After a moment Sarmin said to Azeem in a low voice, ‘Find out what Benna wants.’
Azeem took his time organising his parchments, then he left the dais to speak with first one man, then another, taking an age to work his way round to the man in green as Didryk rolled his head to either side, trying to loosen the muscles. His spine hurt from holding the same position for so many hours and he needed a chamber-pot – but he wanted to see Azeem and the emperor at work.
‘You must be tired, Duke,’ said Sarmin behind him.
Didryk turned to face the throne. Behind it stood the sword-sons, a wall of rippling muscle and biting steel. ‘It is not difficult work, Magnificence.’
Sarmin’s gaze followed his vizier’s movements. ‘Pattern-work has been described to me as drawing from rote, like a child learning his letters. Is that so?’
‘We draw upon the Names Mogyrk gave to us, which is very much like an alphabet.’
‘Do you have a symbol for every thing?’
Didryk frowned. ‘Mogyrk Named all things, but no one thing has meaning without all the others. Mogyrk pulled Himself apart to find His own essence, but even His Name by itself has no power.’
‘But Azeem told me that Mogyrk did not die.’
‘He both died and did not die.’ Didryk squirmed. He disliked speaking of Mogyrk. For him there were two gods: the one who helped him heal and the one who had destroyed his city.
Sarmin considered this a while. ‘And so you use His power and His Names to form commands?’
Something in the emperor’s voice made Didryk shift again, his long legs in the way yet again as he attempted to settle on the step of the dais. His shoes were not suited to Cerani palace life either; they were stiff and hard, and did not allow for relaxing on cushions. ‘That is how most austeres imagine it, yes.’
‘But not you?’ Sarmin leaned forwards, his eyes filling with a strange desire. ‘You imagine more?’
Didryk had said too much. He looked away, towards Azeem, who had already left the spy and was now circling back, pausing here and there to exchange more greetings. ‘I am no great talent.’ Sarmin’s gaze had not left him, though. He could feel it against his back.
‘I do have one question, Duke.’
‘I will answer whatever I am able.’
‘Why do your patterns disappear when you finish them? Helmar Pattern Master’s never disappeared.’
‘Because Helmar did not finish his,’ said Didryk, turning to look at the emperor. ‘As I understand it, the pattern itself was his end: it had no other purpose – not to call or destroy, not to heal or to ward. He made no command, as you put it – not to the pattern.’
Sarmin frowned, and leaned back in his throne. At last Azeem returned and spent a while shuffling his papers. Then he glanced up at Didryk, his eyes hard, before picking up his quill, leaning over to the emperor and whispering. Didryk got the message that he was not to listen – and indeed, it was impossible to hear.
Sarmin was not so good at keeping quiet. ‘Arigu?’ he said in a tone of disbelief.
Azeem said something else, and then Sarmin leaned towards him, saying, ‘Whatever rumours he is spreading …’ Didryk heard no more, for the rest of the emperor’s words had disappeared under the clash of a gong.
‘What now?’ said one of the courtiers, a gaunt man Sarmin had identified as General Merkel from the Jalan Hills, next to Fryth. Didryk had met him long ago, when he was just a child, but the general had not recognised him. Merkel’s question was soon answered: a squad of Blue Shields entered, dust on their uniforms, their faces fatigued. They approached the dais and Didryk moved his feet out of the way as they prostrated themselves before their emperor.
‘Rise and report to me,’ said Sarmin.
The soldiers stood and looked at one another, their eyes sad. ‘Your Majesty, it is the temple of Meksha in the East Quarter,’ said their leader, marked out by a golden crest on the tall hat he clutched under one arm. ‘It has been reduced to dust.’
‘Dust!’ General Merkel took a few steps forwards and halted, his eyes on the throne.
The emperor did not move. ‘Tell me.’
Didryk looked at the gleaming floor. He knew it had been an austere – he knew exactly what spell had been used. He also knew it could not have been Adam. He was now certain the first austere and his men were in the city – but he did not understand why they played at petty destruction. They had given Fryth no warning, but here in Nooria they were teasing the emperor, giving him plenty of time to counter any major attack. Was it so they could play with the fragile alliances at court? He looked from one man to the other, wondering who supported the emperor and who did not.