The Tower Broken(8)

‘Thank you,’ she said, but Grada did not reply.

In the evening those who had failed to gain an audience filled the streets around the palace. Every sunset they could be seen from the roof, some well-dressed and moving with angry impatience, others in rags, stumbling. Occasionally a carriage, moving fast, entered the street and forced everyone to scatter, or a merchant’s cart would move through, offering fruit or drink to the petitioners.

Mesema and Grada moved against the flow, coming towards the palace instead of leaving it. Then Grada took her arm and pulled her into the shadow of a doorway. ‘Soldiers,’ she said. ‘Best they don’t see you.’

At first Mesema could see only a disturbance, walkers and carts flowing to either side like water around a great stone, but as the group drew close she recognised the squad of Blue Shields, approaching the palace with brisk steps. They looked straight ahead, hands curled around the hilts of their swords. As a child in wartime Mesema had become accustomed to judging what sort of news a person had by their bearing. Stiff and nervous, these soldiers had come to report something bad. The two women waited for them to pass, and then a while longer, before following in their wake.

‘What do you think happened?’ Mesema looked up at Grada’s expressionless face. ‘Is it about Daveed?’

‘Probably not,’ said Grada, her fingers straying to the hilt of her Knife.

Mesema had seen enough of the Knife for one day. ‘Let’s keep moving.’

At the courtyard Grada held Mesema back while she checked for soldiers and guards, then waved her through. ‘Use the servants’ entrance,’ she said. ‘Go and change.’

‘We’re in the palace now,’ Mesema said with some relief. ‘You cannot tell me what to do.’ Nevertheless she went in by the servants’ entrance and took the circuitous route to the women’s wing. The guards looked at her grey robes with curiosity as they opened the doors. She ignored them as she passed through.

The new women’s wing was white and spare, as plain as a Rider’s longhouse, except for the mosaic of Mirra set into the floor. The peaceful room brought her calm and she smiled at the concubines who sat around the Great Room, embroidering their shawls.

Tarub, waiting by the mirror, jumped up when she entered her bedchamber. ‘Your Majesty! I was so worried—’

‘Quickly,’ said Mesema, casting aside the assassin’s robe. ‘I must stand with my husband the emperor in the throne room.’





4



Sarmin


Sarmin sat on the Petal Throne. His legs ached from too long in the metal seat. The morning had found the cushions missing once again, giving Sarmin a choice: to request them in the full presence of the council, or do without. He knew what Azeem would say – to ask for a pillow was a weakness before men who would eat the sharp, cold throne for supper if they could. And so he had said nothing. Now he remained on his throne as priests, generals and merchant princes met in groups around the great room. Beyon had ruled through intimidation of the court and camaraderie with the soldiers; Tuvaini’s short rule had been marked by arrogance. Since Marke Kavic’s murder and the loss of his brother, Sarmin sat at a cold and furious remove, alone both in body and in mind.

The courtiers clustered into groups, some of them speaking loudly and hoping to be overheard, while others schemed in low voices. His own men, those he had elevated or done a favour, moved through the crowd, listening. Lord Jomla had betrayed the Petal Throne and paid with his life, but he had left behind his associates. Sarmin had brought each of them under his heel, and any who complained or whispered had met with Grada’s skilled hand. It had been a month since last she cut a noble neck, and still he kept close watch.

Though the Great Storm was brewing in the desert, this evening the courtiers spoke of Fryth. General Arigu had invaded that outermost colony of Yrkmir, but the Felting horse tribes – Mesema’s people – had shown treachery, attacking his army in the night and taking him captive. Those of Arigu’s men who had survived the march home returned in rags, starving and ill. Much talk was devoted to revenge upon the north – beginning with the Felt. Sarmin’s task was to prevent their bluster from turning into military action. Fryth had been Tuvaini’s war and Sarmin had paid enough for it already. The new chief of Mesema’s people had erred, but it was he who should pay, not all those she cared for. But as much as he tried to cool their anger, High Priest Dinar only fanned it again, for conflict was the realm of Herzu, and He would seek war whenever possible.

Lord Benna, Sarmin’s man, passed by Satrap Kenneck and made two symbols with his hand: War talk. North. Sarmin moved his gaze across the room as if he had not seen, but he too could think of nothing else this evening. Herran, the master of Sarmin’s spies and assassins, had received a new report, bringing dark rumours from those distant mountain valleys of Fryth. Most of the courtiers preferred to disbelieve them; their fantasies of revenge left no room for other possibilities.