The Tower Broken(43)

Dinar lingered beside the table. ‘The traitor relaxes in his cell while we suffer earthquakes and Mogyrk attacks … surely this is not your wish, Majesty?’

He was correct: the Empire Mother’s warning had been a good one. Sense told him the chief should die sooner rather than later, but he wanted to feel clean when that knife fell. He wanted to be able to look Mesema in the eye.

He showed none of this to Dinar. ‘My wishes are not your concern until I choose to make them known,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed.’

Dinar’s dark eyes narrowed, but he retreated, leaving Govnan alone at the table, Azeem beside him, scribbling on his parchments. Sarmin waited until the great doors had closed, then turned to the high vizier. ‘The priestess of Meksha who was here a few months ago … has she gone?’ The priestess had brought him Helmar’s writings, along with a warning.

Azeem looked flustered. ‘My apologies, Magnificence – I do not remember her. I can tell you there is no priestess of Meksha in the palace now.’

Govnan approached the head of the table, his eyes shining with secret knowledge.

‘How fares the Tower, High Mage?’

‘The crack has widened, Magnificence, but Moreth says the structure remains sound.’ A smile played about his mouth, a strange reaction to their circumstance. Perhaps his joy at Mura’s return continued to lift his spirits. ‘And the palace?’

‘Some damage; the city is worse.’

Govnan nodded. ‘Indeed. I saw the city from the Tower.’

Sarmin watched him and waited.

‘That was not my news, Your Majesty, which is of two parts. First, the fruit-seller who was taken from the marketplace has found his way to the Tower. He was kept with Austere Adam and has learned something of the pattern.’

‘He watched them draw patterns?’

‘Austere Adam taught him patterns, Magnificence. I could not tell you why. An attempt at conversion, perhaps.’ He knocked his staff against the table. ‘Farid can call water and dissolve wood – the two spells he needed to survive and escape. But as far as I can tell, his skill is rote memorisation. He can draw the patterns that he has seen, but he does not appear to be a talented mage, not in the way we measure it in the Tower.’

‘The Megra said that about the austeres.’ Their magic was a cruder kind, old and learned by rote, a blunt power that could be put in the hands of any fool with half a mind and ten years to study it. ‘Are there no books about the Yrkmen incursions of old? Studies of their magics?’ He could not forget what Ashanagur had said: Mogyrk blinded the Tower. What had the spirit meant?

‘All of that knowledge was lost to us in the great fires built by the Mogyrks.’ Govnan sighed, and Sarmin considered whether that could have been Ashanagur’s meaning. It seemed too simple, but sometimes answers were.

‘If this Farid has some pattern-skill,’ Govnan said, ‘perhaps there is something we can learn from him.’

‘Mmm.’ What Sarmin needed was Helmar – what he needed was his own pattern-skill returned to him. He recalled Duke Didryk’s offer and felt a tingling along his skin. The temptation to answer that call was growing strong, but perhaps that was the duke’s intent: to make him feel desperate enough to agree to anything. Perhaps he was behind the marketplace attacks.

‘There is something more,’ said Govnan, his smile growing wide. ‘Magnificence, there is good news—’

But before he could finish, the gong sounded and the herald approached. ‘Your Majesty,’ he called out in his sonorous voice, ‘Prince Daveed and his nursemaid, Rushes of Fryth.’





20



Mesema


Mesema found it difficult to sit still while Tarub applied paint to her face. Tarub did not want her to speak either, and pressed a finger over Mesema’s lips whenever she attempted to do so. The concubine Banafrit sat sewing on the bench under the window, the blue silk in her hands making a fine contrast against her skin, and Mesema’s fingers itched with their idleness. A distraction would be most welcome on this day, whether it be gossip about the Old Wives or news from Banafrit’s island home. Her enquiries regarding the Felting slaves had yielded nothing so far. Either they were well hidden, or they were not in the city.

Banafrit dropped a needle and poked about on the floor, holding her place in the silk with two fingers. Her shoulder knocked Pelar’s empty cradle, and Mesema looked away from the blankets inside it. Every time she was reminded of his absence she felt the loss anew. Banafrit continued to search until Mesema finally lifted an arm and pointed. ‘Take one of my needles, Frit.’