The Tower Broken(27)

‘Mogyrk comes to claim all of us, Farid. I have come nearer to the place where He died so that I may guide souls to His paradise.’

‘You mean to kill people.’

‘You do not understand. Here, eat.’ As Farid took a reluctant bite Adam said, ‘Everyone here will die no matter what I do. The Scar waits to the east and the Storm is coming. But it is foretold: Mogyrk will first shed light upon Nooria.’ He watched Farid eat. ‘You do not understand that, nor, does it appear, do my superiors.’

Farid pushed his plate aside. ‘Why do you hold me prisoner here?’

‘You can leave any time you wish. I want only for you to use what you have learned.’

‘By doing what? What will you make me do before I can leave?’

‘You don’t understand.’ Adam unfolded himself, standing to cast a shadow over the stains on the floor and the dirty pallet, and the shadows around his eyes deepened. ‘You will help me, but first you need to escape.’





13



Mesema


Mesema descended a dark staircase in the Ways, one hand on the wall to steady her, the other clutching her lantern. In the distance she saw two other lights, both above her, their owners set to different missions. If they did see her own descending flame, they did not care to investigate. By long tradition, one did not indulge curiosity in this dark place. This she had learned from the Old Wives. Those who travelled the bridges and stairs and passed through the hidden doors in the Ways respected the secrets of others.

The cold pressed against the bottoms of her feet, which were protected only by her dainty sandals. So far from the light and heat of the desert the air was chill, and a slow drip sounded against the stone. These wet and creeping fingers did not belong to the wide, shallow Blessing. The lifeblood that ran down the walls of the Ways like tears did not come from the river; this water came from a deeper and more secret source. She found it comforting.

Mesema reached the door to the dungeon and used the simple hook-twist lock, relieved to find the bar had not been dropped against her. Until recently there had been no prisoners to keep inside – there had been nothing to guard. She stepped through, listening. Someone cleared his throat, and she heard conversation – the guards talking amongst themselves. She covered her immodest top with a scarf, for it was not Felting custom to dress so, and eased around the corner. Six cells, three on each side, stood empty. She had heard they all were full when the Fryth prisoners had arrived and she tried to imagine how many people that had been, trapped here under the ground. It had been wrong, all of it had been wrong, but Sarmin could not say so; he could not admit any fault before the court. Sometimes I need to say the truth, he had said to her. But the greatest truths would remain forever hidden, eating away at the core of him.

Nothing had changed since the rebellion, not truly. Sarmin’s Code for the Moral Treatment of Royal Slaves lay unfinished upon Azeem’s table; the courtiers could not agree upon the merest detail. The fighting continued. The god’s wound continued to bleed into the desert while austeres cast patterns in the city. And now Banreh was here, the worst place he could be, for this was the place where they would kill him.

Five cells further down she found him. He stood against the stones at the back of the small space, his arms crossed over his chest. She gripped the iron bars. She had not thought of what to say; she had only wanted to see him, to find out his purpose in returning to her, but now that she stood before him found her words missing.

He pushed away from the wall. ‘Your Majesty.’

Something had changed. Banreh had been lame since Mesema was just a girl. It was part of who he was. Without his shattered leg, he never would have become her father’s voice-and-hands. He had used his lameness to persuade Mesema to marry Sarmin, to convince her that something that looked like a tragedy could be a defining event. Now he moved with ease.

‘Your leg,’ she said in her own language.

‘I still have my limp.’ When she continued to stare he said, ‘The pattern has many uses.’ In all this he employed the respectful tone, one used by two equals who did not know one another. ‘The duke is a better bonesetter than a killer.’

She matched his tone, though it brought a tear to her eye. ‘And yet the two of you killed those White Hats as they lay sleeping.’

He did not shrink from her gaze. ‘Yes. As Marke Kavic died in his sleep.’

‘Are you Mogyrk now then?’

‘No.’

‘So why?’ She needed to understand his reasons. He had brought her to Cerana and then betrayed it. One or the other, she could accept, but not both things together.