forehead. ‘I will speak to her when she returns.’

She pulled away again, frowning. ‘But are you certain? It was so strange – the guards did not see her …’

The more he thought of it, the more certain he was: his mother would want information about the duke, and Arigu would have it. He took the spyglass from her hand and set it on the cosmetics table, then lifted her up and set her beside it. The mirror wobbled as he leaned in for a kiss, and pots of paint and pieces of jewellery scattered to the floor. ‘I am certain.’

And then she kissed him back, putting her hand in his hair, pulling him closer.

‘I saw Duke Didryk before he went into the throne room,’ she said as he kissed her neck. ‘What was he like?’

Sarmin thought of the events in the throne room and afterwards, when Banreh’s beaten body was thrown before him, and his passion cooled. He sat on the bench and faced the mirror. Beside the blue of Mesema’s dress he saw his own face, thin and wide-mouthed. What did that face say about him? He remembered Duke Didryk’s expression when he made his announcement about the Mogyrk faith. ‘His cousin Kavic
was easier to read. I wish I knew for certain that he wanted peace.’

Mesema slid down beside Sarmin and he watched her profile as she spoke. ‘Will he help us?’

‘That is what he says.’ He looked at their reflections. It was just the two of them, with no ghosts and no brother looking out from behind his eyes. ‘Is that what I look like?’

She laid her head on his shoulder and watched him in the mirror. She answered him carefully. ‘I do not know what you see, my husband.’

‘My mother told me that Beyon looked like Tahal our father, fierce and powerful, while I have her delicate features.’ He turned his head to the side, caught up in the vanity of the mirror. ‘Delicate features look strange on a man.’

‘Nobody sees themselves the way others see them.’ She leaned in and kissed his cheek. ‘I do not see you as delicate.’

‘No?’ He caught her mouth with his. ‘Come to the bed with me.’

‘I thought you liked the mirror.’ She gave him a sly look.

He glanced at his reflection. He did not want to watch that man with his wife. ‘No. I don’t like it at all.’

She stood and led him to the bed and the next long while was spent without thought. Afterwards, as they lay side by side under the light of the window, she said, ‘Don’t you miss him?’

‘I do.’ He turned his head to where Pelar’s crib had once stood.

‘I miss him terribly.’ She rolled onto her stomach and played with the silk. ‘It makes sense that your mother is only visiting Arigu. Of course she would not wander into the city and leave Daveed behind, not after missing him for so very long.’

At the mention of his brother’s name, the closeness he had felt to Mesema began to drift. He said nothing, but stood and gathered his robes.

She laid her head on her arm and watched him. ‘Have you seen the boy since the day he arrived?’ she asked.

‘I have not.’ There was no reason to see the child.

‘How do you think Govnan could have made a mistake? Or Nessaket?’

‘Some Mogyrk trick.’

‘A pattern-trick?’ She wrinkled her nose in thought. ‘I don’t think …’

‘Austere Adam organised a rebellion under this roof while pretending to seek peace. If he is capable of that, he is capable of more deception.’ He tied his sash with a jerk. ‘You should know Arigu brought Chief Banreh back with him. He is with Assar in the temple of Mirra.’

She sat up, pulling her covers around her. ‘Banreh’s ill?’

‘Hurt.’ He slipped his feet into his slippers. ‘Assar will tend to him. Do not go there, Mesema.’

‘He is the chief of my people. Is he dying?’

‘I do not know.’ When she slid from the bed and picked up her dress from the floor, he added, ‘Do not make me forbid you, Mesema.’

She paused in pulling on her silks, her eyes wide. ‘You would forbid me?’

They stared at one another long enough for the whiteness of the walls to begin to hurt his eyes. ‘No. I cannot forbid you anything. But I am asking you: do not go.’

He turned towards the door, but she called out behind him, ‘Wait!’

‘Mesema, we have said all there is—’

‘Not that – look.’ She picked up the book of poetry he had given her, opened it and ripped out a page.

‘Mesema!’ Books were a rare and precious thing. In his time imprisoned in the tower room five of them had been his only friends. Ignoring his protest she took scissors from her sewing-kit and cut the page into twenty small pieces.

‘I’ve been thinking about this,’ she said, laying them out on the bed, upside down and out of order. ‘Look. The words still mean something, but we can’t read them now. Is this what the pattern looks like to you?’

‘The pattern doesn’t look like anything to me.’ He cocked his head and looked at the jumbled words.

‘Maybe this is what the wounds are like: scattered images that we don’t recognise.’

‘It felt empty.’ The emptiness had drained him, claiming his pattern-sight; of this he was certain. And yet her demonstration made sense. It reminded him of something the Megra had said before she died and he itched to recall what it was.

Mesema sighed, thinking he was rejecting her theory. ‘I didn’t like that poem anyway.’ She gathered all the shreds of parchment and tucked them inside the book.

He smiled – he could not be angry with her for long. ‘I have a private meeting with the duke now, but we will talk about this later.’ She did not reply, and she stood on the other side of the bed, too far to touch, so he gave a slight bow before leaving.

*

As he walked back to his own apartments he resisted the urge to talk to Ne-Seth; it was enough to know his name. Ne-Seth did not require the friendship of an emperor; the relationship between sword-son and sword-son, forged in their harsh training and enforced through spellwork, far exceeded any
other Ne-Seth could make. The sword-sons did not face their trials alone.

By the time he arrived at his own door his legs and knees were aching, but not as painfully as they had in the past. Every day his body grew stronger and became more accustomed to the demands he was placing on it.

Inside, Azeem and the duke were waiting together, making pleasant small-talk, the sort Sarmin did not have the experience to invent: weather, horses, travel, the things men saw and experienced when they lived in the world. When Sarmin entered both men ceased speaking and made their obeisances, but it was to Duke Didryk that he spoke. ‘So. We are allied, you and I. It was what I wanted when your cousin Kavic was alive. He let me know how strongly your people desired peace.’

‘We do,’ said the duke, and then, in a lower voice, ‘we did.’ Sweat shone on his forehead, but whether it was from the heat or from fear Sarmin could not tell.

‘Kavic and I spoke briefly of reparations, Duke – the cost of rebuilding your capital city, Mondrath.’ Beside him, Azeem shut his ledger with a thump. Talking of money without council approval offended his sense of order.

Didryk opened his mouth twice before he could speak. ‘Reparations would be most generous, Your Majesty.’

‘If we all survive the coming Storm, we will discuss it – but let us now speak of surviving.’

Didryk answered him with a curt nod, his blue eyes shifting through a range of emotions too fleeting for Sarmin to catch.

He sat down behind his desk and spread his hands across the cool wood, his reflection wavering up at him from the depths of the lacquer. ‘Do you know where Austere Adam is hiding?’

‘No, Your Majesty. I have not been to Nooria before today.’

Sarmin paused, frustrated. It would be foolish to ask Didryk about Daveed, to show his missing tiles so soon in the game, but the desire to do so nearly overwhelmed him. ‘What do you know of the marketplace attacks?’

‘Your mage Farid told me,’ Didryk said, looking away. ‘I know what kind of pattern was used, and there are not many austeres who can make it.’

‘But of course it was Austere Adam,’ said Azeem.

To Sarmin’s surprise, Didryk disagreed. ‘He would not kill anyone without giving them a chance to come into the light.’ He looked from Sarmin to Azeem. ‘To convert to Mogyrk.’

‘Then who?’

‘I wondered the same.’ Didryk met his steady gaze. ‘If I knew, I would tell you.’

Shock rooted Sarmin to his chair. ‘Are you suggesting that Yrkmir is already here?’

‘It can be no one else, but it makes no sense. The first austere does not sneak.’

Sarmin ran his hands through his hair. ‘But it fits with what General Arigu told me. He said they attack first with their austeres and then with their military. Do you not agree?’

‘I do agree, but the austeres attacked my city all at once with a great spell, not like this, little by little, in marketplaces.’

‘Perhaps they mean to sow confusion?’ said Azeem.

‘Perhaps they are buying time, distracting us,’ said Didryk. ‘There is no way for Yrkmir to cast the spell they used in Fryth, not without surrounding Nooria. This is a large city, Magnificence, with many guards on the walls.’

‘If they tried to make a pattern right outside the city walls, yes – but they don’t need to do that, do they? The pattern could be much larger, and written in the sands far out of our sight.’

‘Yes.’ Didryk leaned forwards, his hands clasped in front of him. ‘They could. It would take them a long time.’

‘Would it? How many austeres do they have?’

‘In Yrkmir itself, hundreds – but I could not guess how many they have with them.’

‘So let’s say they have hundreds: how long would it take for them to encircle us, even out in the desert?’

‘Weeks only – less, perhaps.’

Sarmin leaned back in his chair. ‘What do you know of the first austere?’