The Tower Broken(9)

Laughter and the clinking of glasses followed the arrival of the evening’s libation. The courtiers began to circulate, winding around one another in an intricate dance of power. Only the guards, High Mage Govnan and the desert headman Notheen held an unmoving silence, rocks in a moving stream of finery and jewels. During the day lord and priest alike sat in their places, tiered according to birth and influence, but now the doors had been closed and all the reports read, they worked the invisible strings of empire.

Once he might have been able to see a pattern in it, but that kind of sight had left him.

Against the wall stood a harpist, plucking at his strings. He had been a gift from Lord Murti, governor of Gehinni Province. Sarmin did not like music; he neither understood nor anticipated how the notes were meant to come together. It came to his ears as a collection of tumbling noises, and it grated on his nerves when combined with other sounds. Azeem told him it was the latest fashion to have a musician hovering about, but he did not care. He waved a hand for the man to stop, and breathed a sigh of relief when the plinking ended.

Azeem gathered his work at the near table. ‘What did you think of the spy’s report, Magnificence?’ he asked, too low for anyone to overhear.

The report. Sarmin shifted and felt needles along his right leg. Herran’s spy, a travelling merchant, claimed Yrkmir had destroyed Fryth not long after Arigu’s men had retreated. And how … Sarmin remembered the way Marke Kavic had spoken of the empire, and he knew there was no great love between Fryth and the first austere – but no great nation destroyed one of its own colonies. What of tribute, men to work the land? It made no sense to punish Fryth so soon after its great victory against Cerana, their ancient enemy. Add to that the manner of its destruction …

Azeem busied himself with inks and signatures, his long fingers careful and precise, but Sarmin knew that he was waiting upon an answer. With the Many, he had held conflicting views, and a chorus had offered its wisdom, hatred or fears. Now he was alone and could offer only his own belief, with no contravening whispers. At last the dark words found his voice. ‘I think it is true, and I think the Yrkmen’s path will lead them to Nooria.’

Azeem laid his hands upon the table a moment, saying nothing. Beyond him Satrap Honnecka and the gaunt General Merkel paused to chat; Sarmin watched their distorted reflections in the shining floor. It had been a long while since such men had encountered enemy soldiers. They liked to complain the White Hats had been humiliated when they left Fryth, and claimed they would relish a chance to restore Cerana’s honour. But would they stand against Yrkmir, or flee to their comfortable homes in the provinces? Without Arigu, Sarmin felt less confident facing Yrkmir’s army.

The time had come to send Pelar and Mesema to the safety of the southern province. Headman Notheen had long insisted the palace should leave the capital, and Sarmin would begin with its most precious inhabitants.

The herald’s gong crashed and shimmered in the air, indicating a new arrival: someone too late to petition, but too important to turn away. Nevertheless he – or they – would wait. Sarmin raised a hand to stay the twelve men set to open the heavy doors, giving the courtiers time to finish their conversations and find their seats. Never should a ruler act with urgency. His power is great: its shadow, eternal. It was all within the Book of Statehood. With everyone settled, he motioned the doormen a second time. As the carved doors swung slowly on their hinges the smaller side door snapped open and Mesema slipped through.

Sarmin took note, as always, of who bowed to his wife – High Priest Assar of Mirra, some minor lords and his vizier, Azeem. Dinar of Herzu stared at her with his dark eyes.

Mesema held her shoulders back and her head high as she walked towards the dais. She had defeated the Pattern Master – these men were nothing to her. Admiration rose up inside of him, warm and powerful. Before Mesema lowered herself into an obeisance she met Sarmin’s gaze. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair in disarray. He would swear that every time he saw her she was more beautiful than before, her brightness sharp enough to cut him. He took the time she faced the floor to gather himself.

‘Rise,’ Sarmin said. ‘Does all go well in the women’s wing, my wife?’ Some of the men glanced at one another, smirking at the absurdity that he should ask, and he marked each face. Mesema blushed and looked aside as if guilty. ‘Yes, Magnificence. The builders have made a beautiful home for us. I am grateful.’ As he puzzled over the space between her words and her expression, the God Doors reached their full extension.