Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (5 page)

Sarmin had separated him from his flame-spirit Ashanagur and it sometimes felt as if he had lost half his intellect. Ashanagur might have identified the cause of death, though in Govnan’s experience, the efreet did not always share information. Now he had Moreth. That would have to do. Govnan knelt, wincing at the pain in his knees and hips as he settled against the ground.

He looked down at a stretch of pink flesh, smooth as a mirror. ‘Your robes, High Mage!’ cried Moreth. Indeed, blood had already soaked into the white cotton. ‘I have many,’ he said, and it was true, though there were few to wash them. The Tower had never kept slaves. When he was a young man the Tower had been teeming with mages and their apprentices, all sharing the work, but even that had been a decline from the days of Satreth the Reclaimer. In recent years they had been fewer yet. Now Mura had been lost to the Fryth war, to his unending sorrow, and only Moreth, Hashi the wind mage and the Megra remained. Of those not of the Tower, only Sarmin
knew its emptiness, the cobwebs in every corner. Its potency had long kept Cerana safe from all enemies – that was, when High Mage Kobar had held the seat. There had not been a day Govnan had served as high mage when there was not some magical threat haunting the empire. And now this.

The destroyed flesh yielded little more information close up than it had at a distance. He was sure now the bones had not been cut with any weapon; the breaks were not smooth and he saw no scoring that would indicate a blade. He smelled nothing like poison or the sulphur used in casting certain illegal spells. Before replacing his camphor-soaked cloth he said a quick prayer to Mirra; though he had never been a believer, he hoped this poor soul had been lifted. He gripped his staff and stood. ‘I need samples from the flesh of each of these and’ – he looked around at the positions of the dead – ‘I want a drawing, with distances. Get a draftsman from the Builders’ Tower to do it.’

‘You think there might be a pattern here, High Mage?’

Govnan disliked revealing the path of his thoughts, so he ignored the question. ‘Find what the spirit Rorswan has to tell you.’

Moreth knelt, pressed a hand to the ground and closed his eyes, becoming so still one might have thought him a statue.

The guardsman shifted nervously, looking at the stones beneath his feet. Most without talent did not realise the danger, but this one was clever.

The rock-sworn spoke in a grinding voice that crushed syllables as a millstone crushes wheat. ‘Magic here. Not the Tower. Pictures of light. A circle.’ He was silent again, and after a long while he stood, wiping sand from his lips. He met Govnan’s gaze, eyes dark with what he had seen, but he would not share it in front of the alert guardsman.

The guardsman took a step to his left, where the market narrowed into yet another airless street. Doubtless he was eager to leave this place. ‘Will you interview the witnesses now?’

Govnan took one last look around. Nothing but death waited here, and all of it beyond the reach of man or elemental. ‘Lead us there,’ he said. He followed the man, his robe sticky with blood and rubbing against his knees. ‘Excellent work, soldier,’ he said, though he had no idea if that were true. He wanted only to put something kind into his day. The soldier stood a little straighter as he walked.

The coffee house nestled in a small courtyard off the street. Silken tent-cloth protected customers from the hot sun during the day, but it made the evening dark. Frightened and grieving residents clustered around candles at the wooden tables, guarded by impassive Blue Hats. The aroma of coffee hung over everyone, a scent Govnan usually disliked, but today he welcomed anything that could overpower the stench of the marketplace.

He eased himself into a seat, facing a man with a long beard and a copper ring on his finger. His clothes were of poor quality, but clean. ‘Blessings of the day. I am High Mage Govnan. What is your name, sir?’

‘High Mage?’ the man said, his voice sounding hollow. He did not raise his eyes to look. ‘My lord …’

‘I am no lord, just an old man wanting to know what happened in the marketplace.’ As Govnan spoke, Moreth took his station behind his chair, casting a shadow over the table.

‘We all saw it,’ the man said, turning his ring in a circle. ‘It was right after Farid left his stall.’

Govnan waited, but the man only twisted his ring. A woman’s sob punctuated the silence.

‘They just fell,’ said the light-eyed girl at the next table, her gaze falling somewhere beyond Govnan. ‘I was buying a pomegranate from Thera, and it exploded in my hand. It felt hot. I heard a dripping … and then I saw her. She just …
wasn’t
.’

‘Did she fall and then die, or …’ Govnan cleared his throat, ‘did she die and then fall?’

‘They fell apart first,’ said the man with the ring. Several nodded their assent.

‘And this Farid, who you say left the marketplace – do you think he had something to do with it?’

‘Not Farid, no!’ An old man with a goat’s beard stood and tried to pace, but was blocked by chairs. ‘He saw something. That’s why they took him.’

‘
They
took him? Who is “they”?’

‘This is what happened,’ said the old man, adopting a patient tone, though he looked anything but. ‘I saw Farid leave his stall and crouch down on the street. I thought he’d dropped a coin. Then Thera and the others just … they just died. When I looked up, I saw two men dragging Farid away.’

‘Not guardsmen?’

‘No, but one of them was Cerani. The other was dark-haired and pale. Strong.’

Govnan frowned. Pale sounded like the north. ‘Did they say anything?’

The old man waggled his head. ‘Nah.’

‘And where were you standing, that you could see both the marketplace and the street?’

The old man gave him a puzzled look. ‘I was in the marketplace.’

The others nodded. ‘We all were,’ said the woman.

‘So not everyone in the marketplace died.’ Govnan twisted
his staff against the stone floor. Had the dead been targeted? But how?

‘Only the ones …’ The old man trailed off. Govnan looked at him, but nothing more was forthcoming.

‘We were all part of the Many,’ said the woman, lifting up her sleeve to show faint scars, faded now with time: moon, circle, triangle. ‘Every one of us who lived. Not them, though. Those that died had been spared – if that’s what you can call it now.’

A hush fell over the group as Govnan studied her skin. Though the pattern had once been blue, it was a green glow that illuminated her scars now, flickering, growing brighter—

He dropped her arm and looked up. Light shone through the silken roof.

‘Torches,’ said Moreth, putting a protective arm out to Govnan. The high mage stepped away from the rock-sworn. Fire did not frighten him.

A voice called down to them, muffled by the fabric, ‘Taste what your gods Meksha and Herzu have to offer!’ Govnan caught the stink of kerosene before the night exploded with orange light and heat.

The witnesses screamed and ran in confusion, smoke billowing in their wake, but Govnan stood firm. The runes he needed were simple enough to form, rough commands that had been Ashanagur’s. His fingers moved to the task, splitting the air with radiance, each stroke bringing more intensity until the runes shone lightning-white, stretching their thready fingers into the air. The fire shrank away from them, towards the edges of the courtyard.

Again he commanded with the language of the efreet. Trails of light reached out to embrace the flames and the fire withdrew,
leaving an empty space where the silk covering had been. Govnan looked up to the rooftops.

Moreth was already kneeling, hand to the ground. ‘Three men running,’ he said, ‘jumping down … on the street now.’ He closed his eyes, concentrating. His fingers sank into the stone floor as if it were sand. Behind them, a woman exclaimed in horror. ‘Tripped them,’ he said, his voice growing deeper, becoming the stone-spirit’s. ‘I grow around them now.’

Govnan bent over the rock-sworn, holding tight to his staff, speaking low enough that the witnesses who remained could not hear. ‘Have you killed them?’

Moreth – Rorswan – shuddered with pleasure.

So they were dead.

‘Moreth!’

Moreth withdrew his hand from the stone and shook himself as if waking. ‘One got away,’ he said. ‘His feet stopped touching the stone just as Rorswan—’ He turned to the Blue Shields. ‘They are three streets down, by the statue of Keleb. One of them climbed onto a cart or a ladder … Hurry!’

The men ran without questions.

‘It is useless,’ Govnan muttered. ‘Two are dead, the other gone. Come. Let us see what Rorswan has wrought.’

By the time they reached the statue of Keleb, Govnan’s feet ached so that each step was an agony. He leaned on his staff, out of breath. Moreth glanced at him every few minutes, concern on his face. Govnan held back his impatience. The boy had only the barest control over his bound spirit, and yet he thought the high mage weak. He missed his children, Amalya and Mura, whom he had raised from childhood. Emperor Tahal had once told him that daughters were his greatest joy, and sending them away to be married his greatest sorrow. Though
Govnan had no daughters of his own, the girls he had taken as children and trained in the Tower had indeed given him years of happiness. Now they were gone, and the grief rattled in his old bones.

The god of wisdom rose before them, carved from cold marble that looked every inch living flesh. His mouth was fierce, and one hand raised to the sky: Keleb’s passion was not for war or revenge; those He left for lesser gods. Keleb’s carved eyes were turned towards the palace, and He commanded those within it to adjudicate with balance and foresight. In His hands He held the books of law that even the emperor could not supersede. And at His feet, bloodstained stones told a story of death.

Govnan looked around the tiny square. ‘And so we do not even have the bodies.’

Moreth sat on the edge of Keleb’s pedestal and put his head in his hands. ‘It would appear that Rorswan has claimed them.’

‘It would appear? You do not remember?’

‘I do remember. It was just …’

Govnan knew: the ecstasy the spirits felt when they took a life was contagious. It could overwhelm a mage if he was not careful. ‘You must be in control at all times.’

‘I am.’ Anger covered for shame on the mage’s face. ‘If I were not, I would be stone.’

Govnan considered Moreth: the future of the Tower. At Moreth’s age Govnan had stood side by side with Kobar, Ansalom and others, wielding fire and earth against wildings from the west. He had stood at the heights of the Tower and summoned spirits of flame to do his bidding, and aided Kobar to build wonders of gem and stone. In those days the Tower had been filled with sworn mages, and bards had sung of their feats far beyond the mountains and the sea. But it was not Moreth’s
fault their power was waning; that had begun long ago – and Moreth had come to them after the pattern-sickness, already a man grown. His training had been both rushed and darkened by Govnan’s grief. While most mages trained from childhood, Moreth had accomplished much in one year. It was the best that anybody could have done.

He put a comforting hand on the rock-sworn’s shoulder. ‘Come. It is time for me to report to the emperor.’

‘You are certain?’ said Sarmin, sitting down behind his desk in his new, soft room decorated with tassels and bright pillows. His old room held nothing for him now, not since the Megra had drawn the last of its patterns away, and not since he had lost the ability to see them. Govnan and Notheen stood side by side before his desk, one small and hunched, the other tall and straight. The desert headman stood so still one might think him a stone, while the high mage seemed to shimmer, like the flame he had once held within him.

Govnan bowed his head. ‘Yes, Magnificence. Both strikes were at Mogyrk hands.’

‘What of this fruit-seller? Did he assist them?’

‘By all accounts he was no more than a fruit-seller, and a devout follower of our gods.’

Odd. Sarmin wondered whether these attacks came from Austere Adam, still hiding somewhere in the city, or if they heralded the arrival of Yrkmir as Hazran had suggested. He turned to Notheen. ‘What news of the desert? Does our enemy approach?’

Notheen took some time to speak, his eyes distant as stars. ‘No enemy has been seen, Magnificence, but nothing passes through the sand without a ripple. My people speak of something great that moves through the empty spaces.’

All of the desert was an empty space to Sarmin. He riffled through old parchments, Helmar’s writings. None of it made sense to him now. Kavic had been able to read the symbols, and he might have taught him, but Kavic had died. Helmar was gone, as were his Many. Of those who knew the pattern, only the Megra remained. ‘I must speak with the Megra.’

‘She is ill, Magnificence. I would hurry.’ Sorrow pulled Govnan’s face.

Sarmin pushed the thought aside; he had no time to linger on the pain of losing the Megra. ‘And what of the sickness that creeps from Migido?’

‘It does appear that the use of the pattern accelerates its growth.’ Govnan cleared his throat. ‘My wind-sworn Hashi reports the pattern attack in the marketplace has widened the void by one hundred feet. It now stands within a mile of the Blessing.’

Sarmin met his gaze. After a moment Govnan looked away. ‘But it is still several miles from the north wall. We are exploring new methods to slow it.’

Govnan’s experiments had thus far gone nowhere. The wound coming from Migido threatened them now, but it was a pinprick in the world compared to the great scar left by the death of the Mogyrk god; he imagined that void as a night sky without any stars, enormous and heavy, too much to hold in one man’s mind. If Sarmin could not heal that wound, there would be nothing left of his great city.

‘Thank you, Govnan, Notheen. You are dismissed.’ The high mage looked about to speak, but he bowed his head and retreated. Notheen glided after him, his midnight robes whispering against the rug.

Sarmin stared at his hands. With these hands he had invaded
the Pattern Master’s work, opened Helmar’s butterfly-stone and healed a god’s wound. But he had been drained by it. He could do no more as a mage, only as an emperor. He stood and left his room.