The Tower Broken(56)

25



Mesema


Mesema woke to sunlight streaming through the window-screen and stretched. She had not slept so well since the day Pelar left. She smiled, but rolling to her side she saw his cradle was gone – given to Nessaket for the child – and the emptiness of the room filled her mind. She sat up, rubbing tears from her eyes, and called for Tarub and Willa. Sarmin had already risen and returned to his own apartments, preparing to receive the duke and Arigu in the throne room.

Tarub entered first and brought her hands to her face. ‘Your hair, Majesty!’

‘Quickly,’ said Mesema, swinging her legs to the floor. ‘Get me ready for court.’

Willa put a plate of food beside her. ‘First you will need to eat, Majesty, and to bathe, so that we may pull those tangles from your curls.’

Mesema turned to look at herself in the silver mirror. Hair rose in a stiff point from the right side of her head. She reached out to touch it. ‘Why are reflections always backwards?’

‘To remind ourselves,’ said Nessaket from the doorway, ‘that we do not see the truth.’ Tarub and Willa threw themselves upon the floor and she waved a dismissive hand as she entered. ‘Get up and attend to the empress.’

‘Where is … Daveed?’ asked Mesema, taking a morsel of cheese from the plate. Sarmin was certain the boy was not his brother, but she did not think it possible for a mother to confuse another boy with her own son. Pelar would continue to grow and change in the southern province – but his eyes, his hair, the shape of his nose were imprinted on Mesema’s memory for ever. She wondered how much time Sarmin had spent with his brother, whether he truly knew the curve of his cheeks and the line of his forehead as well as Nessaket, who had borne him and birthed him. Perhaps his loss of the pattern-sight affected the way he saw the boy. She had also noticed that he could not understand music since closing the wound in Beyon’s tomb.

‘Daveed is with his nurses. I spent the morning questioning Rushes about Austere Adam, but she knows very little. He kept her in an attic room and she could not see.’ Nessaket wrapped a hand around the bedpost, looking at the state of the silks. ‘My other son has returned to your bed. That is well. Another few weeks and he might have started looking at the concubines.’

‘He wouldn’t.’

‘He has before.’ Nessaket’s voice brooked no argument. ‘You must keep him satisfied and diverted from conceiving more boys with his concubines. That is far more important than messing in politics.’

‘But you have messed in politics,’ Mesema argued. Willa entered carrying a heavy bucket of water and poured it into a wide copper bowl at her feet. Into this she threw rose-petals, soap and a handful of salt.

‘The Felt are your people and the traitor is their chief,’ Nessaket said firmly. ‘You must maintain a distance from him and his dealings, lest you be tarnished. I have warned you: this Fryth duke is part of Chief Banreh’s story, for good or ill, but you must step away from it.’ Nessaket watched Willa working the sponge over Mesema’s face and hair. ‘During Tahal’s time, my own father was involved in a scandal. Over too much drink he was heard criticising the emperor’s favourite general, and he was later implicated in a coup. I tried to defend him, and I nearly lost my place. Had I persisted, Beyon and Sarmin would never have been emperors. But I did not. I remained silent, as much as it hurt me, when my father was exiled from court.’

Mesema kept a short silence out of respect for the story, then said, ‘But Empire Mother, no general of Cerana took your people as slaves.’ At this Willa started, and her elbow knocked Mesema’s book of poetry from the side table. It landed upside down and Mesema looked at the words, unrecognisable to her in reverse. As it had been with Banafrit, they appeared as nothing more than a jumble.

As she studied the letters, an idea taking form in her, Nessaket answered. ‘You do not know that your people were taken slaves, either. You have found no evidence for it.’

‘I haven’t spoken to all of the scribes yet.’ Tarub began working a comb through Mesema’s hair and she winced. ‘Nessaket, Mother. Listen – I do hear you, but Sarmin would never displace me, or Pelar.’ She closed her eyes, remembering how Sarmin had kissed her the night before. ‘I think he loves me.’ No man, not Beyon, not Banreh, had ever been so open with her.

‘You had better hope he does not love you,’ Nessaket said. ‘An emperor grants or withdraws his favour. He does not love, for that is a path to disaster.’ With that she stood, preparing to take her leave. ‘But since you have his favour at the moment, I have a request.’