The Tower Broken(74)

The throne room held only a few courtiers, standing in small groups and whispering. Azeem had told him that on a normal day there would be a few dozen men sitting beneath the emperor, or positioned on the cushions under the dome, but the current unrest had them hiding in their manses or even fleeing the city. Those who remained were either battle-hardened or foolish, or too close to death to worry about the timing of its arrival, and it was these men who huddled in small groups and talked in low voices, often sending dark looks his way. Didryk sat on a cushion on the lowest step of the dais, and anyone who came to be marked sat on another cushion, directly opposite and slightly lower. It made it easy to reach foreheads, that was certain, but for much of the time he had his back to the emperor and his sword-sons and it made his neck itch.

Not that he would have been able to read the man’s face. His grandfather, Malast Anteydies Griffon, the Iron Duke, had kept his face still as stone when sitting at court, and Emperor Sarmin was the same. In his private apartments Didryk had seen flashes of concern or curiosity cross his face, but here in public, sitting on the great Petal Throne, he neither moved nor spoke.

The grand vizier remained standing, his parchments before him, ticking off the names of every person marked by Didryk’s design. He spoke for the emperor, each greeting as crisp and clear as the last, commanding the workers to rise, to move forwards, to accept the marks. From time to time he reassured the hesitant. The work of the Pattern Master Helmar was their chief concern; they remembered the Many and wanted no part of it. Didryk had explained to Azeem that such a thing was impossible for him to achieve; the kind of pattern built by Helmar was far beyond his ability, and that was true. He would be using a simpler, rougher force against them.

A young girl approached them now, and with surprise he noticed her red hair and deep blue eyes. She was Fryth – and as she drew closer, her feet hesitating over the runner, Didryk realised she was also blind.

At that same moment the emperor spoke for the first time, his voice kind, almost fatherly. ‘Just a few more steps, Rushes, and you will feel a cushion with your toes.’

For this girl there would be no obeisance, Didryk realised. He watched her with interest.

Rushes smiled, stepped forwards and explored the floor in front of her with one small slippered foot.

‘Just one step more.’ Azeem left his parchments to take the girl’s elbow and helped her to sit. Didryk wondered who this young woman was, that she was treated with such consideration. Surely she could not be one of the Fryth slaves Adam had mentioned?

‘Thank you,’ he said to the vizier once the girl was settled, and their eyes met over her bowed head.

‘Of course,’ said Azeem, straightening. He walked back to his parchments and picked up his quill. ‘Rushes, also Rufynkarojna, nurse to the emperor’s own brother,’ he intoned. There was a pause, during which Didryk could hear the emperor’s robes rustling. ‘This man is of Fryth,’ Azeem said to her. ‘You need not fear him. It will not hurt when he marks you, and you will not become one of the Many. This is done for your protection.’

‘I am not afraid,’ she said to Azeem in Cerani, and then to him, in heavily accented Frythian, she repeated, ‘I am not afraid.’

Hearing his own language brought tears to his eyes. He knew so very few Fryth still alive. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Lift your head, child.’

As she did so he laid a finger upon her forehead – then pulled it back with a hiss as he recognised the hand that had blinded her. ‘You were with Adam,’ he said, still speaking Frythian.

Tears welled in Rushes’ sightless eyes as she nodded.

‘It is best if you speak so that we all can understand, Duke,’ Azeem said, fingering his quill the way another man might finger the hilt of a sword.

‘My apologies,’ he said quickly. ‘I told her that I could feel an evil hand in her blindness.’

He heard the emperor’s robes rustling again, and then Sarmin spoke for the second time that day. ‘Cure her, if it is within your ability.’

Didryk took a deep breath and laid his palm flat against her brow. His ability had always leaned towards fixing broken bones and torn flesh, while Adam’s went in the direction of harm. Now he delved into Adam’s work and discovered a simple, malicious twisting of what lay behind the girl’s eyes. Her sight was not ruined, but Adam had drawn a veil there, like pulling a curtain across a bright window. He knew Adam had also done something to the mage Farid, but that was something different, more of a compulsion – but for what, he could not tell. He had left it there, to his shame.