Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken Read Online Free Page A

Mesema said. ‘They are prejudiced against your kind.’ Untouchable, Sarmin had called her. It was in her eyes.
    ‘I am not the only spy the emperor commands, heaven bless him.’
    ‘I have made your work more difficult.’ Something compelled Mesema to continue talking, to wrap words around her actions until they came up clean. She had run out into the city, impulsive and arrogant, thinking to save Daveed with a map and blue light. Now men had paid for it with their lives.
    Grada glanced over her shoulder and offered spare words of comfort. ‘They will be forced to play their hand sooner now, and that may help us.’
    ‘Their hand? Is there another Mogyrk conspiracy?’ So focused had she been on Daveed that she had never thought there might be more at risk: another mistake she had made.
    Grada quickened her pace without answering, almost skipping down the endless stairs, and Mesema had to hurry to keep up. She was no longer that girl who had run across the plains without tiring; now her lungs burned in her chest. ‘I will tell the emperor about this myself, may the gods bless him.’
    ‘It would be as well that you do, for I do not bother his Majesty with unimportant news.’
    Mesema’s errand had not felt trivial. Anger flashed over her, renewing her pride. ‘You cannot speak to me this way. I am your empress.’
    Grada touched the Knife at her side. ‘In the city I am in control, so that I may keep you alive. In the palace you may do as you like.’ She had the right of it; the emperor’s Knife was not just any member of the Grey Service. She could make decisions of life or death over any royal person, including Sarmin himelf. Grada served the empire, and in the way she saw fit. It was all in that ugly weapon.
    They descended the rest of the way in silence, Mesema praying her legs did not give out on her.
    At the bottom of the hill Grada stopped and listened, givingMesema a chance to catch her breath. ‘There are rebels fighting around the edges of the Maze,’ she said. ‘We will take a different path.’
    Mesema could hear nothing but she followed Grada without a word, holding tightly to her veil. She had not realised the Maze was so close. They took a circular path to the bridge she had crossed before, where the crowds had thinned and a man dressed all in black pushed a broom over the stones. By the time they passed through the covered market the sun had settled beyond the river and vendors were packing up their stalls. They turned onto the broad avenue leading past the Tower and Mesema recalled the beginning of her day and the sense of rightness she had carried: it seemed distant. A man approached, stumbling, smelling of alcohol, and Grada put herself between him and Mesema until he had disappeared around the next corner.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said, but Grada did not reply.
    In the evening those who had failed to gain an audience filled the streets around the palace. Every sunset they could be seen from the roof, some well-dressed and moving with angry impatience, others in rags, stumbling. Occasionally a carriage, moving fast, entered the street and forced everyone to scatter, or a merchant’s cart would move through, offering fruit or drink to the petitioners.
    Mesema and Grada moved against the flow, coming towards the palace instead of leaving it. Then Grada took her arm and pulled her into the shadow of a doorway. ‘Soldiers,’ she said. ‘Best they don’t see you.’
    At first Mesema could see only a disturbance, walkers and carts flowing to either side like water around a great stone, but as the group drew close she recognised the squad of BlueShields, approaching the palace with brisk steps. They looked straight ahead, hands curled around the hilts of their swords. As a child in wartime Mesema had become accustomed to judging what sort of news a person had by their bearing. Stiff and nervous, these soldiers had come to report something bad. The two women waited for them to pass, and then a