purchase. Looking into that void had left him drained. The Many felt fewer in his mind.
Govnan looked worried. “I had hoped you might-No? Maybe that is best. If Helmar’s pattern made the fracture through which this bleeds then perhaps more pattern working would only tear the hole wider still.”
“What can the tower do, then?” Sarmin asked.
Govnan frowned, starting at the screens as if in search of inspiration. His body hunched, shoulders raised in the effort to will a solution. At last he shook his head. “It takes substance. Perhaps a rock-sworn mage might strengthen the stone to resist it. A wind-sworn mage might teach the air to hold its essence more tightly.” A shrug. “If it is hungry and we feed it, the void might lose its appetite for other things… a water-sworn mage might steer a stream from the Blessing and seek to drown this thing, if we had one.”
Notheen said nothing, only his eyes showed above the veil and beneath his cowl, and yet he managed to look unimpressed. “In the end there will be only desert. My people have always known this.”
“And that’s the total of nomad wisdom on the subject?” Sarmin kept the frustration from his voice.
“Even if the high mage can slow this advance, it is not good to be near this.” He waved his hand at the tomb. “The emptiness spreads beyond the boundary where all things are undone. Djinn will feel its pull and come to haunt this place. The nothing will echo in some of those who serve you, they will fall empty and sicken… There is no good thing here now. The wisdom of my people is in our name. Nomads. Seccan Thaleen we call ourselves, “blown before the storm”. You should find a new place, Sarmin emperor. This one is undone.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rorrin and Grada occupied themselves with the stalls outside the Blessing Gate. Many merchants traded within the shadow of the walls, enjoying city trade without the full requirement for licenses and tax. Some said stall-holders bribed the gate guards to keep the queue for entry near stationary so that visitors would buy their wares out of boredom if nothing else.
“It’s copper coloured, I grant you.” Rorrin flipped the pot over in one hand and flicked the base to make it chime. “Doesn’t sing like copper, though. I find its voice sharp and lacking melody.” He shopped with heart although he bought only citronel pods and later some roasted ground nuts sprinkled with the pollen of desert rose. To watch him Grada could believe Rorrin had no greater desire than to bilk the traders of their profit.
Rorrin put the cooking pot back with the others and allowed himself to glance at the approaching caravan. It had been turning heads for a little while, some citizens stopping to stare, little boys clambering up the palms lining the approach to the Blessing Gate.
“Foreigners,” he said, spitting for good measure.
“How can you tell?” Grada wondered if the slave wagons were rumbling 76 along in the wake of this new caravan or whether they had changed course as she feared.
“The covers come to a peak. It’s the style in Fryth and Mythyck. The cloth is faded but hints at blue-which more than hints at Fryth. Someone important going on the size of the escort. Those White Hat are service units in from seeing action, they’re not dressed for show. I’d say we’re looking at royal prisoners, or some kind of envoy.”
They watched the approach. Outriders came in to disperse the queue at the gates, showing no patience with anyone who objected. Close up Grada could see dented shields, torn clothing, rusty blood stains, and short tempers in evidence. “It’s an envoy,” she said. “Our forces must have been repulsed.” Some among the crowd started to hoot, to call down curses upon the Frythian devils. For a moment Grada bristled at the idea of any defeat, her blood rising with the anger of the crowd. Cerani troops driven back by mere Fryth! It took a moment to recall that Sarmin had wanted peace, had demanded this very thing. She took control of herself, shocked at how infectious the mob’s mood was-at how easily people put aside reason in favour of taking sides.
The White Hats dealt out blows with fist and spear haft until the crowd fell into sullen silence. The caravan commander clearly had orders to make this a welcome. Preventing it from being a stoning was perhaps the most he could hope for.
The wagons drew closer now and Grada could see the Fryth wagons with their faded blues and narrow wheels among the Cerani army wagons, and further back along the column, flanked by White Hat spearmen, two carriages, each decortated with angular carvings exotic to her eye, blued and gilded.
That Rorrin had recognised their origin and deduced so much in so short a time reminded Grada that whatever favours she might have she was still an untouchable, with all the lack of education and ignorance that entailed. Her early life had been spent focused on survival in a particular handful of alleys, before Sarmin the sum total of her life had been played out within perhaps a single square mile of Nooria. And here was the world arriving at her doorstep once more, reminding her how very large and how very strange it was.
The carriages passed, the first less grand, with shades closed. White Hat guards marched briskly beside, spears over their shoulders.
“Scribes and personal servants, most like,” Rorrin said. “Maybe an honour guard.”
The second carriage rattled by, a golden eagle spreading gleaming wings atop its finial. The carriage windows stood open to catch the air and Grada stared at the men within. The closer man met her gaze between the passing spears as he went by, leaving her with an impression of indigo. A larger man sat to his left, broad cheekbones, a brutal face. And they were gone.
“What did you see?” Rorrin asked.
“Two men. They were gone so-”
“Don’t speak. Close your eyes and see them. They are still there on the back of your eyelids. Describe them to me.”
“I can’t-”
“Do it.”
So Grada closed her eyes and let the images flow. After a minute, stood without motion among the jostling ill-tempered crowd, she spoke.
“He wore a helm, despite the heat. The closer one, the younger one. An inlaid golden eagle in flight decorated it. His jacket, deep blue… almost black. Shiny buttons with that eagle again.” Grada wondered if she were making it up. How would she even have made out eagles on buttons? “He had dark hair where it showed, like charcoal, dull. Blue eyes, a strange deep blue. No beard, an artist’s face, delicate, angled. The other man was bare-headed, short yellow hair, some kind of robe, black I think. He looked like a warrior.”
“His robes were red. That was an austere. One of their priests. Very dangerous. They have magic that actually works! Not just smoke and fancy words. The other will be the envoy. Some relative of the Iron Duke I expect. In any event, not bad-you see more than you know and more than most.” Rorrin snorted. “You can open your eyes now, you know. Probably best if you did. The slave wagon just went by!”
“What!” Grada opened her eyes, blinking against the light.
They hastened to the gates, stepping around the fresh piles left by horse and camel, and following through behind the wagons without delay, the queues not yet having reformed as people continued to stand in hot debate about what it all meant.
Beyond the Blessing Gate lay the wide plaza of Satreth surrounded on each side with great warehouses, huge sandstone buildings carved so grandly that many newcomers mistook them for temples. Incoming merchants drove their livestock or cargo to be unloaded at the various bays while Noorians in their hundreds busied themselves in a score of different roles, an organised chaos designed to devour what the outside world fed in.
“We should follow.” Grada tried to shake off Rorrin’s grip as the slave wagon rumbled between two tall feed halls at the stock market.
“Meere will watch them,” he said, releasing her as she ceased to struggle.
“Meere!” Grada spat. “Meere, Meere, Meere. I don’t think there is any Meere. I’ve not seen sign of him for all your talk.”
Rorrin shrugged without offence and turned back along the crowded street.
“Who’s he supposed to be then? This Meere of yours.”
