Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (7 page)

Three small fishing boats in flaking paint made their slow way downriver, pushed through the shallow passage by twelve royal guards disguised as polemen. She tried holding the astrologers’ device even closer, but it did not further improve her view. Somewhere under stained tarpaulins her son Pelar was hidden, with his nursemaids and the wind mage Hashi. They would pass through the Low Gate to the south and continue towards the coast.

A flatboat passed by, going north towards the grain markets,
its men too busy with the contrary flow to pay the royal hideaways any mind. But if Pelar should cry out, ask for his mother … She took a step towards the edge and imagined leaping from the roof garden, running down those narrow streets and swimming to the boats, imagined the look on his face when she gathered him in her arms. It was not too late to bring him back.

But she stayed where she was. After her trip into the city she knew her instincts were not to be trusted.

She and Sarmin had said their goodbyes in the private audience chamber, then handed Pelar to his nursemaid. He had been jolly, not knowing what was to come. At some point, on the road or in the boats, he must have realised she was not there, and it crushed her to think of it. But it would not have been wise to follow the prince and his entourage to the Blessing; they were travelling in secret, in boats secured from merchants fleeing Migido. It would not do for refugees of the Great Storm to learn their emperor was sending his own son south while they remained here with the god’s wound inching forwards, ever closer to Nooria. Even so, she longed for one last good-bye.

The sun came around the mages’ Tower and lit the river in shades of green. She turned the glass away from the boats; she had lost the strength to watch them go. Nor could she bear to see the Holies, where Grada had killed three men to defend her, and she jerked the glass away when its view landed there. Instead she traced the water’s path north beyond the Worship Gate, so called because it faced Meksha’s mountain. It had been barred, and travel north of the city had been forbidden. The Great Storm presented too great a danger.

She lifted the glass, hoping to catch sight of it.

‘So he is gone.’ The voice came from behind her. Mesema lowered the astrologers’ device and turned to see Nessaket
standing over the roses, her shoulders stooped like an old woman’s. Behind her stood the ever-present guards. No one came to the garden without them, not since Jenni – working for the treacherous Lord Jomla – had attacked them on the night of the fire, the same night rebels took Nessaket’s son Daveed. Nessaket pointed towards the Blessing. ‘You should have gone with him, Empress.’ Since her injury she had taken to a plain way of speaking, like a Rider, though she would not have appreciated the comparison. The head blow she had suffered left her dizzy and prone to headaches, but her eyes remained clear.

‘I will not leave you before Daveed is found,’ Mesema said.

‘You should have gone,’ Nessaket repeated. ‘This city will turn to dust at last, and we with it.’

‘Sarmin halted the emptiness once before,’ Mesema said, too sharply, but then, Nessaket should have known better than to suggest failure. ‘He will halt it again, and we will find Daveed.’

‘It is better we do not.’

Mesema took the Empire Mother’s hand and guided her to the bench. ‘Come, Mother,’ she said, ‘your headaches tire you and you say things you do not mean. Sarmin will not leave his brother in Mogyrk hands.’

Nessaket sat and did not speak again for a time. Mesema stretched out her legs, still aching from all those stairs.

‘Perhaps he has a nursemaid who coos over him,’ said Nessaket. ‘Perhaps at this moment he is laughing, and reaching for a shiny toy. Perhaps he could grow to be a merchant or a priest and nobody will know who he truly is. But here … here he is one extra boy. It is easy to love a tiny child, but as he grows, Sarmin will watch him and wonder and begin to fear.’ She turned away, her eyes dark with memory. ‘No, he is safer elsewhere. And so are you.’

‘I listen, and I hear, my mother. But you do not know the future any better than I.’

‘Do you not know the future?’ Nessaket glanced at her sidelong.

Mesema squeezed her hand. ‘The Hidden God is not always clear.’ She closed her eyes, remembering the events at Lord Nessen’s house. ‘I must believe Daveed’s safest place is with his mother.’ She looked out over the city: Sarmin’s city. Those streets under the bright sun were filled with his people and he was responsible for all of them – merchant, beggar and prince – yet he had managed to save only his son so far.

It was not unusual at this time of day for a carriage to creak its way up the palace road, but it was unusual to see one with a painted roof. Mesema held the glass to her eye and studied the unique emblem, two pine branches enclosing a hammer. She had seen it once before, when the Fryth delegation had arrived bearing Marke Kavic. She tried to read the faces of the men who flanked this carriage, but the spyglass wavered in her hand.

Nessaket stood, her black hair tinted orange in the sunset. ‘Daveed.’ Her voice carried urgency and also hope, which Mesema found unexpected, considering all she had just said.

‘You think …?’ Mesema rose to her feet.

Nessaket did not reply but hurried towards the stairs, forcing her guards to dance out of her way. Mesema turned back towards the distant ships.
My son
. He was as safe as she could make him; she could do no more. She hurried after Nessaket, pinching the flesh of her palm to keep the tears away, letting one pain serve as a distraction from the other.

She followed Nessaket through the halls of the old women’s wing, her breath harsh in her throat. The burnt sections had been taken down and removed, making the space feel hollow.
Once this wing had assaulted her eyes with its colourful walls and floors, its never-ending parade of luxury. Now the guards’ boots echoed in the empty space.

They passed through the great doors and entered the palace proper, making their way down the curved steps and across the marble. Nessaket held her head high, but her shoulders were tense with fear. When Mesema had first met the Empire Mother, that day in Herzu’s temple, she had never expected she would one day be sitting beside Nessaket and holding her hand, or sharing her deepest troubles. First they had become wary allies, and then something more.

Nessaket said not a word during the journey, and the men were silent as ghosts behind them, so that when two of Sarmin’s personal guard threw open the newly carved God Doors, the bustle and movement inside the throne room took Mesema by surprise. The chattering of the courtiers carried to all corners, and beneath the lantern-lit dome, chin propped on his hand, sat Sarmin on his throne, a dozen men clustered below him on the dais. All were engaged with a petitioner, who held a number of scrolls. As Azeem took the first and began to unroll it, Sarmin caught her eye and offered a fleeting smile. Though he was becoming a cunning and fearsome emperor in the eyes of the court, for her he tried to be the prince she had first known.

Mesema began her way down the silk runner, matching steps with the Empire Mother. To her right, ragged petitioners stood in a long line, and on her left, nobles and wealthy merchants rested on cushions. She put a hand on Nessaket’s elbow when she swayed: another dizzy spell. Sarmin waved them forwards and together they fell into obeisance, Mesema’s head not a foot from the slippers of the men who sat on the lowest step. Sarmin
concluded his business with a few words and the exchange of more scroll-tubes.

Then his voice grew softer. ‘Rise, my wife; rise, Empire Mother.’ As they stood he looked at Nessaket with a frown. ‘My mother is tired. She requires a cushion.’

Azeem looked around, his mouth pinched beneath his long nose. Nessaket never sat, so the question of where to place her had never before been raised. The men on the bottom step muttered, not wishing to be displaced. With her head Mesema motioned to a stray cushion near the edge, apart from the others. Surely that would not be improper?

Azeem made a show of preparing it, then Mesema helped Nessaket to sit. For all of her weakness, Nessaket sank to the cushion as gracefully as ever and sat with her back straight, her eyes watchful.

With that settled, Sarmin turned his attention to his wife. ‘How is my son Pelar?’ He had not been able to watch the boats as she had, for he had had to go directly from the private chamber to the throne room.

‘He is very well, Magnificence.’ A flicker of sadness in his eyes, then he motioned for her to take her place behind him. She could not tell him about the carriage she had seen. In court she must always behave as if Sarmin knew everything already, but she pressed the back of his hand in passing, a warning.

Azeem spent some time organising the scrolls upon his table and marking his books. Petitioners shifted on their feet. Guards suppressed yawns. The noise among the courtiers had reduced to a murmur when Nessaket first sat among them, but as they waited, the volume increased until voices once again filled the room, calming only when the harpist began a tune upon his strings. Mesema watched the door.

At last the gong sounded, startling everyone except for herself, Nessaket and the emperor – Sarmin managed never to look startled by anything.

The music stopped with a sudden twang as the great doors parted for the immense herald. He walked along the runner without hurry, his steps evenly paced, his long years of practise ensuring he was always calm and reserved, no matter the situation.

‘Captain Yulo of the White Hats, Magnificence, Mura of the Tower, and a prisoner.’ He bowed his way from the room, walking backwards.

Mura of the Tower! They had assumed her dead. Govnan had grieved for her as for a daughter – and yet, here she was, her white robes tied with a gleaming blue sash, approaching the Petal Throne. She was younger than Mesema had expected, and short, her head coming only to the captain’s shoulder. Her eyes contained the brightness of the sky, and she did not focus on anything in the room but rather, seemed to look through it all into a world beyond.

Mesema was so intent on the mage that she noticed the prisoner only when the captain pushed him to the floor. His hands were tied behind his back and when he landed on one knee, the other leg pushed out awkwardly to his side. A burlap sack hid his face and draped over his sun-cracked leather jacket.

The mage and soldier came forth to make their obeisances. A grin danced over the captain’s lips. He must have known this was a great opportunity.

‘Rise, and speak,’ said Sarmin. Only his fingers, pressed into the petals on his armrests, betrayed his fierce interest.

‘Your Majesty,’ said the captain, ‘I have recovered the mage Mura and captured the man who held her.’

‘Where did this blessed event occur?’ asked Azeem, dislike heavy in his voice. Azeem valued humility over many other virtues.

‘He was attempting to sneak into the city, Grand Vizier.’ With a wide smile Yulo returned to his captive. ‘It is the traitor, Majesty,’ he said, untying the sack. ‘The horse chief who betrayed us.’ As he lifted the man’s head, Mesema saw a pointed chin, a scraggly beard, two eyes green as grass, and then a shock of golden curls. She took a step forwards and stopped herself. She must control her face and her beating heart, for it was Banreh on his knees before her.

Sarmin settled onto the throne in the private audience chamber. Removing the Windreader chief from the commotion of the throne room had been the only choice, but the council was seething at being refused immediate vengeance. ‘Let us kill him now, Magnificence,’ General Lurish had said, his sword out, and Dinar had crept behind the chief, a terrible grin on his face, as if he meant to claim his prize at once. But as much as Sarmin had loved his brother, this was not Beyon’s court; he would not allow open violence. This had furthered the rift between himself and High Priest Dinar, but that was a matter for another day.

He signalled his sword-sons and they opened the doors. In spilled the smug Captain Yulo dragging the Felt captive, the wind-sworn mage, Azeem, the Empire Mother and finally, Mesema. Of course his wife would not stay away, but for the first time he was tempted to dismiss her.

Sarmin turned his attention to Yulo. ‘You will be rewarded,’ he said. ‘And you are dismissed.’ He could stand no more of this peacock captain.

Yulo’s mouth opened as if about to protest – he had expected to be allowed to tell his story, to receive public accolades. But he thought better of speaking and bowed low before retreating from the room.

Sarmin took a deep breath and watched the Felting man, the man who had taught Mesema to speak Cerani, who had won her heart, the crippled scribe who had humiliated the White Hat Army of Cerana. Chief Banreh met his gaze, horse-chief to emperor. The books called the Felt barbarians, there to serve the empire or be wiped out by it, and of little importance otherwise. But Mesema was important, and this man refused to be trivial either. Sarmin could not deny his curiosity.

Azeem leaned close. ‘I have called for Govnan, Magnificence.’

Sarmin did not reply. His eyes locked with the prisoner’s. At last he shifted his attention to Mura. ‘When last we heard of you, you were in Fryth. Could you not speak on the wind and tell us of your situation?’

Mura turned her face his way, showing blue eyes over high cheekbones. Her robes lifted around her as if blown. ‘I could not, Majesty. I was prevented.’

‘This man prevented a mage of the Tower from speaking on the wind?’ Sarmin gestured at the chief, not granting him the use of his name.

‘Not this man, Your Majesty.’

‘There is another?’ So Captain Yulo had not done such an admirable job after all.

‘I was held by this man and the Duke of Fryth himself, Your Majesty. We travelled with two dozen Felting warriors and Fryth guardsmen, hiding in the desert, always moving. And waiting.’

‘Waiting? For what?’
Yrkmir. They wait to join in the attack
. He was sure of it, but Chief Banreh spoke unbidden, correcting his thought.

‘They await your word, Magnificence.’ He said no more, for six hachirahs now pointed at his throat.