The Tower of Living and Dying

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‘Because March won’t see how tasteless they are.’

They were led to their couches, very close to Elis and Leada, in a group of four with Darath and a friend of Bil’s. Orhan squirmed a moment. Waiting for Bil to say something bitter. She frowned then smiled at Darath. The bright carapace she had drawn up around herself, hard and polished and silent, unreadable as glass. Or no, let us be charitable, thought Orhan: a child coming, and such power and status in her hands. It was like this a long time ago, Orhan thought, the three of us, and I hoped it would work then, and perhaps it can work now. Ameretha Ventuel said words praising the beauty of Bil’s dress, got on to asking about the preparations for the nursery, had Bil decided on clout cloths yet, who was making the Naming Dress, what about filling for the bedding, lilac petals or rose? Bil smiled more sweetly and relaxed herself, though Orhan could see Darath next to her burning into her and her nerves edgy underneath; but he would not give up sitting next to Darath any more now for her so she would have to manage, the three of them would have to manage, because love and pride and honour and happiness; he would not break his heart again after what he had done and made Darath do.

‘They make a charming couple,’ said Ameretha, twisting a long white neck towards the bride and groom on their couch. ‘Look almost as though they’re enjoying themselves.’

‘Elis protests too much,’ said Darath, ‘they’ll be fine.’

The sweet faced servants brought them dishes of candied dogs’ hearts, green lotus roots stewed in red vinegar, cold boiled doves’ eggs three days off hatching, cimma fruit with sandfish cutlets, unborn goats’ tongues in jellied hot sauce, iced wine (as the heat mounted Darath had toyed with the idea of scrapping the prepared menu and serving only roast meats and hot punch). March made a long rambling speech about marital harmony, visibly licking his lips at his daughter’s new home. Elis toasted his bride and managed to get her name right. The dogs’ hearts in particular were superb.

‘I want to go home now,’ said Bil. She was getting more and more tired in the hot weather, but complained every morning about being unable to sleep. The swell of her body seemed to be sucking at her like a stone drawing up heat.

‘If you like.’ Darath was drinking too much and rolling his eyes at the speeches, and the wreath was still poking Orhan in the side of the head. A good time being had by most and sundry, so yes, fine, time to go home.

‘We’ve only just finished eating,’ said Darath as Orhan got to his feet. ‘You can’t slip off before the bride and groom.’

‘Bil’s exhausted.’

‘Oh, Bil can leave.’ Darath gestured to a server to refill his cup. ‘No, go. Virtuous as you are, escorting your wife home. Such a good man, isn’t he, Bilale? I’m sure Elis will be the same.’ His face changed, the same endless strained weariness Orhan felt. Concern in his eyes. ‘Take care, going home.’

The heat dust was almost obscuring the stars, so that for a moment Orhan hoped it had clouded over and might rain. If the heat breaks, he had begun to find himself thinking, things will settle again. It seemed some kind of wager with himself: if I can just get through until this … until that … Beneath the closed drapes of the litter, with Bil’s pregnant body, after several cups of drink, it was stifling. Sweat ran down Bil’s forehead, gathered in the hollow between her breasts. In the darkness, her scars were less visible: many men, Orhan supposed, would find the traceries of her body attractive, there in the hot dark. She seemed heavier, graver, like an old statue, her skin so white and her hair so beautifully gloriously red. She blew air onto her face in an attempt to cool it, smiled wanly at him.

‘Did you enjoy it, then?’

‘I suppose so. As these things go.’

‘Darath did well with the food, I thought. I should get the recipe for the goat’s tongue.’

‘Yes.’

‘Retha says rose petals, for the bedding. Better for calm temperament.’

‘Oh? Yes, I suppose they would be.’

Bil said, ‘Is March really our enemy, Orhan? Was he really conspiring with the Immish against Sorlost?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Celyse.’

Naturally. Why even bother to ask? Orhan said, ‘Celyse shouldn’t be telling anyone.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘I don’t know,’ Orhan said. That’s not an answer either, he thought. His head was hurting. He thought: I need another drink.

Such slow going, with the swarm of guards around them with knives out. Bizarre and absurd, that they could possibly need that many. Orhan had a knife, too, tucked quietly beneath the litter cushions, his hand resting on the hilt. Patterned metal slick with sweat. Yet it still felt … absurd, to need so many guards. Orhan shoved off the wreath; the flowers were sagging despite the enchantments on them, petals crushed and brown. They felt grainy, like they’d been crystallized and left to go rotten, unpleasant, like rotting ice. A funny smell to them now. It filled the litter. Maybe cover the scents of sweat and wine and two people’s bellies over-stuffed with food. Bil sighed and stared out through the green curtain, giving up attempting to talk. I wonder if she’ll take one of the new guards as a lover? Orhan thought. Or already has? The gates of the House of the East swung open before them, the litter passed through, the gates shutting again noiselessly, sealing themselves. Relative safety, unless an assassin could climb a wall. The litter servants helped them carefully down, guards still flanking them, watching, torches raised to check for shadows that might be men with drawn blades. Elis might be taking Leada up to bed by now, Orhan thought. Darath no doubt cheering as he followed behind. He handed Bil carefully in through the pearl doorway.

‘Good night, Bil.’

She frowned. ‘You’re going back out?’

‘I am.’

‘Where?’

None of your business. Where do you think? We agreed, once, that we wouldn’t ask these things, either of us. She sighed, walked away. She wasn’t sleeping with any of the new guards, Orhan thought.

‘Be careful, Orhan.’

‘I’ll go in the litter. With half the guards. Order the rose blossom tomorrow, then, if you like.’ His head was aching. The litter was foetid with sweat and flatulence. Candied dogs’ hearts gave a man truly terrible wind.

The litter bearers went slowly. Tired out, like everything. The streets still swam with people. In the heat sleep was painful, so they wandered endlessly around the city day and night. At the House of Flowers the wedding feast was ending. Feathers and sequins and gemstones and flakes of paint and flower petals were scattered over marble floors. The detritus of beautiful wealth. Servants smiled in the corners, had probably made bets on whether he’d come back. Darath smiled in his bedroom doorway, held out his arms.

The bride and groom went the next morning to pray and light candles at the Temple; Orhan and Darath and March and Eloise went with them as bride and groom’s kin. The mad-eyed child High Priestess knelt ragged before the altar as she did now even on days when there was no sacrifice waiting, chewing on long fingers red ragged bloody at the tips. Glorious omen! But people tried now not to care. Days passed: Darath hung around Orhan’s bedroom complaining of the strangeness of having a woman living in his house; Bil slunk in her chambers, brittlely restless, swollen like a bluebottle in the heat. The hot weather continued, the world red and sweat-sticky, dust in heaps on the pavements, trees withering in the heat. Stone walls too hot to put a hand on. Plaster and gilding crumbling into more dust. Orhan stared dully at old ledgers in the palace offices, dictated letters, tried to govern an empire of one decaying city in a desert of yellow sand.

And then ten days after the wedding Darath came to Orhan’s study to tell him in triumph that March was dead.

‘How did he die?’ Orhan asked. He hadn’t heard anything. Must have been sudden. Or his spies were even more useless than he’d thought. But it still must have been sudden. Celyse would have been round to tell him otherwise. She’d already passed on the news that Elis had bedded Leada four times so far and the girl had very much enjoyed every moment of it. So that was something else Orhan would now go to his grave unable to forget.

‘He technically hasn’t. Yet. Soon. Tomorrow, maybe the day after. By Lansday, anyway, or I’ll sue the man who sold it me for false trade.’

‘That’s—’ Orhan looked up at Darath’s glittering eyes. ‘God’s knives, Darath, what did you use?’

‘I told you I’d take care of it. I have. You really want to know?’

‘No! No. Yes.’ Dear Lord. Dear Lord. Great Tanis have mercy.

‘Deadgold leaves and sysius root and beetle’s wings and bear’s gall and powdered lead.’ It sounded like a lullaby. ‘Poured in his wine with his lunch today. He complained of the sour taste but the man who gave it to him told him it was the heat affecting his tongue.’

‘I …’ God’s knives, Darath. ‘I mean …’

‘You mean: “thank you, beloved of my heart, for killing the man who tried to kill me so I don’t have to do it myself”.’

‘I … Yes … But … I mean …’ But, I mean: it’s such a horrible, horrible way to die.

‘This way everyone will think it’s heat flux. You would have done it all nicely with something cool and sleep-inducing and obvious like sana fruit? Would that have made you feel better about it?’

‘I …’ Silence. The ox heavy on Orhan’s tongue.

‘Your plans, Orhan my love, have led to my brother saddling himself with an unwanted wife. Your plans have led to me being stuck with said wife strolling round my house like she owns the place. Your plans have cost me a great deal of money and almost seen both of us fucking killed. If I want to do something to help you the way I want to, you should thank me.’

And there’s nothing to say to that. Orhan looked at Darath and Darath looked at Orhan.

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, your gratitude is like music.’

‘Thank you.’ Orhan took Darath’s hand, held it to his cheek. Hot and angry. His face and Darath’s hand. Long drawn silence, where they could hear the click of a house servant somewhere going about the house with a bucket and broom. The drapery at the windows fanned out with a snap. The air changing. A hot wind. In the central gardens the birds in the lilac trees felt it, rose up a moment all together in a puff like a skein of silk unravelling then came back to roost.

‘You’re welcome.’ A grunt. Grudging. Darath sat down again, leaning back in his chair. Orhan sat again also. The wind banged at the windows again, the open shutters creaking, hiss of sand blowing onto the marble floor. In her desiccation I am entombed in ecstasies of rain. Doesn’t some poet say somewhere that life is like the sand wind, blasting heat teetering on the edge of a storm from which one will never get relief? A house servant came hurrying in to close the shutters, the room dark for a moment before the candles were lit.

‘We hired a troop of sellswords to assassinate the Emperor,’ said Darath. ‘We killed hundreds of people, we killed Tam Rhyl, we almost burned the palace down. We desecrated the Great Temple. We’ve told so many lies I can barely keep up. We did all that because you told me March Verneth was conspiring with the Immish, that the Immish would invade the city, that the world would be over if we didn’t do something. Remember? Remember, Orhan? All those things you told me? “The city’s dying, Darath. The Empire’s a joke. The Immish will come with twenty thousand men and a mage, and we’ll fall in days.” “We’re too weak, the way we are, sitting on our piles of gold pretending nothing exists beyond our walls. We need to be ready. And yes, that does mean blood.” Remember?’ Pause. Cold eyes. ‘And now you’re getting squeamish about March dying?’ Slammed his fist down, hard, on the arm of his chair. ‘I could have died that night, Orhan. Stop claiming morality at me.’

God’s knives, thought Orhan, God’s knives, Darath, what have I done to you?

‘I—’

Darath shouted, ‘Stop bleating “I” like a bloody goat.’

They sat and looked at each other. The wind smashing on the shutters. Flickering candlelight.

A tap on the door, an anxious-faced door keep. Orhan snapped at him, ‘What?’

Poor wretch. Hardly his fault, he’d had to come up this moment, hear this. Terrified fear in the man he’d be punished. Dismissed. ‘Excuse me, My Lord. My Lords. Lady Amdelle is waiting downstairs.’

Celyse. Dear sister. Thank her and curse her for turning up now. Orhan rubbed at his eyes, wiping away tears. Celyse came in in a sweep of satin, rearranging dusty hair.

‘Lord of Living and Dying, it’s horrible out there. My bearers were being blown around like flagpoles and the curtains were almost ripped off. I should have gone back home, sent a note.’ She stopped when she saw Darath and Orhan’s faces. ‘Shall I leave again?’

Darath got up with a crisp, angry smile. ‘No need. I was just leaving myself anyway.’

Her face changed. Recognized Orhan so very much wanted Darath to stay, perhaps. A clever woman, his sister. Even sometimes a kind one. ‘You’ll want to hear this too, Darath. March is sick. Took to his bed this hour past with a fever. Very sudden, it came on.’

Darath said, ‘Do they know what it is?’

‘The rumour among the servants is heat flux.’ Celyse said after a moment, ‘But you two know exactly what it is and so I’ve come to ask you.’

And there’s nothing to say to that. Orhan looked at Darath and Darath looked at Orhan.

They sat and looked at each other. Wind smashing on the shutters. Flickering candlelight.

‘You really think people aren’t going to guess?’

‘It’s heat flux,’ said Darath.

‘You could at least act like you’re surprised.’

‘There’s nothing particularly surprising about a man getting heat flux in this heat.’

‘Does it matter what people think?’ said Orhan. ‘Nothing can be proved.’ Darath shot him a look that was part confusion, part sneer. Why are you pretending you did it, Orhan my love? his face said. Just to be even more superior and make me feel even more ashamed? Orhan made a movement with his lips, turned his head away. Why am I pretending I did it? But in the end which is more shameful: killing someone, or asking my lover to kill someone for me because I’m a better person than him and too good to do it myself?

I’m the thing at the centre of this, he thought. The knife. But I’m only trying to build a better world. Make things safe. Make us good again.

And so does Marian Gyste compare love to the storm that is the soul of those few who suffer damnation. Raging heat and noise and madness, not for them the cool eternity of death. Not for me. God lives in His house of waters; Tam and March are dead and gone and damp rot. We who live: we’re the ones who’ll burn.

‘He got to see one of his daughters married,’ said Darath. ‘It would have been very sad if he’d sickened before that.’

‘Is that supposed to be a consolation?’

‘Oh come on, Celyse. You know how this works. Such things were done once without anyone raising an eyebrow. Them or us. You know that.’

‘Them or us because my brother was stupid enough to start this.’

Orhan said, ‘Them or us because things would have gone to pieces in fire if I hadn’t. Them or us to save Sorlost.’

Celyse opened her mouth, closed it again. Wind smashing against the shutters. Hot dry storm without rain or relief. The sky outside would be so dark now like the death of the sun. Sand clouds black-golden like Darath’s hair.

Celyse laughed. ‘My dear fastidious brother. Even you can’t keep your hands clean any longer. You killed people so you could get power. That’s all you did. Kill people. For power.’

Darath laughed.

A tap on the door and Bil came in, heavy and tired and her scars standing out on her face. The heat still sickened her, she spent long hours floating in the cool bathing chamber where her body blurred into the oily water. The skin on her hands was wrinkled, odd white.

‘News,’ she said. ‘March Verneth is sick. Heat flux, they say, or that Lord Emmereth poisoned him at Leada’s wedding feast.’

Celyse clapped her hands to her mouth.

Chapter Sixteen (#ulink_d414207f-6d29-548d-a242-b7422e3c80f2)

When they had all left, Orhan went to his books, tried to work. The ancient tomes of the Imperial ledgers. Give himself something else to worry about.

Any fool could assassinate someone, if they really put their mind to it, as the history of Irlast so often proved. Making things better. That took effort. That was the work. March Verneth is dying. So what? The weary business of remaking the world, that must still go on. This city is dying, the richest empire the world has ever known, her beggars wear silk and satin, eat rotting scraps off plates of gold. Immish and Chathe and the other great powers laugh at us and do not bother to cover their mouths. Sorlost is a dead man’s dreaming. A useless heap of crumbled rock. Weak and defenceless and worn down. But I, Orhan lied to himself every night in the dark, I am a capable man, a learned man, I can change that.

Several streets had been destroyed in the rioting that had followed the attack on the palace. Fine, lofty shops and town houses, and, behind them, tenement buildings with broken-down walls and ceilings, floors running with human sewage, whole families crammed into single windowless rooms. ‘Tear them all down,’ Orhan had ordered, ‘rebuild them, clean them up.’

‘And the cost, My Lord Nithque?’ Secretary Gallus had asked him.

‘Levy a tax on something. Appeal to the goodwill of the high families. Borrow it.’

‘And the cost of expanding the Imperial army, My Lord Nithque?’

‘Levy a tax on something. Appeal to the goodwill of the high families. Borrow it.’

‘We do not need an expanded army. We do not need to rebuild a few ruined houses. This is Sorlost!’ the Emperor and the Emperor’s High Lords told him curtly, when he suggested any of these things.

The outbreak of deeping fever in Chathe had flared up again. Worse than before. The gates must be closed again to Chathean travellers, trade would suffer, everyone from the hatha addicts in the gutters to the High Lords who refused to fund his army would complain.