Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken Read Online Free PDF Page B

she looked long at Mesema before making her exit. As she disappeared beyond the doors he felt a small tug, as if a string had been cut inside him. But that had happened long ago, and the familiar desolation touched him only briefly.
    Sarmin turned his attention to the soldier. ‘You are dismissed.’
    The room held silent until the doors were closed once more, then erupted into chaos.
    ‘The Mogyrks have done this!’
    ‘We cannot stand for it, Magnificence!’
    ‘We must raid their churches, slaughter all the rebels,’ said General Merkel, grabbing at the hilt of his sword as if a Yrkman stood before him. ‘Herran knows where they are – why does he not tell us?’
    ‘Indeed, Herran … where is he?’ Satrap Honnecka raised a finger to Azeem. ‘Call for the master spy at once!’ At this Dinar of Herzu smiled, the only man in the room to take joy from the situation.
    Mesema brushed Sarmin’s shoulder, the briefest of touches, and he remembered himself, raising a hand. ‘I can hear all of you, even if you are not screaming.’
    General Hazran of the Blue Shields, always more measured, rubbed at his beard. ‘It is certainly possible the Mogyrks are responsible. It could be the prelude to something greater. Vizier Azeem, could you read once again the report from Fryth?’
    Azeem shuffled his parchments, playing for time. It had disquieted him. The first time he had read the report, the courtiers had called it absurd. They had called into question Herran’s wisdom in employing certain spies, who sent reports designed to deceive them about the state of their enemy. Such is the ability of many to forget all that has gone before.
    At last Azeem lifted the missive and read in a clear, well-accented voice, ‘Word from traders who have passed through Fryth is beginning to filter into Nooria. The news is strange: reports of men reduced to flesh and broken bone, of a silent valley where no bird sings … and the rulers and generals who were there short months ago are nowhere to be found in the empty cities and farms. And everywhere, pennants fly the red and white emblem of Yrkmir.’

5

Govnan
    Govnan made his way down the narrow street, his rock-sworn acolyte Moreth right behind. A butcher’s-alley stench grew stronger with every step, and the dingy, windowless buildings rising high on either side blocked the moonlight and trapped the air at nose level. The guards had removed all citizens except for the witnesses, who waited in a coffee house nearby, so he and Moreth met nobody as they walked, heard nothing except the click of Govnan’s staff against the stone. The houses at the end of the street tilted in so much their roofs met at odd angles, making the passage so narrow Govnan was forced to turn sideways in places.
    ‘There’s a step – be careful,’ murmured Moreth. The rock-sworn occasionally helped him down the stairs, and had developed a protective air.
    ‘My eyes are not so old they cannot see.’
    On the other side of the gap houses receded, leaving a rough open circle, a well in the centre, wide enough to set up three stalls and some barrels. Lantern-light revealed nothing tipped over or broken. The marketplace looked in order, except for the lumps of flesh on the ground and a dizzying odour of death.
    Herran had provided them with cloths soaked in camphor and Govnan pressed one to his nose and mouth. A guardsmanwaited at attention beside a cart covered with dripping red paste.
    As he approached the guardsman said, ‘This was pomegranate, High Mage.’
    ‘I see.’ Govnan turned to look at what lay on the ground – human, he thought, as shreds of clothing could be seen among the gore. Bones had snapped and turned out towards the sky, and the skin had either melted or turned inwards. Intestines slithered out onto the stone, glistening in the firelight. He choked back bile. He did not know whether a physician or a butcher would be better able to tell man from woman. And there were five more such