The Tower Broken(10)

Sarmin waved to the right side of the throne, and Mesema took her place there. His brother Beyon had never put his mother behind a screen, as much as he had hated her, and even if Sarmin had wished to keep Mesema from the court’s view to protect her, he did not know where such a screen might be kept. Nor did he know how to keep Mesema away from the centre of things. Let the men of the council sneer; Mesema would stay. He motioned for the new arrivals to move forwards.

Blue-hatted soldiers approached over the long silken path, each looking more dour than the last. They came to the end of the runner and prostrated themselves.

Sarmin heard Mesema draw a long breath beside him. ‘Rise and report,’ he said into the silence.

‘Your Majesty,’ said the man in front, a greying man with wide shoulders who held his plumed hat under an elbow. ‘Your Majesty, there has been an attack.’

The rebels often started fires or threw rocks at Blue Shields in the Maze. Never had his soldiers reported about them with such ceremony. Had Austere Adam and his missing slave rebels made a move, done something more serious? Sarmin knew the attacks must stop, but at the same time each one brought hope, for violence left clues that could be traced, perhaps all the way to his brother Daveed.

Sarmin did not shift in his seat, careful to show calm. ‘Give me the details.’

‘An hour ago, we were called to the eastern fruit market, Magnificence. But we were too late: everyone there was dead.’ The soldier swallowed. ‘I don’t know how many. We couldn’t make out the men from the women, or the dogs from the children. They were … they were destroyed.’

Icy fingers ran along Sarmin’s spine. ‘Destroyed how?’

The soldier’s skin paled and he glanced towards Mesema. ‘Bits of flesh everywhere, bones lying in the sun … just cooking there.’ He swallowed. ‘It was like they were turned the wrong way out. Your Majesty.’

… a wet fall of pulverised flesh, as if in one sharp moment the pattern shrank to a point and each line of it became a razor, slicing through skin and flesh to the bone … Sarmin pushed away the memory that was not his. It was of Fryth, of a young boy named Gallar who had lived and died in those high and unforgiving places. Not here.

One of the soldiers swayed and held a hand to his mouth. Sarmin hoped he would not vomit on the dais; his men would take payment for such an infraction before he could raise a hand to stop them.

Sarmin’s right hand wrapped around the carved roses of the throne, ridges and thorns pressing against his skin. He watched Govnan leave through the side door. The old man might move slowly, but he wasted no time.

‘Keep the marketplace undisturbed until the Tower has completed its investigation.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘Good work.’ Sarmin’s looked beyond the soldiers to where Grada leaned against the far wall. He had not seen her arrive, but he had felt her presence, like a cooling fountain at the height of the day. She shook her head at him, her way of telling him she had not found Daveed – not yet. Then she looked long at Mesema before making her exit. As she disappeared beyond the doors he felt a small tug, as if a string had been cut inside him. But that had happened long ago, and the familiar desolation touched him only briefly.

Sarmin turned his attention to the soldier. ‘You are dismissed.’

The room held silent until the doors were closed once more, then erupted into chaos.

‘The Mogyrks have done this!’

‘We cannot stand for it, Magnificence!’

‘We must raid their churches, slaughter all the rebels,’ said General Merkel, grabbing at the hilt of his sword as if a Yrkman stood before him. ‘Herran knows where they are – why does he not tell us?’

‘Indeed, Herran … where is he?’ Satrap Honnecka raised a finger to Azeem. ‘Call for the master spy at once!’ At this Dinar of Herzu smiled, the only man in the room to take joy from the situation.

Mesema brushed Sarmin’s shoulder, the briefest of touches, and he remembered himself, raising a hand. ‘I can hear all of you, even if you are not screaming.’

General Hazran of the Blue Shields, always more measured, rubbed at his beard. ‘It is certainly possible the Mogyrks are responsible. It could be the prelude to something greater. Vizier Azeem, could you read once again the report from Fryth?’

Azeem shuffled his parchments, playing for time. It had disquieted him. The first time he had read the report, the courtiers had called it absurd. They had called into question Herran’s wisdom in employing certain spies, who sent reports designed to deceive them about the state of their enemy. Such is the ability of many to forget all that has gone before.