Azeem climbed the steps of the dais and leaned close. ‘Your Majesty, the Blue Shields are reporting that the rebels have ceased their attacks, in the Maze and elsewhere.’
‘They have left the city to these pattern attacks,’ Sarmin murmured.
‘They are ragged souls, Magnificence. Refugees and … Untouchables.’ Azeem fought to keep from glancing at Grada.
Sarmin cleared his throat and spoke to the duke. ‘Rise.’
Azeem fell silent and took his place at his table with his quills and ink, but Didryk continued to face the throne. It looked like he had sent his guards upstairs without him – not that they would be much use in the face of Sarmin’s sword-sons. The duke looked as if he had not slept in a week. Grief – or guilt – was keeping him awake.
‘Are you well?’ Sarmin asked. ‘I can send for Farid to assist you this afternoon.’
Didryk gave him a bow. ‘That will not be necessary.’ In his fatigue his accent had become stronger.
Sarmin focused on Didryk’s blue eyes. ‘What can you tell me about the pattern used at the temple?’
‘Without having seen it, I would assume it was a simple destructive pattern, Your Majesty, set to destroy stone.’
Sarmin gestured for him to take his seat at the bottom step of the dais. The way Didryk had said simple interested him. A slip of the tongue caused by his exhaustion. If he had to distinguish one pattern as simple, it meant there were others that were not. He tapped the arms of his chair. He knew Didryk was more skilled with the pattern than he admitted.
The stream of slaves and administrators began, with Azeem calling out each name and Didryk formally marking each person. Sarmin clenched his hands on the arms of the throne, feeling the metal edges bite into his fingertips. His visit with Mesema this morning had been too brief. She had told him of her encounter with Dinar, leaving out no detail, which could not have been easy for her. It was no surprise to him that Dinar and Arigu were working together, that they planned to install the general’s niece in Mesema’s place. While that would never happen, he worried what else the two men might be planning.
They had also discussed Govnan’s mission. With Mesema he did not need to hide his sorrow. The high mage’s efforts could soon mean his death – he had known that in the way the old man had said goodbye – and yet it still pulled at his heart. The Megra had already passed beyond; he was not ready to lose Govnan, not yet.
He ran a hand over his eyes. He could not wallow in his grief, not while Mogyrks drew their patterns in the city, the Storm approached and Daveed and his mother had yet to be found. He knew now that Adam had blinded Rushes so that she could not see Daveed had been switched with another boy. What would he do to my mother? he wondered.
He waited, wanting to end it, to take Didryk aside and ask questions about the austere who had taught him, but he could not; he needed to protect his people as much as he needed answers, and to protect them he needed to be sure they were marked. He waited the long hours until all the people on Azeem’s list had been marked and the dome had grown dark above him. Most of the nobles had not stayed, not even Lord Benna – after the initial shock of seeing a Mogyrk sitting on the dais, there was nothing interesting about watching a man draw on foreheads.
Azeem put away his ledger and his ink and straightened his desk while Didryk stood and bowed.
‘With your permission, Magnificence.’
Out of the corner of his eye Sarmin saw a Blue Shield slip through the side door and approach his fellows against the wall.
‘But first I—’
Before Didryk could finish, the soldier who had entered drew his sword. ‘For Mogyrk!’ he cried, and pierced his fellow through the heart. As two of the sword-sons ran from the dais, their own weapons drawn, the man turned, smiling, and Sarmin shuddered at the sight of his eyes: they had turned completely black.
The Blue Shield raised his sword in a feeble attempt to stop the two hachirahs coming at him, but he could do nothing; Ne-Seth’s huge blade cut through his neck and thudded against the wall behind him.
Sarmin stood. ‘What manner of attack was that?’ It felt too close to an attack by the Many.
Ne-Seth turned to him and made a gesture of confusion. Behind him, blood ran down the wall and along the edges of the tile. Sarmin remembered Mylo’s blood in the temple of Herzu and he felt a weight upon him. He looked away.
‘He knows,’ said Didryk, his eyes on the redness creeping across the floor. ‘The first austere knows we are protecting ourselves and he is trying something new.’
‘But how?’
Didryk spread his hands wide, empty of explanations.