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The Tower Broken(12)

By:Mazarkis Williams


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.