The Tower Broken(119)

54



Sarmin


Their carriages rumbled along the streets, bumping over stones and against wall in their rush, barely slowing for the turns, then rushing onwards again. Sarmin rode in the first; his remaining sword-sons were in the second. Grada sat opposite him in the gloom, still clenching Adam’s arm. Since he had been released from the prison she had not let go of him, as if given only half a second the man would betray them. Adam looked comfortable nevertheless, leaning back in his seat with a resigned air. Sarmin squinted at him in the dim light. He saw in the austere a willingness to cause harm, but only to satisfy the zealotry that outweighed every other trait in him.

‘I hope that through my cooperation, you will see the greatness and mercy of Mogyrk before it is too late,’ Adam said to him.

Sarmin did not reply.

The carriage slowed and Grada poked her head out, looking for danger. In a moment she drew back inside and said, ‘It’s Farid, the pattern mage.’

‘Farid? What is he doing here?’ So he had found his way out of the well.

Grada opened the door and the young mage peered in, saw the emperor and began to kneel on the road. Sarmin waved a hand. ‘Speak.’

‘I am following the trail of pattern-work,’ said Farid.

‘And so are we. We will fight this man and end this battle,’ said Sarmin, projecting more confidence than he felt. Both Didryk and Adam had said the first austere knew secrets no other pattern mage had access to – but so had Helmar, and he had beaten Helmar. Farid climbed in beside him and the carriage continued towards the southern quarter, where middling merchants kept fine houses. Sarmin checked the street and hit the carriage roof. ‘Stop – stop,’ he ordered. The horses were making too much noise. They would walk the rest of the way. Grada climbed out first, checking the road for dangers, and the sword-sons had surrounded Sarmin’s carriage before he had even placed a hand on the door. Adam climbed out last, struggling without the use of his hands.

‘Untie him,’ Sarmin ordered, and Grada obeyed without comment.

They moved forwards, Grada and the sword-sons listening while he, the mage and the austere used a different sense, reaching out for pattern-work, for its movement and colour, until they came to the wall enclosing a square three-storey house.

‘In there,’ Sarmin hissed.

Farid came to a sudden stop. ‘No …’ He looked down at the street, and Sarmin saw rising to the surface glowing triangles, circles and lines in shades of blue and yellow. In seconds a glimmering circle the length of three men had encompassed them all.

‘How could he hide such a pattern from us?’ he asked as Farid knelt down, his eyes fixed on the bright shapes.

‘The first austere holds Mogyrk’s secrets,’ said Adam in a monotone: words he had likely memorised long ago and now repeated by rote. But Sarmin watched him with concern, wondering whether he might yet betray them.

Farid breathed out, and the pattern’s triangles drifted away like petals on the wind.

Sarmin had never seen it done before, the breaking of a pattern, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The first austere’s designs were not unstoppable.

‘Look,’ said Grada. Through the gate was a courtyard surrounded by high walls, with a statue of Mirra in the centre. It looked empty, but he blinked and made out a hint of movement. The first austere, dressed in a mix of dull colours, had camouflaged himself against the stones like a moth. Now he stepped before them and Sarmin’s vision resolved, showing a muscular, grey-haired man just past his prime. He had expected another austere like Harrol, white and chilling.

He held out a hand to keep his sword-sons from attacking. Not yet.

The first austere smiled, holding his arms out to either side. His grey hair was still difficult to see against the street-stones, and Sarmin wondered whether that was even his true colour. It struck him that although he could see into men’s souls, he could see nothing in the first austere.

The man’s pale eyes swept over their group. ‘Adam. Come to me.’

But Adam did not move; he was frozen in place, as if torn between kneeling to his superior and killing him.

Sarmin felt a shift in the street, a tug along his consciousness. ‘No!’ There was yet another pattern hidden beneath them – but the first austere gritted his teeth with effort, for Farid was working against the pattern even as he attempted to loose its destructive power. The newly risen symbols wavered and crumpled.

The first austere lifted a hand, and from it flowed a torrent of lines and shapes, red and menacing, sharp as razors. Sarmin dodged out the way, but the pattern grazed his shoulder, drawing blood.