Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (39 page)

Sarmin walked a slow circle around Dinar. He saw that the traitor guard still held Mesema in a tight grip and he clenched his fists. ‘You mean my curiosity, my wisdom, my love for Cerana.
These are things you cannot understand. They disgust you.’ Grada moved closer, her hand ready on the hilt of her Knife.

Arigu waved a hand, uncertainty in his face. ‘What we are asking for is punishment for the transgressors, no more.’

‘And tearing the skin from a man is fair punishment?’

Dinar sneered and spat, ‘Herzu cares nothing for what is fair. Herzu is about power, and what can be done with it. Taking lives, taking thrones. If you are strong enough to do it, then it is yours to do. There is no fair.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sarmin, and plunged Tuvaini’s dagger between the high priest’s ribs as his brothers had shown him, as he had killed the Pattern Master. Behind him steel rang as all the sword-sons drew their hachirahs. Grada already held her twisted Knife and was scanning the men before her.

Dinar fell to the ground, his eyes dark and lifeless, and Sendhil after him, stabbed from behind by one of his own men. Mesema stumbled and sat down on the steps of the dais, her face pale.

Sarmin faced the assembled courtiers. He had decided who he wanted to be, and who should die and who should live. ‘I claim this palace for Mirra.’ Not one of them could look away.
What do they see?
he wondered. He turned to Arigu. To his credit the general did not even flinch. ‘I made an interesting discovery at Lord Nessen’s manse,’ he said, ‘but you already know about it. You took the slaves from the Grass, violating our ancient agreement with the horse tribes. Banreh learned of it and rightly fought against you.

‘Selling slaves who look like the empress and her family would bring you a great deal of money among certain nobles – but your man ran into trouble. He chose the wrong estate to shelter in. There was an altercation and Lord Nessen lost his
life. Finally your captain brought the slaves here, only to find that the buying and selling of slaves is barred until my
Code
is finished. He knew Lord Nessen would not come to town, being dead, so he hid them in his manse in the Holies.’

Arigu swallowed. ‘They are Mogyrk – rebels—’

Grada held her Knife to his throat, and he fell silent.

‘Duke Didryk treated you well.’ Sarmin motioned to the tall man standing motionless at the door. ‘How have the Felting slaves been treated, I wonder? I will find out shortly.’ Sarmin backed away. ‘You are guilty of prosecuting a war against my wishes, of making slaves of our allies and telling untruths before the throne. But you may still go free if you pledge your loyalty to me.’

Azeem made a strangled noise in his throat; Grada glanced at Sarmin in amazement.

Sarmin held his breath. The war, the throne, the very survival of Nooria depended on Arigu’s decision.

Arigu stood motionless for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to his knees beside Dinar’s body, laying his sword crosswise before him. He laid his forehead upon it and spoke. ‘I pledge all of my loyalty, my breath, my vitality, and all of my words to you, my Emperor.’

Sarmin let him wait. He met the eye of every man in the room until, satisfied they were cowed, at last he said, ‘Rise, Arigu.’ He climbed the steps to the dais and sat on the Petal Throne. ‘Lord High Vizier, let it be known that Chief Banreh is to be freed of all constraints and punishments. The Felting people will be given shelter in the guest wing, and he may join them there.’

He looked at the shaken general. ‘Now we may speak of the war.’

The men looked at one another and at the dead bodies on the floor. Nobody spoke, not even Azeem, though he was clearly struggling to find the right words.

The gong sounded, breaking the moment; the herald rushed forwards, unusually flustered. ‘The Empire Mother, Your Majesty,’ he said.

Ice washed over Sarmin’s skin.
Something is wrong
. The timing of her return, the fact that she would make her first appearance here, in the throne room, where all the generals had gathered … it was the first austere who had decided these things, not his mother.

His fears were quickly confirmed. When she came to the door, passing Didryk without a glance, he saw her black eyes, her expressionless face, and beneath it, the hatred and malice of Yrkmir. ‘Mesema,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘hide!’

Nessaket opened her mouth and from it poured a stream of lines and symbols – triangle, crescent, half-moon, line, triangle again – a bright ribbon of pattern-work that cut through General Merkel like a sword. She lifted both hands and patterns ran from them too, red and liquid, harm at the core of them, cutting through Hazran’s cheek before he dodged behind a pillar. The sword-sons ran forwards and she caught one through the neck, his blood and the sharp pattern running together. Boneless he fell to the floor with a clatter of steel. Didryk crept up behind her, his eyes intent, as the patterns flew across the room like blades, cutting gashes in the walls, ripping through cushions and skin with equal ease. Through it all Sarmin stood before the throne, unmoving, and her patterns did not touch him.

Another sword-son neared Nessaket, with Grada close behind. He lifted his hachirah to strike. ‘No!’ Sarmin cried,
and the sword-son dropped his weapon and grabbed her wrist instead. The pattern-thread cut his hand and shoulder and his blood rose in a crimson arc. Didryk wrapped an arm around her from behind, putting a hand over her mouth, and Grada and the sword-son managed to push her palms behind her. Blood rushed between Grada’s fingers – hers, or Nessaket’s?

Sarmin made a quick assessment of the damage. Mesema had hidden behind the Petal Throne and was safe, but she had now lost two guards: Sendhil, and the man who lay across the steps with his throat cut open. General Merkel was dead. Others pressed hands over deep cuts.

He ran to his mother, still struggling in Didryk’s arms, her eyes blank and wild. He could see the black pattern that controlled her, rising from the floor and wrapping itself into her mind and her skin. But he could not purge her of it.

He hit his fist against a pillar. ‘Can you help her, Didryk?’

Didryk frowned and pressed a hand against Nessaket’s forehead. ‘She has been with the first austere for some time,’ he said, ‘and the patterns run deep. Still …’ He drew his thumb across her skin, up, down, around and across, and waited. ‘No,’ he said with a frown, ‘my work is too simple.’

Sarmin crouched down before his mother. Behind the web that trapped her, behind her skin, he searched for her, his mother, the woman he remembered from soft nights and song, from garden sunshine and laughter, and from hardship, loneliness, loss. He searched for her grief, for her love, for her anger – and found her at last, buried deep, a flame flickering against the storm that was the first austere’s lunacy. ‘Mother,’ he called, and she stirred, the flame growing brighter. He pressed his hand against her heart, and her arms thrashed; her head moved from side to side as she tried to free her mouth and loose the
pattern upon him. But Didryk and Grada held her firm, and the mother who existed inside the body grew stronger, pushing back at the darkness.

Mesema knelt beside him, adding her hand to his.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I know you are there, because you took care not to kill me.’ In this world there were three people who could never be persuaded to harm him, no matter how powerful the magic: his mother was one, Grada and Mesema the others.

Nessaket opened her brown eyes and looked at him. ‘Sarmin!’ she breathed, and Didryk let her go and stepped back. Sarmin watched the webs that had trapped her die away and shrivel into the floor.

It was not over; the first austere was seeking more people to entrap. But Sarmin could see the path of the first austere’s intent, dark against the tiles, and he knew now that he could find him.

‘That is twice the first austere has tried to kill you, Your Majesty,’ said Azeem, his voice straining for his usual calm.

Only twice?
But he had failed. Sarmin could not deny feeling disappointment. The first austere was nowhere near as powerful as he had thought. Yes, he had some unusual tricks, but that was the whole of it. Of all the mages in the desert and the city there was nobody who came close to what Sarmin once had been. Only Mogyrk could match him, and Mogyrk lay in the Scar, caught between life and death. But, as weak as the first austere might be, Sarmin could not defeat him alone. He needed a working of many parts, pieces of a design, but not the Many. He needed allies.

He looked over his shoulder for someone to command and found one, a guard standing wide-eyed over Dinar’s body. ‘You:
get Austere Adam from the dungeon. We will need his help.’ No sooner had he spoken than he saw the pattern-ward flash blue on the guard’s forehead. When the guard turned, unharmed, to retrieve Adam, Sarmin breathed with relief. The court was protected from pattern-work, just as he had planned. But then the ward flashed red on the forehead of an old captain and he exploded in a spray of blood and bone, the buttons of his uniform falling against the floor like Settu tiles. With another flash, yellow, a palace slave fell upon the cushions, holding his neck, unable to breathe. The first austere was searching for a way past their wards and succeeding – but not completely. Not yet.

Sarmin stood, helping his mother up with him. The first austere must not be allowed to pick off his courtiers one by one. He must be killed, and it would be Sarmin who killed him.

Didryk let go of the Empire Mother and stepped into the corridor. Now that she was recovered she would not want to find a Fryth man grasping at her. He did not know the spells the first austere had used – he had never used such things in Fryth; he had not needed to. The surprise, Yrkmir’s advantage, had been complete. The first austere did not care about killing his fellow Mogyrks, and he certainly would not hesitate to kill every Cerani if he could find more ways around their wards. Didryk found that he did not want that to happen.

He heard a sound to his left, and turned to see three Blue Shields leading a host of men and women into the corridor, blond of hair and wearing woollen tunics. They must be the Felting slaves who had caused so much trouble. The emperor had found them at last. They were being led towards the throne room.

But cold air rushed against his skin; the hair stood up on his arms and a ringing pierced his ears and sent his teeth to vibrating. He stumbled. This was the familiar power and dread that came from pattern-work, except this time greater than any he had felt before: the first austere was preparing a master working.

In a panic Didryk looked around at the Felting slaves.
Let me save at least one … at least one this time
.

And then he found the boy, all blond curls and green eyes, and Didryk knew who the child must be, knew what Banreh had not told him, understood at last what had driven his friend to Nooria. Quickly he crouched and drew a ward upon the boy’s forehead. No sooner had he finished than the pattern-work pushed over Didryk like a wave and he held the boy’s head against his jacket, hiding his eyes.

All around him the Felt flew apart, blood and bone slicing through the skin, their bodies opening like flowers, showing organs and glistening muscle. His jacket was soaked with blood and he tasted something foul on his lips. He felt the same rage he had felt the day his city had been destroyed.
Why
? The first austere would die. Didryk would live long enough to ensure that.

But the boy was safe. ‘Don’t look,’ he admonished, carrying the boy away, into the throne room. ‘Come, you will see your father soon.’

Mesema took Nessaket’s arm. ‘Come, Mother. I will take you to your room.’

Sarmin watched them, a grave look on his face. He would send High Priest Assar to the women’s wing; she did not need to ask him. As she moved towards the corridor a guard caught her eye and shook his head:
no
, something bad waited for her there. Always something bad. And from behind him Duke Didryk pushed his way into the throne room, a boy in his arms, blood on his robes.

Banreh’s boy: she could not mistake him. His grass-child, the one he said he had wished he had made with her. She paused, Nessaket leaning against her, and looked at him, so much like the man she had loved that she felt a tear in her eye.
Had loved
.

She had been right about the slaves. She had been right about Lord Nessen’s manse, about Arigu, about everything. And in all that time she had doubted herself. Closed in by the palace, closed in by the generals and priests as much as the ancient table at which they sat, she had doubted herself: she, who had found a way through Helmar’s pattern, who had freed Sarmin from the torment of his old room. Only Sarmin had ever listened to her. Sarmin had taught her to read, had listened to her
words, had fought the Pattern-Master at her side. She turned towards the service door, but Arigu blocked her path.

‘The chief didn’t tell you, did he?’ Arigu inclined his head in the boy’s direction. ‘There is always something he’s not telling, something he wants you to do for him. You might have lost everything for that slave boy. The duke, too. Did your Chief Banreh care?’

‘But you knew.’ Mesema spoke with sudden understanding. ‘You knew the boy was Banreh’s son when you took him for a slave.’ She paused. ‘And it was you who put me at risk, not him.’

Nessaket spoke in a hoarse voice. ‘That is how Arigu intended to control him – the same way I once sought to control Beyon through keeping Sarmin. But the horse chief is no Beyon, to wait and to hope and to despair.’

Shocked, Mesema glanced at Nessaket’s face. Her eyes were focused far away. She was not well.

Arigu’s hand gripped his sword-hilt, but he did not draw. It was only a dark memory that had moved his hand.

Without another word Mesema pulled Nessaket through the side door. Everyone in the palace sought to control everyone else. And Banreh had sought to control her: he had brought her here and convinced her to accept Arigu’s treachery, only to try to persuade her to return with him once it all went sour. His friend Didryk had marked her arm to force her actions. But she was not important, not really; only the sons she might bear. Sons they would also try to control.