Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (24 page)

‘I have never met him. Fryth is far from the centre of his empire.’ Didryk’s fingers danced along his knuckles. ‘But the first austere is said to have a direct connection to Mogyrk, to understand his secrets in ways the rest of us do not. That he is capable of many feats …’ He shrugged. ‘I always believed it a story to keep us in awe of the empire.’

If the first austere had Helmar’s skill, he would not be dabbling in marketplaces
.

Sarmin turned to Azeem. ‘Did you find those books I requested about the Yrkmir incursions during the time of Satreth the Reclaimer?’

‘Books?’ Azeem scrambled to look at the notes he had written in his ledger.

‘I asked the guards – never mind; I will find them myself. Meanwhile, our citizens are already leaving, but it is time to make it the law. We must order an evacuation.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Azeem, picking up his quill and making a note as Sarmin watched him, puzzled. He would have thought an evacuation easy enough to remember.

When Azeem finished writing, Sarmin turned back to Didryk. ‘In the attacks we have seen, those who were patterned
survived. This is also what General Arigu reported about the attack in Fryth.’

Didryk blinked. ‘Yes, that is true. Patterns act as a ward.’

‘I think you speak truly.’ Sarmin fingered the hilt of his dacarba – Tuvaini’s dacarba. ‘And so I see only one solution.’

Didryk curled his hands around the arms of his chair, waiting. He
wanted
something, Sarmin could see the longing in his eyes. Already he had been offered an alliance, even reparations. Perhaps it was the return of his friend he wanted. Maybe it was something even greater; something related to that darkness Sarmin had seen in his eyes.

Azeem stepped forward, his quill held aloft, listening.

Sarmin looked from one man to the other. ‘We must mark everyone with the pattern. Beginning with the palace and our soldiers.’

When Grada entered the room the next morning, Sarmin turned towards Ne-Seth. ‘Leave us, all of you.’

‘Magnificence,’ Ne-Seth intoned. The door shut behind the guards and Sarmin was left alone with his Knife. The tension that had kept him awake all night flowed out of him: he did not need to worry about appearances with Grada. He sat down at his desk and she sat opposite, though once they might have sat side by side. Grada stretched, lifting her muscled arms over her head. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. He did not ask her about his brother; if Daveed had been found she would have said so. The loss weighed against his heart.

‘Notheen is gone,’ she said.

‘He said nothing to me.’ Sarmin thought of the headman, his slow, steady voice and his calm.

‘His first responsibility is to his people in the desert. The wounds spread, pushing them south.’

‘But I did not expect him to run with all the others.’
I thought he was my friend
. But Sarmin knew that the emperor did not have friends.

Grada placed her hand on the table, close to his, then withdrew it. ‘Did you read the scroll I brought you? I have been
watching Lord Nessen’s house for some time. The empress had a vision—’

‘Yes, yes, I know about that.’ Sarmin lifted it and unscrewed the wooden ends. ‘But I did not know this scroll concerned Nessen.’ The man was a Mogyrk sympathiser – he might be harbouring austeres, perhaps even the first austere himself.

Grada leaned back in her chair, her eyes on his face. She could not read; she would listen as he read it out loud. Sarmin unrolled the parchment and sighed when he saw the first few lines.

It went on in that vein for ten more paragraphs and ended with an affectionate note. Sarmin was not familiar with handwritten letters. He was accustomed to reading those penned by talented scribes, and so the odd spellings and dots of black ink interested him. Out in the world, people wrote letters to one another that were not copied by a dozen trained men and scrutinised for accuracy and penmanship. A person could write a letter out of affection and make mistakes. Sarmin put it down. ‘It is a letter between a mother and her grown daughter. Flowers and berries. Lord Nessen did not write it. The Grey Service must continue to watch the house – or find a way into it.’ If the austeres were indeed hiding in the house, he could no longer wait for them to show themselves.

Grada examined the writing. ‘It is very long to be about flowers and berries only,’ she said.

‘Have you ever heard the Old Wives talking? There is no end to it,’ said Sarmin, putting the scroll aside. He meant it as a joke, but Grada frowned at him.

‘Speaking of Old Wives, I think my mother has gone to see Arigu in the barracks. If she is not returned yet, I think she will need a … discreet way back to the palace.’

‘I am your Knife,’ she reminded him with an ungentle tone. ‘Perhaps you could send one of her guards.’

‘A royal guard in full armour will attract attention. I need you, Grada.’ When she stood he felt regret. ‘But not yet,’ he said. ‘Please, sit with me a while longer.’

She sat. ‘We have seen no one come in and out of Nessen’s house save for his servants. We have been watching for weeks – we would not miss an austere.’

‘I do not think you would.’ He took a breath. His brief spurt of confidence had disappeared. Adam and his rebels had their run of the city. Yrkmen laid their patterns and he had not caught a single one of them. And now the first austere himself might be in Nooria. He had lost the counsel of Notheen and Govnan just when Dinar was taking a special interest in his decisions. The high priest would be angry to hear Banreh was not coming his way. If Sarmin made one false move, if his alliance with Duke Didryk did not fulfil their hopes quickly enough, there would be trouble with Herzu.

He let out a breath. ‘Stay, Grada, and tell me of the city.’

Anyone who thought the Untouchables less intelligent, less loyal or less able were speaking from a place of blindness. In particular, Azeem’s prejudice against Grada had always irked Sarmin. The man was cleverer than that.

Grada’s dark eyes moved as she spoke, taking everything in, from the papers on his desk to the sturdiness of the door, missing nothing. Finally they settled on his and he smiled. She paused in her speech, watching him with curiosity. Nothing she had said merited humour, and she was slow to read his emotions now they were no longer sharing minds as they once had – and of course he could not say that it made him happy just to hear her voice.

‘Magnificence,’ said Ne-Seth from the door, his curls catching the morning sun, ‘General Arigu is here to see you.’

Sarmin turned from Grada at last. ‘Let him in, Ne-Seth.’ His mother must have returned to the palace with him. He would see her after speaking with the general.

Arigu entered dressed in full ceremonial robes of thick white silk. The golden sash he wore over one shoulder housed an ornately hilted dagger, and at his hip hung a scabbard adorned with dozens of bright gems. His slippers were long and curled, stitched with gleaming thread. Despite these encumbrances, he dropped gracefully for a full obeisance.

Sarmin had wondered whether he would do so, given enough room and enough time, and he was pleased with the answer. ‘Rise, Arigu,’ he commanded as Grada stood and took her place behind his chair.

‘Magnificence,’ said Arigu, ‘General Lurish and I have organised the defences. In truth, Lurish had already begun the work. War machines are in place, and we have bolstered the troops at every point along the walls. All that remains is to speak to Govnan – but he appears to be … occupied.’

‘I will arrange the placement of the mages,’ said Sarmin.

Arigu raised his eyebrows with curiosity. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ He glanced at Grada. ‘I was sorry to hear of Eyul’s death.’

‘He died bravely and rests with our greatest warriors.’

‘Mmm.’ Arigu had already forgotten Eyul. His gaze wandered around Sarmin’s room. ‘If we may speak privately, Your Majesty?’

‘My Knife can hear anything you wish to tell me.’

‘Very well.’ Arigu threw his shoulders back, presenting himself as Nooria knew him: the great and feared General of Cerana. ‘I have come to speak of a personal matter. Of marriage.’

‘Oh!’ Sarmin covered his surprise. ‘You have likely spoken with the Empire Mother already.’ His cheeks reddened. ‘Of course I cannot object—’

‘No, Magnificence, I have not seen her.’ Arigu tapped his fingers on the hilt of his ceremonial sword as he carefully prepared his next words.

Sarmin’s stomach went cold. His mother had not been at the barracks after all – she had gone somewhere else. Mesema had been right to worry.
But where would she have gone?

Arigu cleared his throat. ‘I have come to speak of my niece, Magnificence. She was too young when your brother was the emperor, heaven and stars be with him now, but I have received a letter from my sister. Now Armahan is a woman grown, and beautiful besides. I would be proud to give her to you, Your Majesty.’

‘I …’ Sarmin squeezed the edge of the table between his fingers. ‘I did not expect such an offer. You do not know what my other courtiers already know, General, that I will have only one wife, Mesema of the Windreaders. I mean it as no insult to your niece.’

Arigu frowned. ‘The Windreaders, my Emperor, were once an honourable tribe and represented a great alliance for Cerana.’ He left it for Sarmin to put the rest together: that they were
now considered traitors. ‘My sister’s family is from Gehinni Province, which is well-versed in the ways of the water. That is the home of our navy, Magnificence.’

Sarmin nodded, his mind still on his mother. ‘My grand vizier is yet unmarried. Perhaps you would consider offering Armahan to him.’

Arigu’s shock registered on his face, but it did not show in his words. ‘If that is your desire, Magnificence.’

Sarmin realised he had given some offence. He glanced up at Grada, but she was no guide to the rules of the palace. ‘Well. I am honoured by your offer, Arigu. I will consider it.’

Arigu bowed and withdrew, his face tight, and Sarmin leaned back in his chair.

Grada let out a sigh. ‘You cannot accept her, Your Majesty.’

Sarmin knew this, but he was curious about Grada’s reasons. ‘Why not?’

‘Because that is not the agreement you made with the empress.’ Grada shifted on her feet, and then added, ‘It would upset her.’

‘Decisions of empire are not made on emotions,’ said Sarmin, though he did not believe that to be true.

‘But you won’t accept this Armahan.’ A question there. Even now, Grada needed the reassurance. She needed to know that if he took anyone besides Mesema it would be her.

‘I wouldn’t.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘My mother was not with Arigu after all, Grada. She is missing, like Daveed …’

Grada came around the desk and faced him, hand on her Knife, ready.

‘Will the Grey Service find her?’ Sarmin realised he did not know how many agents the Grey Service had. The
Histories
had taught him that the emperor could rely on dozens of spies, but
he had never thought to ask for an exact number. Now that he had given them so many tasks, he wondered.

Grada bowed. ‘We will do our best, Your Majesty.’

‘That is all I ask.’ He reached out a hand, but she did not take it. ‘That is all I ask.’

She cocked her head, listening to noises in the hall. ‘A moment,’ she said, and stepped out. Sarmin did not move except to lower his hand and lay it flat upon the gleaming wood of his desk. It felt cool in the morning air.

Grada returned. ‘That was Meere, Your Majesty. He has caught the man who attacked the Empire Mother and stole Daveed. He has caught Mylo.’

Sarmin did not even take a moment to think. ‘Take him directly to Dinar for questioning. He must find out about Adam’s movements.’ That would satisfy Herzu’s craving for blood and lead him closer to his brother at the same time.

Grada paused, meeting his gaze, but said nothing. She gave only a bow before retreating. It was not until she had gone that he realised what he had seen in her eyes. It had been disappointment.

Sarmin entered the temple of Herzu with Ne-Seth and the other guards at his back. He had forgotten how confusing it was here: statues and chairs covered the floor in no order at all and he had to pick his way through them in the near dark, the only available light resting at the foot of the great statue of the God on the far side of the temple. He squeezed between an eight-foot gryphon and an empty soapstone basin and found something of an aisle that ended at the feet of Herzu. There he paused, looking up at the terrible, cruel, fanged visage. Something glistening and bloody had been placed in its outstretched hand and Sarmin felt a wave of nausea. He looked away, not wanting to know whether they were teeth, fingernails or something else. They had likely come from Mylo.

Dinar emerged from the private halls behind the altar, wiping his hands on a rag, leaving dark stains. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, smiling, in a fine mood. ‘I have been questioning our Mogyrk prisoner.’

‘Indeed. I have come to find out what you have learned.’ Sarmin looked down at the rag and felt strong misgivings. He had heard no screams, no begging; he thought if he were being tortured he would not be so stoic.

The high priest sighed. ‘He speaks of nothing but going into
the light, Magnificence. He says we will all be destroyed, and Mogyrk will take him to paradise. No matter how I cut him, he will say nothing of the austere, Adam.’

‘He is brave, then.’ So the man had one admirable quality. He had attacked his mother and stolen his brother away, but at least he had courage. That would not be enough to spare him, though. ‘I want to see him.’

Dinar smiled and turned towards a dark hallway, saying, ‘This way, Magnificence.’

Sarmin followed. At times the high priest looked like nothing more than a shadow among shadows, so dark was the corridor, but at last he opened a door into a well-lit room.