CHAPTER NINE

SARMIN

Sarmin settled onto the throne in the private audience chamber. Removing the Windreader chief from the commotion of the throne room had been the only choice, but the council was seething at being refused immediate vengeance. “Let us kill him now, Magnificence,” General Lurish had said, his sword out, and Dinar had crept behind the chief, a terrible grin on his face, as if he meant to claim his prize at once. But as much as Sarmin had loved his brother, this was not Beyon’s court; he would not allow open violence. This had furthered the rift between himself and High Priest Dinar, but that was a matter for another day.

He signalled his sword-sons and they opened the doors. In spilled the smug Captain Yulo dragging the Felt captive, the wind-sworn mage, Azeem, the Empire Mother, and finally, Mesema. Of course his wife would not stay away, but for the first time he was tempted to dismiss her.

Sarmin turned his attention to Yulo. “You will be rewarded,” he said. “And you are dismissed.” He could stand no more of this peacock captain.

Yulo’s mouth opened as if about to protest—he had expected to be allowed to tell his story, to receive public accolades. But he thought better of speaking and bowed low before retreating from the room.

Sarmin took a deep breath and watched the Felting man, the man who had taught Mesema to speak Cerani, who had won her heart, the crippled scribe who had humiliated the White Hat Army of Cerana. Chief Banreh met his gaze, horse-chief to emperor. The books called the Felt barbarians, there to serve the empire or be wiped out by it, and of little importance otherwise. But Mesema was important, and this man refused to be trivial either. Sarmin could not deny his curiosity.

Azeem leaned close. “I have called for Govnan, Magnificence.”

Sarmin did not reply, his eyes locked with the prisoner’s. At last he shifted his attention to Mura. “When last we heard of you, you were in Fryth. Could you not speak on the wind and tell us of your situation?”

Mura turned her face his way, showing blue eyes over high cheekbones. Her robes lifted around her as if blown. “I could not, Majesty. I was prevented.”

“This man prevented a mage of the Tower from speaking on the wind?” Sarmin gestured at the chief, not granting him the use of his name.

“Not this man, Your Majesty.”

“There is another?” So Captain Yulo had not done such an admirable job after all.

“I was held by this man and the Duke of Fryth himself, Your Majesty. We travelled with two dozen Felting warriors and Fryth guardsmen, hiding in the desert, always moving. And waiting.”

“Waiting? For what?” Yrkmir. They wait to join in the attack. He was sure of it, but Chief Banreh spoke unbidden, correcting his thought.

“They await your word, Magnificence.” He said no more, for six hachirahs now pointed at his throat.

Mesema gasped, and irritation stirred in Sarmin. If she expressed further unsuitable emotion he would have to send her from the room, though that would not sit well with her.

Sarmin motioned for the sword-sons to stay their hands. “Addressing me without invitation is a good way to lose your voice all together, Chief.” And yet Banreh’s words presented a mystery that he longed to unravel.

Govnan slipped in through a side door, showing the first joyful smile Sarmin had ever seen from him, his wrinkled lips spreading wide, showing missing teeth as he turned towards his young mage.

“Mage Mura, explain this man’s words to me.” Sarmin did not give her time to return the high mage’s greeting.

“Your Majesty, when Marke Kavic … died …”

“A terrible sickness swept the palace,” said Azeem, addressing the room more than the mage. “His death, though regrettable, was one of many we suffered at that time.” Azeem was practised in statements that walked the line between truth and lie.

Mura looked at Azeem with a frown; she must have heard of Kavic’s murder. Sarmin wondered how news of Kavic’s death could have reached Fryth as quickly and accurately as it had, as evinced by the rapid deterioration of their relations and the ultimate defeat of his men.

“When Marke Kavic died, Your Majesty, and the Iron Duke after him,” Mura said, “Marke Didryk became the duke. He captured General Arigu and me—”

“And killed our soldiers in their sleep.”

“Yes, Magnificence. He did.” Her robes fell flat against her legs and for a moment her eyes flashed brown. “But his victory was brief. Shortly after the Cerani army left Fryth, the city of Mondrath was attacked by Yrkmir. Those few of us who survived made our way into the grasslands, and then into the desert.”

So the report had been true: Yrkmir had attacked Fryth. He sat a moment in silence, watching the mage. Her words did not condemn her Mogyrk captors—in fact, her voice was inflected with an uncomfortable sympathy. She fidgeted under his gaze, and at last he spoke. “You have not explained why you were unable to call to us.”

“Your Majesty, Duke Didryk is a pattern mage.”

Sarmin sat up on his throne.

“He drew designs on me that kept Yomawa, my wind-spirit, silent. But he promised that when I passed through the walls of Nooria I would sense him again—and that was the truth, Magnificence.”

A breeze blew about the room, shaking the tapestries upon their hooks. Azeem put a hand over his parchments to stop them from blowing to the floor.

Govnan’s joyful smile had faded and now he watched his student with a frown.

Sarmin let her admiring words float upon the moving air until she remembered herself. When she appeared properly disquieted, he asked, “What is the duke’s business here?” Perhaps this pattern mage was turning his skill to the marketplaces of Nooria …

“Your Majesty, these men want peace.”

Sarmin leaned forwards, and she shrank from the heaviness of his gaze. “Chief Banreh is a traitor and a breaker of alliances. You are a mage of the Tower, and have made a binding oath to serve the empire. Tell me why these men have come into Cerana, or suffer their fate.”

The sword-sons shifted their weapons. Now three pointed at Chief Banreh’s throat and three at the wind mage’s.

Mura’s eyes grew wide. She made to speak, but only moved her lips. He could see her arms shaking. He turned to Banreh instead. “Then tell me, Chief: why should I not kill you?”

The small room lay so quiet that Sarmin could hear Azeem’s rapid breaths beside him, and the rustle of Mesema’s dress as she clutched it. When he spoke, Banreh’s low voice echoed against the walls. “Because if I die, the duke will know it and he will kill your General Arigu. Because he can help you. Because Yrkmir is coming.”

So the general was still alive.

“Arigu …” Nessaket whispered to herself.

Sarmin leaned back in his throne. The chief’s threat could not be allowed to pass without reprisal. It was lucky there were so few in the room; in the presence of the full court he would have had no choice but to have the man killed immediately, and that would not have gone well for Mesema—or Arigu, for that matter. Yet he dreaded the thought of sending any man to the dungeons—he had emptied them for a reason, and had kept them empty, since the slave revolt. The thought of the oubliette where he had found Helmar’s stone filled him with a cold sickness. But he could not let Banreh go.

“My brother would have had your head by now,” he told the man.

“Your brother had a chance at my head, Magnificence, and he let me live.”

Sarmin stood, ignoring the familiar ache in his legs. “Is this true? You met my brother and he let you live?” Azeem looked up at him, a curious look on his face, as if he were seeing him for the first time. Mirrored in the grand vizier’s eyes he saw not the emperor, but a lonely boy who had lost his brothers.

“It is true, my husband,” said Mesema, touching his elbow. “Your brother let Banreh go, heaven and stars keep him now.”

Anger stirred in Sarmin, for he remembered what she had told him of those times. “And then he came here, to work against Beyon further—is that not true?” He turned to the chief. “You came here to plot against the emperor, did you not?”

Banreh looked at the swords poised to cut him. “As did Arigu.”

And there it was: a reminder of Arigu’s double betrayal. Arigu had brought Mesema to the palace at the Empire Mother’s request; he had been hoping to undermine Beyon, and then he had gone to war against Sarmin’s wishes, ignoring his emperor’s many messengers. To be reminded now, even before this small audience, was a humiliation to the throne—but Sarmin, in spite of all of this, did not want Arigu returned to a punishment; he wanted Arigu returned to his command.

Sarmin descended to the tiled floor and stood before Chief Banreh. He needed no tricks of steps and thrones to tower over the man. If the chief died here, in the dungeons or somewhere out in the desert, he was ready. Sarmin could see it in his eyes. What had Banreh lived through that three swords against his neck counted for so little? Curiosity won out over anger.

“So,” Sarmin said, “how does this duke propose to help me?”

“He will teach your mages how to use the pattern to fight Yrkmir.” From all corners of the room rose a startled murmur, and Sarmin struggled to disguise the visceral desire that rose in him.

“Govnan,” he said, without moving his gaze from those steady green eyes, “I put Mura into your care. I trust she will remember herself once she is in the Tower.”

“Majesty.” The mages removed themselves and closed the doors behind them.

He had one last question for the chief. “Tell me, where is this duke who offers Cerana so much?”

“I do not know.”

“A lie.” Sarmin had no choice. “You, Chief, will go to the dungeon. You will tell us where your duke is hiding, and you will tell us anything else we want to know.” He thought of the duke somewhere in the sands, the awesome power of the pattern at his fingertips, and wondered whether his offer could possibly have been honest. Perhaps it was, and the duke erred only in his choice of messenger.

Either way, it would not bring back Sarmin’s pattern-sight. Gritting his teeth, he motioned to his sword-sons.

As the men lifted Banreh to his feet, the chief’s gaze moved past Sarmin to where Mesema stood beside the throne and for the first time, his calm left him. Sarmin saw the emotion full on his face before the sword-sons turned and walked him from the room.

Sarmin stood on the shining tiles, watching the blue that reflected from his robes. He knew Mesema had been in love with Banreh; she had told him so. But that Banreh had loved Mesema—that had never occurred to him before. It should not matter, but it did, and now he was unsteadied by an unfamiliar sensation, as irrational as it was overwhelming. His hands curled into fists and he found he could not turn to look at his wife.

“Arigu is alive,” said Nessaket, behind him. “It is a miracle.”

“The man cannot be trusted,” said Mesema. “Have you considered this could be one of Arigu’s games?”

“He would not play games,” said Azeem, “not now. Not after so many of his men have died.”

“Are you certain? He was very happy to play with lives when I knew him.”

“And what would he gain from it?” asked Nessaket.

“Power. Land. A pattern mage in his pocket.” He could hear Mesema’s dislike of Arigu in her voice. He knew well how deep it went.

“You should not speak so,” said Nessaket. “You did not know the general, not truly.”

They fell silent, but for the shuffling of Azeem’s parchments.

“We are no closer to finding Daveed,” said Nessaket with a long sigh.

Daveed. Sarmin’s heart, already heavy, dropped to the floor. The Mogyrks had taken his only living brother, and this man—this duke, this enemy of the White Hat Army—now offered his aid. It could only be a trick, a distraction from his search for Daveed. Sense and history dictated he could not allow a pattern mage so close to Nooria. He must push aside his own desire for pattern-sight and see the situation with clear eyes. The answer was obvious.

“Chief Banreh will be put to the question,” Sarmin said. “We will find this duke where he hides in the desert, kill him, and bring our General Arigu back to Nooria.”