‘What of my brother? Has Grada come with a report?’
Azeem’s face told Sarmin the answer. He wanted to knock the man to the floor.
‘There is some good news,’ said the grand vizier. ‘Herran reports Ziggur’s company is heading east towards Nooria. With luck, General Arigu will be among them.’
‘There was no ambush.’ Sarmin stood. That was indeed good news. ‘The empress was correct.’
‘Yes, Magnificence,’ said Azeem without inflection.
‘But Arigu is only half of what we need to keep our walls safe. We also require a pattern mage.’
‘There is Farid,’ Govnan said, almost whispering. He drew two scroll-tubes from his robe. ‘I have brought the patterns he drew for me. He has an excellent memory.’
Memory might be the only requirement for an austere. There were poets and there were scribes: the men who wrote soaring verse and metaphor, and the men who copied them from book to book. Farid might be no more than a man with a quill, but Sarmin would look at his work nevertheless. He gestured to the high mage. ‘Show me.’
Govnan placed the first scroll upon the table and unrolled it to reveal a simple design more suited to mosaics than pattern-work. ‘This calls water,’ he said, and Azeem too leaned over it, his face caught between curiosity and disgust; Helmar had left him with a lingering distaste for patterns.
The second pattern Govnan produced showed more complexity, but it was not at the level of Helmar’s work. ‘In both of these patterns, the spell takes effect in the centre. That fits with the destruction in the marketplace – only those within the circle were affected.’
Sarmin picked up the second scroll. Each of these patterns existed on the parchment in only two dimensions. That had not been the case with Helmar. Helmar had made his pattern of the world, anchored among the dead and carried by the living, its threads whispering with the voices of the Many. Its breath had been the thoughts of the multitude, its sight their memories. What Sarmin looked at now was a mere drawing. He threw it on the desk. ‘I don’t see how this could create anything.’ He would hold out hope for Duke Didryk’s talent, now that he was on his way. ‘I will see Mura now.’
Azeem glided to the door, silent as ever, and admitted the young mage. Sarmin knew the strangeness of the Tower was in part affected, allowing the ancient order to maintain its mystery and awe, but this mage did it well. Her eyes were focused far away and her robe moved absent of any wind. She fell into her obeisance, her spine straight, everything in her manner measured and perfect.
‘Rise, Mura.’ He waited until she faced him again. ‘You were the duke’s captive for many months.’
‘I was.’
‘What is your judgement of the man?’
She hesitated. She had been accused of treachery once already and knew better than to tempt it again. ‘He is passionate about his homeland, Magnificence. I overheard them talking from time to time—’
‘The duke and the chief?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. They mostly spoke in Frythian, but I did understand some of it. They both hold Yrkmir and Austere Adam in contempt. As for Cerana … They were proud of their actions against the White Hats, but they spoke well of the empress and they appeared to have real hope of an alliance.’
Sarmin leaned back and watched the mage’s face. ‘And the duke’s pattern-spells? What did you see?’
‘I saw the duke cast only a few spells – the one that silenced Yomawa, and later, one calling water in the desert. I could not draw them for you. He is frugal with his talent, but I can tell you one thing: it frightens him.’
Perhaps Duke Didryk understood the true cost, understood that every use of the pattern widened the god’s wounds. While Adam encouraged catastrophe, perhaps the duke really did think better of it. His hopes rose at the thought. He stood at the window and looked out into the darkness beyond the courtyard, though if Ziggur were anywhere close he would know it. ‘You are dismissed, Mura,’ he said at last.
From the time of Uthman the Conqueror, Cerana had been a power beyond reach. The wide world feared its mages; its walls could not be breached; its army stood undefeated – except when it came to Yrkmir. And on that day when Yrkmen had sacked Nooria’s palace, Helmar had been taken. From them he had learned the tools he used to become the Pattern Master – but it had not been Yrkmir that had twisted him; that had come from his neglect at the hands of his royal family, from becoming a prisoner, from being put aside against a future need. Sarmin understood that well. In every Cerani history Yrkmir was the enemy – and yet Sarmin was beginning to think Cerana could fashion destruction quite well enough on its own.