The Tower Broken(7)

Mesema frowned. The man who had come outside with Jafar had not touched her, but she decided to say nothing about that.

‘Hurry. We’ve taken too long.’ Grada retrieved the dagger she’d thrown at the moustached guard, who was now lying in a corner among some leaves, and walked out through the gate.

‘But there’s something here. I saw—’ In the map room she had seen blue in a shaft of sunlight, but perhaps it had been only her ring, caught in a beam from the window – a trick of the eye. Not a message from the Hidden God; nothing more than an excuse to leave the palace, to feel important. ‘Daveed is not here.’ She wiped at a tear.

‘I was fairly certain he was not.’ Grada walked at a fast clip. ‘News of this will spread quickly among the Mogyrk rebels. A nursemaid comes calling and soon three guards are lying dead. If Daveed was anywhere near—’

‘—he won’t be any longer.’ Mesema made fists so tight her fingernails cut into the flesh of her palms. Stupid, stupid. And yet for a trick of the eye it had guided her true. Those men had been of Mogyrk.

‘You should leave such things to me, Your Majesty.’ Grada’s voice betrayed some impatience. A carriage passed them by, one bejewelled hand holding open the curtain, and Mesema pulled her scarf tight. Her wheaten hair could yet betray her to a courtier.

‘That house is important.’ It had to be, else those deaths were for nothing.

‘I have been watching it for some time. Lord Nessen’s lands are on the northern border, and he has sympathy for the Fryth.’ Grada chose the steep stairs over the gentle road, and Mesema followed in her wake, picking a careful descent, looking in vain for handholds. ‘He’s not in Nooria, but I think he soon will be. They have received several deliveries of food, as if they expect a large company.’

The sun was beginning to set. How long had she been out in the city? ‘I was going to pretend to be a servant, since you cannot do such a thing,’ Mesema said. ‘They are prejudiced against your kind.’ Untouchable, Sarmin had called her. It was in her eyes.

‘I am not the only spy the emperor commands, heaven bless him.’

‘I have made your work more difficult.’ Something compelled Mesema to continue talking, to wrap words around her actions until they came up clean. She had run out into the city, impulsive and arrogant, thinking to save Daveed with a map and blue light. Now men had paid for it with their lives.

Grada glanced over her shoulder and offered spare words of comfort. ‘They will be forced to play their hand sooner now, and that may help us.’

‘Their hand? Is there another Mogyrk conspiracy?’ So focused had she been on Daveed that she had never thought there might be more at risk: another mistake she had made.

Grada quickened her pace without answering, almost skipping down the endless stairs, and Mesema had to hurry to keep up. She was no longer that girl who had run across the plains without tiring; now her lungs burned in her chest. ‘I will tell the emperor about this myself, may the gods bless him.’

‘It would be as well that you do, for I do not bother his Majesty with unimportant news.’

Mesema’s errand had not felt trivial. Anger flashed over her, renewing her pride. ‘You cannot speak to me this way. I am your empress.’

Grada touched the Knife at her side. ‘In the city I am in control, so that I may keep you alive. In the palace you may do as you like.’ She had the right of it; the emperor’s Knife was not just any member of the Grey Service. She could make decisions of life or death over any royal person, including Sarmin himelf. Grada served the empire, and in the way she saw fit. It was all in that ugly weapon.

They descended the rest of the way in silence, Mesema praying her legs did not give out on her.

At the bottom of the hill Grada stopped and listened, giving Mesema a chance to catch her breath. ‘There are rebels fighting around the edges of the Maze,’ she said. ‘We will take a different path.’

Mesema could hear nothing but she followed Grada without a word, holding tightly to her veil. She had not realised the Maze was so close. They took a circular path to the bridge she had crossed before, where the crowds had thinned and a man dressed all in black pushed a broom over the stones. By the time they passed through the covered market the sun had settled beyond the river and vendors were packing up their stalls. They turned onto the broad avenue leading past the Tower and Mesema recalled the beginning of her day and the sense of rightness she had carried: it seemed distant. A man approached, stumbling, smelling of alcohol, and Grada put herself between him and Mesema until he had disappeared around the next corner.