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.
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.