The side door opened to allow a new courtier through. His robes left his muscled arms and calves bare, and tear-shaped tattoos marked his hands and the skin below his eyes, which flicked towards the throne with contempt. Here was one who could cause trouble for the emperor. He stalked towards the dais, and the men who had been listening to the soldiers turned to him instead.
With a start Didryk remembered that he had come here to destroy Sarmin, not to watch enemies on his behalf, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. He need only wait until enough people had been marked and Yrkmir defeated, then he would make his own move.
As the soldier and emperor continued to talk, Didryk shook off his thoughts enough to listen; he might yet learn something useful.
‘—the people inside?’ From time to time Didryk noted a childish, hopeful note in the emperor’s voice.
‘Suffocated, Magnificence.’ The soldier bit his lip. ‘We dug them out as quickly as we could, but we were not fast enough.’
‘Thank you. As usual, keep the area clear until the Tower can investigate.’
‘Magnificence.’ The soldiers bowed, backed away, and were gone.
The tattooed man had made his way to the dais and now he bowed. Clearly he held high status if he did not prostrate himself – or was this a power play?
‘High Priest Dinar,’ said Sarmin, sounding bored.
‘Magnificence – I heard the news about the temple of Meksha. Our patron goddess is under attack – no wonder She brews fire in Her holy mountain.’ The priest looked over his shoulder at the courtiers, who were watching with rapt attention, and gestured towards Didryk. ‘Mogyrk worship is now legal and so we resort to Yrkmir’s ways, instead of traditions long established in Her Tower?’
‘My decisions in this matter are not your concern.’
‘In this matter, perhaps not, Your Majesty. But I have been awaiting another decision concerning the prisoner. When may I expect him?’
With a jolt Didryk realised the priest was talking of Banreh.
‘When I deem it time.’ The emperor’s voice was cold.
The priest bowed and spoke in a low but urgent voice. ‘Your Majesty, destruction is nearly upon us. We cannot risk angering the gods further.’
‘I am the Light of Heaven, Dinar. The gods speak to and through me. You are dismissed.’
Dinar straightened, turned and walked out through the great doors, passing the small groups of courtiers. Their gazes followed him, their mouths stilled.
General Merkel turned back to the emperor, his eyes narrowed in accusation, before he bowed and followed the priest. His action created quite a murmur among those who remained. Even Azeem was not happy, jerking his quill and causing spots of black ink to fly across his parchments. He placed it in its box and pulled out a rag to wipe the splattered ink, his lips pinched together.
Emperor Sarmin spoke. ‘We will return to business this afternoon. You are all dismissed.’
His cue at last. Didryk stood and bowed to the throne. ‘With your permission, Emperor.’ He could see Krys and Indri, standing behind the dais in the shadows between tapestries. In their heavy armour they must have been even more uncomfortable than he. They stepped forwards, relief on their faces.
‘Of course, Duke.’ Sarmin waved an idle hand. ‘Azeem will see you to your chambers.’
Azeem folded his rag and put it aside. ‘Of course. This way, Duke.’ He led him past the murmuring courtiers and through the great doors. Didryk had noticed the carvings when he had arrived, but closer attention now revealed the gods in the wood, and the way their faces turned towards the emperor. Following their gazes he saw the sunlight falling from the dome, bringing a bright glow to the Petal Throne and illuminating Sarmin’s face. Surely most petitioners who approached him believed he was the Light of Heaven, as he had claimed. ‘It is quite a sight,’ he murmured.
‘Yes,’ said Azeem, leading him on down a great corridor, ‘may the gods preserve it.’
Didryk followed, an echo of Banreh’s pain making him shiver though the palace was hot. The gods can do what they like, but I will not preserve it.
33
Mesema
Didryk had done it to her. He had drawn his fingernail against her skin, quick as a rabbit, then dropped her arm as if he had done nothing. At first she had thought nothing of it, but now she recognised the feel of a binding-mark. Once she had been linked to Beyon, but he was gone for ever. She remembered the desperate look Didryk had cast her from the Great Hall and knew he had been asking – was now asking – for her help. She knew where to find Banreh, even without the mark, for Sarmin had told her he was in the temple of Mirra. She longed to go to him, but instead she guided Rushes up the stairs towards the women’s wing, her wrist thrumming. She would – she must – speak to Sarmin first.