Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (34 page)

‘Farid.’

‘Farid of the fruit-market.’

Again Farid sensed some joke was being made at his expense, but he realised that compared with the threat against the Tower, such insults did not matter. A week ago he might have made some retort, but today he was focused on his mission. ‘Yes. Do you know where to find Duke Didryk?’

‘The duke has retired to his rooms.’

‘May he come to the Tower?’

Herran did not reply but continued to steer Farid towards a set of stairs set behind the broken ones in the Great Hall. Farid followed him down elegant hallways where the doorknobs glowed in the lantern light and the highly polished wood shone. In Farid’s rented rooms above the marketplace, the wood that lined the walls had been roughly hewn and dull. Running his hands along the windowsill had been enough to give him splinters. Thinking about his old place made him remember the creaking bed and the threadbare old blankets, and he realised how much he would have loved to return, even if just long enough to get some sleep.

At last they stood in front of one of those elegant doors. It looked just like every other they had passed, but Herran walked straight to it with no hesitation.

Farid pulled the sash tighter around his waist. He wanted these men to respect him, to believe he was worthy to be a mage of the Tower. He swallowed as he faced the door. Duke Didryk held all the secrets he wanted to know – how to break a pattern; the meaning of the design he had drawn on the walls of the library; why he had been called by Mogyrk instead of Meksha or Keleb, gods he had worshipped all his life.

Herran knocked, and the door was opened a crack by a redhaired Fryth who towered over Farid and the assassin both, but who was still not as tall as Didryk. He looked from one to the other and finally said in a rough accent, ‘No Cerani.’

‘Didryk,’ said Herran, motioning past the door.

Someone spoke from within the room and the red-haired man opened the door the rest of the way. Farid had thought his Tower room luxurious, with its silver mug and high window, but the room he looked into now showed not one uncovered surface. Tapestries hung on every wall. A carpet covered the floor. Everywhere there were scattered cushions embroidered with golden threads.

A dark-skinned man dressed in elegant robes stood to greet them. He glanced at Herran only long enough for recognition, but his gaze lingered on Farid for several seconds. Farid looked back at him, then with a shock realised he might be standing before someone royal. He prepared to go into an obeisance, but before he could lower himself the man gave a slight bow and motioned them forwards. ‘Come.’

Duke Didryk was sitting before a Settu board, studying the placement of the tiles. From the look of it, they had just begun
a game. When he saw Farid he stood, knocking the table, and the pieces scattered. ‘What is it, Farid?’

Farid looked at the red-haired guard and the other, blond and threatening, and his words came out in a tumble. ‘A pattern was laid around the Tower, Duke. It’s destructive, but beyond that I can’t tell what it is. We caught some men but they – they died.’ He did not mention they probably had been innocent. He pushed aside the memory of their blood, and of Moreth, rolling in the ecstasy of killing, and swallowed; this was not the time, with everyone watching him. He continued, ‘We can’t go back until the pattern is destroyed – but I don’t know how.’

The duke said, ‘I will accompany you back to the Tower.’

‘We had hoped you would, Duke.’ The ‘we’ came from his mouth as easily as ‘four bits for this mango’. He pressed his lips together. He had to remember his humility.

The assassin, Herran, still standing by his side, gestured at the man in elegant robes. ‘Lord High Vizier Azeem, perhaps you should come too.’

So that elegant man was the grand vizier. He felt a fool.

Azeem closed the shining door with care and turned down the corridor. ‘This way,’ he said, and everyone followed him without a word. Farid thought Rushes must be somewhere in the palace and wished he had time to look for her. He hoped she and the baby were well – or even better, not in the palace at all but travelling down the river, far from the Yrkmen.

They travelled along simpler halls where the servants walked, warding-patterns bright on their skin, past the kitchen where he smelled baking bread and roasting meats and out into a courtyard filled with barrels and crates. On one side laundresses plied long sticks to stir the palace linens in great coppers; on the other an old man sat on a chair twisting the
necks of chickens. At the sight of Azeem many of the workers gasped and hurried to drop to the floor, but he paid them no notice and glided to an iron gate which led to a yet more elaborate gate, which led to an even larger and more impressive one. There Azeem stopped to speak with an officer, a captain, and twelve more men joined their party, all dressed in the blue uniform of the royal guard, proud feathers rising from their hats.

Finally they reached the street. It felt hotter outside the palace gates. Sweat trickled down Farid’s back. They moved with haste to the Tower.

Almost no one else walked the streets. Once a noble’s carriage passed by, and a lone man stood holding skewers of cooked lamb as if he meant to sell them to nonexistent passers-by. When he saw them, with the soldiers marching behind, he skittered away like a thief, reminding Farid of the men who had died. Finally he saw the Tower rising above them, casting a shadow from east to south, and felt a moment of hope replace his worry: it had not been destroyed.
He
had not destroyed it.

The duke stopped at the edge of the pattern and held out an arm to keep anyone else from moving forwards. ‘It is here,’ he said to those who were blind to it, crouching and running his finger along the stone. ‘Farid, here: let me show you.’

Herran, standing by his side, looked around as if puzzled by what he could not see. The grand vizier did not look puzzled. His careful eyes were fixed on the duke.

Farid crouched next to Didryk. The duke gestured at the shapes. ‘You know when you put yourself into a pattern, it is as if you are opening a bag and letting everything inside come out.’

‘Ripping a cord.’

‘Ripping a cord: yes, good. But when you want to ruin a pattern you must close it tight, so it cannot open. Try.’

‘What if I—?’ He glanced up at the Tower.

‘I will not let you “rip the cord”, as you say. Now, try.’ The duke sounded angry.

Was he upset at his fellow Mogyrks who had laid the pattern, Farid wondered, or was he more upset that he had to help save the Tower? He wondered if he would be as forthcoming as the duke if his city had been destroyed.

But for now he had to put wondering aside and focus on the glimmering shapes below him. He thought again of his sister’s twine, strung between her fingers in an intricate web. Instead of pulling so the string fell, could he pull so the string drew tight? He gritted his teeth. If he got it wrong …

He took a long look at the Tower. Inside stood the statues of the former rock-sworn. He could not allow it to turn to dust.

‘Trust me,’ said the duke.

Farid stared at the shapes again, focusing on the symbol he thought meant stone.
I will pull you out
. As he stared, the shapes shifted and the lines around them bent as if melted by the sun. Again he looked up at the gleaming Tower, standing white against the blue of the sky, and breathed a sigh of relief.

‘You see?’ The duke stood and scuffed at the stone. ‘You did it.’

‘I broke it – but can another person fix it?’

‘I think it is good that there are guards,’ said the duke by way of answering.

Farid lowered his voice. ‘When first we met, you said Adam had put a mark on my forehead, but that you couldn’t tell what it was for. Can you tell me now?’

Didryk frowned and touched his finger to Farid’s skin. ‘It is
a compulsion – he has twisted the symbols so much that …’ He paused, then drew his finger away. ‘I think I can remove it for you.’

‘Yes, please.’

As he touched Farid’s forehead once more, Didryk said, ‘Such a small mark cannot be specific. It can only urge you upon a path – for example, a malicious mark could drive a man to drink, but not to drink any particular brew.’

‘Could it drive me to use the pattern?’

Didryk said nothing, but he glanced over to where Azeem and Herran stood side by side, watching them. Then he pushed hard against Farid’s skin and Farid had to steady himself so as not to stumble backwards. He felt a sensation of unravelling, of falling apart, and a bright pain bloomed in his mind. Didryk lowered his finger and stepped away.

‘Thank you.’

Didryk nodded.

‘There are other patterns in the library,’ said Farid, ‘ancient patterns drawn on parchment, from the time of the First Yrkman War.’
And I put one of them all over the walls while I slept
. ‘Govnan did not know what they were. I hoped you could tell me.’

But when they stepped towards the Tower, Herran held out an arm, stopping the duke. ‘The emperor must give permission for anyone to enter the Tower.’

‘Perhaps another time,’ Azeem said.

‘Another time, then.’ The duke agreed so easily that Farid became frustrated with him.

‘But I will need to know,’ said Farid, speaking more loudly, ‘I will need to know all the symbols and their meanings if I am to be of any help at all.’

Didryk regarded him a moment. ‘I will teach you, if the Emperor is willing. I will ask for his leave.’

Farid frowned as Grand Vizier Azeem, Duke Didryk and the two Fryth guards turned away, but Herran paused, his grey gaze moving from fountain to statue to courtyard wall. ‘I will arrange for the Grey Service to watch the Tower compound along with the Blue Shields,’ he said to Farid.

‘Thank you.’

‘It is not the custom,’ said Herran, and Farid could not help but hear the accusation in his voice.
Before I came, there was no need to guard the Tower
. And Herran did not even know the whole of it. The assassin turned away and followed the vizier. At the gate the Blue Shields had already taken up their stations.

Farid settled on the stone of the Tower steps. He was still not able to open the door.

Back in the palace, Azeem directed Didryk down a different path, towards the temples he had visited when he had first arrived. ‘Where are we going, Lord High Vizier?’ he asked. Sarmin had taken him to a new place and ruined his life – or else saved it. Now Azeem meant to take him somewhere new. He did not know if he could face it.

‘The emperor bade me take you to your friend.’ Azeem did not pause as he spoke.

They passed the dark temple of Herzu, the god of pain, famine and fear – the patron god of the palace, he had been told. He felt eyes watching him from the darkness; as he passed he resisted the urge to stop, turn and protect his retreat. Krys and Indri walked stiffly beside him, staring straight ahead.

The scents of blooming flowers met them at the entrance to Mirra’s temple. Her high priest kept a lush and green space. ‘This way,’ said Azeem, breaking his silence, and led Didryk and his men down paths lined with tall decorative grasses and rose bushes. They passed a gurgling fountain and Didryk could not help but pause and watch his own wavering reflection in the surface. Water had been so rare in the last few months.

Azeem stopped before a curtain of flowering vines and remained there, gesturing for Didryk to step behind.

Banreh was lying on a stone slab, a pillow made of his own folded clothes resting beneath his head. He had been cleaned and bandaged, but otherwise Didryck could not see that his injuries had been treated. His breathing came shallow – that was thanks to the queenflower drug, most likely.

Krys breathed a sigh of relief. ‘He is alive!’

‘Mogyrk be praised, my lord,’ said Indri.

Didryk placed a hand on Banreh’s chest and tried to evaluate what had been broken in him. He had no physician’s skill, only what he had gleaned from the books in Adam’s library and the injuries he had seen when Arigu attacked his city. His ribs, he thought, and maybe one of his lungs, and there was slow bleeding, somewhere inside. Quickly he traced the patterns that would show his friend’s body how to heal. Such things did not work immediately. Sometimes they did not work at all, so Didryk was surprised to see the strength and power of his commands. Already bruises were fading, cuts changing from angry red to pink. He knew that Mogyrk’s Scar was near, but every time he was reminded, it surprised him.

He knew he might be healing his friend only to see him hanged – or worse. For his part, Banreh did not stir. Didryk had hoped to speak with him, but what could they say? Azeem would hear it all – and in any case, they had already said everything they needed to tell each other that day in the desert.

Banreh had insisted that Arigu would bring him to the palace. He had refused to try escaping, and he had refused the queen-flower drug that would have eased his pain if they beat him. The man was too stubborn, and there had not been enough time. Didryk knew why: Banreh had only this one chance to save the enslaved Windreaders. But was this the only way – to
turn himself over to be beaten and tortured? Who then would lead the freed slaves back to the Grass?

Didryk was certain a trip to the dungeons or that dark temple of Herzu was next for Banreh and he trembled with rage and helplessness. Yrkmir stood outside the gates of Nooria and the Storm grew near. Soon they would all die – and there would never be any reason to it. Once again nobody would be saved.

Low voices drifted over the humid air of the temple: They were no longer alone. Didryk clasped Banreh’s hand and let it go. He could not stay any longer.

Azeem led, sweeping past a group of priests without a word, and Didryk and his men followed once again. The temple wing showed beauty in every corner, from fountains and mosaics to tapestries and friezes. Didryk’s own home bore some simple decorations of polished wood and amber, but the emperor’s palace never seemed to tire of ingredients for its walls, ceilings and floors – gems, gold, paint, tapestries, on and on, until his eyes saw nothing but a blur. So much richness. Why had they wanted Fryth as well?