The Tower Broken(59)

Within minutes or hours the Storm would touch against the Blessing, and all things hinged upon that moment, for if Govnan could not protect the river, they would have to leave their great city, just as Notheen had long recommended. The desert headman was also missing from the assembly, as were many others – the softer men who might talk of war but shivered at hardship. The earthquake had been the final straw for them, and he wished them well on their way downriver or across the sands. He and Mesema might soon be joining them – but first he would find his brother, and to do that he needed Duke Didryk’s help. His fingers wandered to the butterfly-stone he kept in his pocket to remind himself how much that seemed impossible was not.

General Merkel and Lord Benna remained, and with them an assortment of brave courtiers, all of them energised by the news that the Fryth duke had arrived. Some wore grim expressions – any alliance with Fryth would curtail their dreams of conquest – but others showed nothing but curiosity. Sarmin himself was looking forward to discovering who would be standing with him in the coming days, and who would oppose him. Dinar would be the man to watch as an alliance with the duke moved forwards. Now the high priest stood in the midst of a group of old warriors, his expression closed, his words few. Though he thirsted for power, the man was always careful; he chose both his allies and his battles well. He would not speak against the alliance unless he saw a better opportunity.

He watched the side door, but Mesema did not step through. He was surprised she would miss this. He remembered the feel of her, the way their bodies had joined together, and he pressed his palm against the carved metal roses of his throne to still his desire. He had always cared for Mesema and he had always wanted her, but something had changed, beginning with the day Chief Banreh had arrived and he was poisoned by jealousy. He knew his mother would not approve; in the Histories he had read many a tale of rulers thrown upon the rocks of their own passions. An emperor must always remain above such human foibles.

And yet still he looked at the door again, wondering where she could be, longing for the sight of her pointed face, the feel of her gentle hand against his shoulder.

The herald claimed Sarmin’s attention, announcing the duke and his two noble guards in his sonorous voice. Courtiers gaped and whispered at the sight of the tall Fryth, and struck various poses of disapproval or acceptance, though Sarmin set no tone to guide them. He kept his own face blank, though Duke Didryk looked so like his cousin Marke Kavic that he found it difficult: the duke looked out from the same deep blue eyes.

Sarmin’s last memory of Kavic was filled with blood, for it had been his own hand that killed the marke, though not his own mind.

Moreth had slipped in and stood now at the back, his grey eyes watchful. Sarmin did not see Grada but Herran stood in the shadows, his face betraying nothing. Other than Azeem, all of his closest advisors were absent. His mind went in a dark direction.

‘Do you see General Arigu here?’ he asked Azeem in a low voice. He did not know what the man looked like.

‘No, Your Majesty, I do not. I was told Chief Banreh escaped and the general went after him.’

‘Yes – I was hoping he had returned.’ Sarmin hoped Arigu would be successful, and soon; if he could not retrieve Banreh there would be trouble between himself and the army. To the soldiers and the court the horse chief had come to represent all of Cerana’s failings in Fryth; if Sarmin lost him, they would never be able to set those accounts to rights. And yet he did not like to think of what would have to happen to Banreh once he returned.

‘I am sure the general—’

Azeem stopped when the duke drew near.

The Fryth had brought only two guards, the merest nod to his status, though both were taller than any other man in the room. Their metal armour was etched in complex designs and buffed to gleaming. They shone in the light cast down from the dome like moving god-statues, and Sarmin could see there were men among the cushions who watched them with awe.

The threesome approached the end of the silk runner and there stopped. They knelt into their obeisances as one, as if they had practised it. Unlike Marke Kavic and his austere, who had both waited too long to bend the knee, Didryk and his men performed on cue. The duke’s fine coat stretched straight over his back and his long hands rested flat on the silk carpet. He wore one ring of office, a golden band set with carved ivory. In his elegant simplicity he reminded Sarmin of Azeem, but Tuvaini had been a simple man too, at least in clothing, and he knew that did not signify an elegant mind.

Sarmin waited, one minute and then the next, allowing the silence to settle in fully and for all minds to turn towards the expectation of his words. He had planned the same greeting he had given to Kavic, in honour of the fallen marke.