Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (8 page)

Mesema gasped, and irritation stirred in Sarmin. If she
expressed further unsuitable emotion he would have to send her from the room, though that would not sit well with her.

Sarmin motioned for the sword-sons to stay their hands. ‘Addressing me without invitation is a good way to lose your voice all together, Chief.’ And yet Banreh’s words presented a mystery that he longed to unravel.

Govnan slipped in through a side door, showing the first joyful smile Sarmin had ever seen from him, his wrinkled lips spreading wide, showing missing teeth as he turned towards his young mage.

‘Mage Mura, explain this man’s words to me.’ Sarmin did not give her time to return the high mage’s greeting.

‘Your Majesty, when Marke Kavic … died …’

‘A terrible sickness swept the palace,’ said Azeem, addressing the room more than the mage. ‘His death, though regrettable, was one of many we suffered at that time.’ Azeem was practised in statements that walked the line between truth and lie.

Mura looked at Azeem with a frown; she must have heard of Kavic’s murder. Sarmin wondered how news of Kavic’s death could have reached Fryth as quickly and accurately as it had, as evinced by the rapid deterioration of their relations and the ultimate defeat of his men.

‘When Marke Kavic died, Your Majesty, and the Iron Duke after him,’ Mura said, ‘Marke Didryk became the duke. He captured General Arigu and me—’

‘And killed our soldiers in their sleep.’

‘Yes, Magnificence. He did.’ Her robes fell flat against her legs and for a moment her eyes flashed brown. ‘But his victory was brief. Shortly after the Cerani army left Fryth, the city of Mondrath was attacked by Yrkmir. Those few of us who survived made our way into the grasslands, and then into the desert.’

So the report had been true: Yrkmir had attacked Fryth. He sat a moment in silence, watching the mage. Her words did not condemn her Mogyrk captors – in fact her voice was inflected with an uncomfortable sympathy. She fidgeted under his gaze, and at last he spoke. ‘You have not explained why you were unable to call to us.’

‘Your Majesty, Duke Didryk is a pattern mage.’

Sarmin sat up on his throne.

‘He drew designs on me that kept Yomawa, my wind-spirit, silent. But he promised that when I passed through the walls of Nooria I would sense him again – and that was the truth, Magnificence.’

A breeze blew about the room, shaking the tapestries upon their hooks. Azeem put a hand over his parchments to stop them from blowing to the floor.

Govnan’s joyful smile had faded and now he watched his student with a frown.

Sarmin let her admiring words float upon the moving air until she remembered herself. When she appeared properly disquieted, he asked, ‘What is the duke’s business here?’ Perhaps this pattern mage was turning his skill to the marketplaces of Nooria …

‘Your Majesty, these men want peace.’

Sarmin leaned forwards, and she shrank from the heaviness of his gaze. ‘Chief Banreh is a traitor and a breaker of alliances. You are a mage of the Tower, and have made a binding oath to serve the empire. Tell me why these men have come into Cerana, or suffer their fate.’

The sword-sons shifted their weapons. Now three pointed at Chief Banreh’s throat and three at the wind mage’s.

Mura’s eyes grew wide. She made to speak, but only moved
her lips. He could see her arms shaking. He turned to Banreh instead. ‘Then tell me, Chief: why should I not kill you?’

The small room lay so quiet that Sarmin could hear Azeem’s rapid breaths beside him, and the rustle of Mesema’s dress as she clutched it. When he spoke, Banreh’s low voice echoed against the walls. ‘Because if I die, the duke will know it and he will kill your General Arigu. Because he can help you. Because Yrkmir is coming.’

So the general was still alive.

‘Arigu …’ Nessaket whispered to herself.

Sarmin leaned back in his throne. The chief’s threat could not be allowed to pass without reprisal. It was lucky there were so few in the room; in the presence of the full court he would have had no choice but to have the man killed immediately, and that would not have gone well for Mesema – or Arigu, for that matter. Yet he dreaded the thought of sending any man to the dungeons – he had emptied them for a reason, and had kept them empty, since the slave revolt. The thought of the oubliette where he had found Helmar’s stone filled him with a cold sickness. But he could not let Banreh go.

‘My brother would have had your head by now,’ he told the man.

‘Your brother had a chance at my head, Magnificence, and he let me live.’

Sarmin stood, ignoring the familiar ache in his legs. ‘Is this true? You met my brother and he let you live?’ Azeem looked up at him, a curious look on his face, as if he were seeing him for the first time. Mirrored in the grand vizier’s eyes he saw not the emperor, but a lonely boy who had lost his brothers.

‘It is true, my husband,’ said Mesema, touching his elbow. ‘Your brother let Banreh go, heaven and stars keep him now.’

Anger stirred in Sarmin, for he remembered what she had told him of those times. ‘And then he came here, to work against Beyon further – is that not true?’ He turned to the chief. ‘You came here to plot against the emperor, did you not?’

Banreh looked at the swords poised to cut him. ‘As did Arigu.’

And there it was: a reminder of Arigu’s double betrayal. Arigu had brought Mesema to the palace at the Empire Mother’s request; he had been hoping to undermine Beyon, and then he had gone to war against Sarmin’s wishes, ignoring his emperor’s many messengers. To be reminded now, even before this small audience, was a humiliation to the throne – but Sarmin, in spite of all of this, did not want Arigu returned to a punishment; he wanted Arigu returned to his command.

Sarmin descended to the tiled floor and stood before Chief Banreh. He needed no tricks of steps and thrones to tower over the man. If the chief died here, in the dungeons or somewhere out in the desert, he was ready. Sarmin could see it in his eyes. What had Banreh lived through that three swords against his neck counted for so little? Curiosity won out over anger.

‘So,’ Sarmin said, ‘how does this duke propose to help me?’

‘He will teach your mages how to use the pattern to fight Yrkmir.’ From all corners of the room rose a startled murmur, and Sarmin struggled to disguise the visceral desire that rose in him.

‘Govnan,’ he said, without moving his gaze from those steady green eyes, ‘I put Mura into your care. I trust she will remember herself once she is in the Tower.’

‘Majesty.’ The mages removed themselves and closed the doors behind them.

He had one last question for the chief. ‘Tell me, where is this duke who offers Cerana so much?’

‘I do not know.’

‘A lie.’ Sarmin had no choice. ‘You, Chief, will go to the dungeon. You will tell us where your duke is hiding, and you will tell us anything else we want to know.’ He thought of the duke somewhere in the sands, the awesome power of the pattern at his fingertips, and wondered whether his offer could possibly have been honest. Perhaps it was, and the duke erred only in his choice of messenger.

Either way, it would not bring back Sarmin’s pattern-sight. Gritting his teeth, he motioned to his sword-sons.

As the men lifted Banreh to his feet, the chief’s gaze moved past Sarmin to where Mesema stood beside the throne and for the first time, his calm left him. Sarmin saw the emotion full on his face before the sword-sons turned and walked him from the room.

Sarmin stood on the shining tiles, watching the blue that reflected from his robes. He knew Mesema had been in love with Banreh; she had told him so. But that Banreh had loved Mesema – that had never occurred to him before. It should not matter, but it did, and now he was unsteadied by an unfamiliar sensation, as irrational as it was overwhelming. His hands curled into fists and he found he could not turn to look at his wife.

‘Arigu is alive,’ said Nessaket, behind him. ‘It is a miracle.’

‘The man cannot be trusted,’ said Mesema. ‘Have you considered this could be one of Arigu’s games?’

‘He would not play games,’ said Azeem, ‘not now. Not after so many of his men have died.’

‘Are you certain? He was very happy to play with lives when I knew him.’

‘And what would he gain from it?’ asked Nessaket.

‘Power. Land. A pattern mage in his pocket.’ He could hear Mesema’s dislike of Arigu in her voice. He knew well how deep it went.

‘You should not speak so,’ said Nessaket. ‘You did not know the general, not truly.’

They fell silent, but for the shuffling of Azeem’s parchments.

‘We are no closer to finding Daveed,’ said Nessaket with a long sigh.

Daveed
. Sarmin’s heart, already heavy, dropped to the floor. The Mogyrks had taken his only living brother, and this man – this
duke
, this enemy of the White Hat Army – now offered his aid. It could only be a trick, a distraction from his search for Daveed. Sense and history dictated he could not allow a pattern mage so close to Nooria. He must push aside his own desire for pattern-sight and see the situation with clear eyes. The answer was obvious.

‘Chief Banreh will be put to the question,’ Sarmin said. ‘We will find this duke where he hides in the desert, kill him, and bring our General Arigu back to Nooria.’

‘They will kill your pretty scribe. They will kill him, and come after you like the demons of Herzu’s hell.’

Didryk ignored General Arigu and poured himself another cup of water. Banreh had told him to keep drinking even when he did not feel thirsty, and keeping his hands busy prevented him from killing the man where he stood.

‘What do you think Cerana does with traitors and oath-breakers?’ Arigu took a step forwards, as close to Didryk as his ropes would allow. ‘They give them over to Priest Dinar. Your friend will be skinned alive.’

‘Is that what will happen to you? Aren’t you also a traitor?’

Arigu smiled. The conversation was not new, but he took pleasure in it. ‘They will forgive me when I bring them your head.’

The desert heat drove Didryk’s anger. ‘I have done nothing to Cerana except defend my country, while you have betrayed and deceived the Petal Throne.’

‘Is that what your pretty toy told you? Did he whisper it upon the pillows, in the deep of night?’

It was an old accusation that missed the mark but it had an edge, nevertheless. Didryk forced a smile. ‘I prefer Settu to these discussions of ours.’

‘Your mind is not quick enough to offer me any challenge in the game.’

Didryk replaced his empty cup and glanced at the general. Arigu had always seemed to him a bear, wide, strong and hairy, but his eyes were cunning. For hundreds of miles and under the threat of Yrkmir Didryk had kept him in chains, this great general of Cerana who had burned his city and slaughtered its austeres with such merciless focus. Now he needed to keep him alive, for just a while longer.

Banreh would have spoken with reason and patience. Didryk reminded himself the general never did or said anything without a reason either, and the constant needling was meant to shake him, to intimidate him and make him doubt – for if all went as planned, negotiations would soon be upon them and Arigu would do what he could to improve Cerana’s position.

But events gave Didryk the advantage: Mogyrk’s Scar in the eastern desert was growing. He stood closer now to the source of His power than ever before. He could feel His vitality in the sand and sky and in the very air that he breathed – but it was a temporary gift. The Scar consumed all it found, just like His wounds, and Yrkmir was coming to meet it.

Didryk had passed one of Mogyrk’s wounds in the desert, an area where dunes large as cities had been swallowed whole, leaving neither sound nor colour, and all was covered with a blankness that nevertheless felt
hungry
– a place from which he had instinctively looked away, and ordered his men to do the same. This was the coming of Mogyrk foretold, the Great Storm, when His wounds, laid in the earth itself, spread and rotted all they touched until every man joined Him in death.

It filled Didryk with a blank horror. Patterns fed the Storm.
Yrkmir wielded patterns as other men wielded swords, and Yrkmir was coming.

But caught between Mogyrk and His followers, Cerana would look for an ally who could counter their magic. The emperor would never trust an austere like Adam; it was to Didryk he would turn – to Didryk he
must
turn.

He had been intended for the church, and raised among the novices. He had learned with them, eaten with them, drawn his first patterns with them, under Adam’s less than tender care. Those dozen boys who slept in the cloister attic had been like brothers, but only Didryk remained. Arigu had tortured and burned the rest. When he closed his eyes Didryk still saw their charred corpses hanging from the city wall; he still choked on the stench of burning flesh.

Didryk set the pitcher and cup within the general’s reach. ‘Drink.’ With that he pushed open the flap and stepped out into the desert, into the sun that fell so gracelessly upon every inch of sand, and the biting heat that came with it. It was no wonder the desert empire was known as unforgiving and ruthless, for its sky held no kindness. He gestured to his men who were gathered under tarps and drinking from waterskins, and began to climb the nearest dune. It was harder than he had expected, and the breath came harsh in his throat. Halfway up his calves and thighs began to strain, and the sun burnt the back of his neck as he zigzagged to the top. At last he looked out towards Cerana. Banreh was not yet returning – he would have sensed that – but soldiers could be seeking them instead. Didryk was prepared to die. One did not enter into such a plan as his without being so, but he would like to see it coming.

He looked east over the sands until a bright pain pierced his eyes, but saw no colours cut out from the unending brown, no
plume of dust that would indicate movement from Nooria. A reluctant glance towards the north showed no sign of Yrkmir either. Would Yrkmir pass by the same wound, or would they be caught by it and torn apart, unravelled?