The Tower Broken(98)

‘Which gods? I would think Herzu might enjoy the Storm.’ Did it not sow fear and kill indiscriminately?

‘He cannot exist there.’ Dinar blinked, and for the first time Sarmin saw fear in those dark eyes. For decades the high priest had been one of the most powerful men in Nooria. Now Mogyrk’s wound threatened to take that power away from him.

Sarmin stood. Herran, Azeem and two of his sword-sons were not in the room and though Grada stood behind him, he felt outnumbered. ‘I will consider your words as I retire.’

As he swept from the room, his nameless sword-sons close behind him, he heard the doubts of the courtiers in their murmurs and their shuffling feet. Something must be done to reassure them of the right of his ways, to affirm that enemies were punished and the empire, embodied in himself, was strong enough to prevail. Perhaps it was finally time for Banreh to die.





42



Farid


Farid hurried to the palace, though once again every inch of him called out for sleep. His muscles screamed when he moved them, his eyes stung and a dizziness pervaded his mind, but he had to find the duke – the duke would know how to destroy the pattern around the Tower. Adam had impressed many things upon him in their short time together, but he had not given him any clue about how to get rid of a design already laid. He frowned, remembering Adam’s words: You will help me, but first you need to escape. When would he unwittingly aid the austere? Had he already done it, when he drew the ancient pattern on the walls of Govnan’s library?

Or it was me who drew that pattern in the courtyard, me who tried to destroy the Tower?

He must put his hopes in the duke. He remembered Didryk teaching him the warding pattern he had since put on five hundred foreheads. The duke had taught him as much as he needed to know and nothing more: a line here, a circle, another line, and a triangle to hold it all inside. Pull. Farid had hoped to learn more from the man after that adventurous trip to the desert, but either the duke had been too busy, or he had no intention of upholding his end of the deal.

Farid’s mage robes granted him instant access to the palace; the Blue Shields standing at the gate took one glance at him and stood aside. Govnan had given him this Tower uniform as a prop for his mission into the desert, but it gave him a power and access that he never would have dreamed possible when he was selling apples and pomegranates in the tiny market off Ashem Street. The distinctive weave of white cotton and linen threads set him apart, and the belt of shimmering blue silk could have only come from Govnan’s own chest. They were impossible to imitate and harder to obtain, and they labelled him a mage of the Tower even if he carried no bound spirit.

In the Great Hall he paused, orienting himself. Men were still working to restore the dome high above, plastering around the exposed beams. In a few months it would be covered with mosaics of scenes from Cerana’s great past; Uthman’s founding, the defeat of the Parigols and the blessing of Meksha would take up a large part of it, but Farid wondered what else they might paint. The defeat of Helmar Pattern Master, perhaps.

He took his eyes from the dome to find a grey man staring at him – grey-cloaked, grey-haired, grey-eyed. He stood so still that at first Farid had thought him a pillar against the wall. Now he backed away. This man must be a member of the legendary Grey Service, the emperor’s spies and assassins. They watched one another for a moment, and finally Farid said, ‘I did not see you.’ A stupid thing to say to a man who likely sees everything.

The assassin inclined his head. ‘What brings you to the palace, Mage?’

‘The duke.’ Not even the assassin’s eyes moved, so he babbled, ‘I need to find the duke on a question of magic – a threat to the Tower.’

Now the assassin stood away from the wall and glanced up at the workers as he walked forwards. Farid made himself not shrink away. ‘Be careful what you say in open spaces,’ the man said to him. He now stood very close, close enough to slit Farid’s throat, but he only took his arm and pulled him down a corridor lined with tapestries. The grey man said, ‘You are the new mage Grada told me about.’

So Grada was Grey Service too? Of course she was. Because she was a woman it had not occurred to him, but she wore the robes and she wielded her knife with experience. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘It is gratifying to see devotion from a mage not one week in his robes.’ Somehow Farid felt the old assassin was mocking him. ‘I am Herran.’

‘Farid.’

‘Farid of the fruit-market.’

Again Farid sensed some joke was being made at his expense, but he realised that compared with the threat against the Tower, such insults did not matter. A week ago he might have made some retort, but today he was focused on his mission. ‘Yes. Do you know where to find Duke Didryk?’