The Tower of Fear

by Glen Cook

  There were other quarters beyond the wall but they weren’t even considered New City. They did not interest bel-Sidek or the General. The General’s authority extended only to the wall.

  Bel-Sidek posted himself at the door, to greet the General’s heirs as they arrived.

  “Good evening, King,” the General said. “Make yourself comfortable. You’re several minutes early.” His tone said he understood that meant King had something to say before the others arrived-and he did not approve.

  King always arrived early. King always had something to say about the others. He was a petty, spiteful, back-stabbing, exasperating man working on getting himself designated heir apparent to a sick old man.

  He had his good side, his uses, his talents, not the least of which was his ability to swim in the social waters inhabited by the big fish of the Herodian occupation. His courage he had proven at Dak-es-Souetta.

  Dabdahd said, “I saw Sagdet on my way here. He said he wouldn’t be coming.”

  “Indeed? And why not?”

  King did look chagrined as he said, “You know I’ve never been shy about expressing my opinion of Sagdet, nor reluctant to report his shortcomings and pecadillos, but tonight I’ll restrict myself to the observation that Ortbal Sagdet no longer feels he is bound by your authority. Maybe Salom Edgit will state it for him.”

  Dabdahd talked that way. Like he was making speeches he had rehearsed. Bel-Sidek thought he probably had.

  Salom Edgit ran the Tro and was Sagdet’s crony. His record at Dak-es-Souetta was a match for the best, but he had changed since then. Bel-Sidek thought of him as an onion rotting slowly from the heart outward, layer by layer.

  Salom Edgit arrived only moments after King finished. He looked at the man from the Astan and seemed disappointed. Bel-Sidek suspected he’d had something he’d wanted to say before the others arrived, too.

  Bel-Sidek considered the two. Dabdahd was a tall man but slim, courageous enough but small at heart. Edgit was a slight man, short, still tough and gutsy, but somehow he had lost the vision that had breathed life into the Living. His autonomy had died. He seemed to have become a chameleon, changing to look more and more like Ortbal Sagdet.

  Carza and Zenobel arrived together. Bel-Sidek was sure that was significant. Those two had no use for one another. The only thing they had in common was their dedication to the cause. Each bordered on being a fanatic. But they disagreed fundamentally on strategy.

  Zenobel wanted to build a strong secret army of patriots that could be wielded in one furious hammer stroke. In the Shen he was doing things his way. The Shen was as quiet and trustworthy as the Astan.

  Carza’s vision was apocalyptic. He wanted to bring down the fire. He wanted to temper Qushmarrah in a holocaust that would rid the city of human dross and consume the invaders. He did not expect to survive the fire himself.

  He was willing to pay the price.

  The General was not.

  Carza was always a moment of frustration short of breaking away and raising the standard of holy war.

  The General made a sign indicating that bel-Sidek should remain where he was. When the newcomers had settled, he said, “Disturbing events in the Hahr two days ago, khadifas.” The strength of his voice surprised everyone. “Eighteen soldiers identified by citizens and executed by the Dartars.”

  Salom Edgit said, “The traitors will be rooted out and slaughtered.”

  “No. They will not. They were driven to it. When a man’s supposed guardian becomes more savage and rapacious than his avowed enemies, what is he to do? I have investigated, Salom. The people of the Hahr have been provoked beyond endurance. There will be no reprisals.”

  Edgit snapped, “We let a bunch of shopkeepers and artisans get away with betraying us? The policy from the beginning has been...”

  “There will be no reprisals, Salom. None. The Living have heard what those people were saying. There will be no more extortion. Those who fail to heed this directive will be replaced. Am I clear?”

  Edgit fumed. Twice he started to speak, thought better of it.

  After a half minute of silence, during which bel-Sidek tortured himself trying to understand how the old man could have probed events in the Hahr, the General said, “Let us consider al-Akla’s motives for doing what he did. Eighteen soldiers taken and executed without questioning. The first implication is obvious. He wishes to place his men in a favorable light while sparing the consciences of those who denounced them.

  “But the Eagle flies high and far. His vision isn’t that simple. His action could suggest that he had no need to question those men because he already knew everything they could have told him. An unpleasant supposition but plausible considering the way things are run in the Hahr.

  “Be still, Salom. This senile old man, who doesn’t have the grace to die and leave you to the spoils, isn’t finished.”

  Bel-Sidek watched carefully as Edgit fought the temper for which he was well known. Bel-Sidek wondered, and expected Salom was wondering, if the old man wasn’t trying to provoke an outburst.

  The General continued, “What message was Fa’tad sending us when he killed our men? What else is in his mind? The Eagle soars on the high wind, above everyone and everything, but he is also like the sea. He has dark deeps, and many secrets lie hidden within them. We don’t know what surprises might surface from them.”

  No one said a word, though the General let silence expand till it became a rushing cold wind pouring through the nighted and frightened hollows in every heart.

  “Carza. Have you surrendered? Have we lost Qushmarrah forever? Have we come to the day of every man for himself?”

  “No sir.”

  “Bel-Sidek?”

  “I have a leg and two arms left. Sir.”

  “Zenobal?”

  “There is no defeat, General.”

  “King?”

  “I am among the living.”

  “Yes. As am I, to the despair of some. But I will not last much longer. I do not need to last. We are close to an event that will make this the year of Qushmarrah’s delivery. We in the active organization need only buy time.”

  For the first time since the meet’s commencement the General suffered a spasm that was too much for will to control. Bel-Sidek straightened, poised to help if summoned.

  But it passed.

  One day it would not.

  “These are my commands. No member shall extort anything-whether monies, goods, or anything else-from any citizen of Qushmarrah. None of the Living shall participate in gangsterism or hooliganism in any form. Anyone guilty will discover that while the lion is old he has a tooth or two left. That is all for tonight. Tomorrow night we will meet again. The khadifa of the Hahr will join us.”

  Salom Edgit concealed surprise ineffectually. Bel-Sidek watched his mouth twitch with words aching to be free, that dared not be spoken.

  The General had asserted his primacy successfully. For the moment.

  As Edgit approached the door, the General said, “Salom, I’ll want your answer tomorrow night.”

  “Answer, sir?”

  “To the question ‘Is Salom Edgit a thief or a soldier?’”

  The old man could barely discern movement as bel-Sidek shut the door. “How did I do, Khadifa?”

  “Superbly, sir. But I’m concerned about the physical price you paid. We’d better get you to bed.”

  The body wanted nothing more. But, “The work isn’t finished. Bring writing materials.”

  Bel-Sidek did as he was instructed, started to settle to take dictation.

  “No. I will do this myself. Put the things here before me.”

  Bel-Sidek obliged again, retreated to the far end of the room. He understood.

  The old man inscribed his message with painstaking effort,

  making no mistakes. He amazed himself, what with his shaking hands and aching flesh. He sanded the ink, folded the paper, inscribed a solitary character on the outside.

  “Now you can pu
t me to bed. Then take that to Muma’s hostelry. Give it to Muma himself. No one else. Insist. Then go spend the night with your widowed friend.” He did not have to caution bel-Sidek against prying. The khadifa would deliver the message unopened.

  “Should we risk having you stay here alone after so much exertion?”

  “We’ll risk it, Khadifa. And I won’t be alone long.”

  That was as much as bel-Sidek needed to know.

  3

  Aaron sat there looking at Naszif, mind void of conversation. Across the room Reyha burbled in Laella’s arms. Naszifs face was pallid and wooden. He had gotten through the amenities by rote. Aaron doubted that he knew who his guests were.

  A part of Aaron insisted that Naszif deserved any misfortune Aram handed him. Another part-the part that so loved Arif and Stafa-empathized. Zouki was Naszifs only son. The only one he would ever have by Reyha. And under Herodian law he could not put her aside, nor could he take a second wife.

  Under Herodian law, which would not have been in place had the Seven Towers held a few more days.

  “Thus do the Fates conspire to render justice,” Aaron muttered. Naszifs eyes unglazed for a moment, but he just looked puzzled, like a man who had heard an inexplicable sound. Then he slipped away into silent torment.

  Laella sped him a look of appeal. It said, Do something! Say something!

  Say what? That he was glad it was Naszif who had the pain? Reyha was her friend. He had brought her so she could do what she could do. More she had no right to ask.

  For all Naszif was a traitor and a bootlicker, though, Aaron had to admit that he cared for his wife and son. Strongly. And in that care, perhaps, the seeds of treason might have found root. Aaron recalled Naszifs growing distress as Reyha’s day had approached. Maybe he had convinced himself that the Herodians would let him run to Reyha if he opened the tower before her time.

  Men had done meaner things for reasons less exalted than love.

  Aaron swallowed. His throat had gone dry. Through that aridity he forced, “They found two children that were stolen. Last week. In the Hahr. Where Goat Creek runs out of that boggy ground they’re always talking about filling but never get around to doing anything about.”

  Naszif began to show signs of interest. Laella sped Aaron a look of gratitude.

  He continued, “The kids were all right. Healthy. Well fed. Decently clothed. They just didn’t remember anything.”

  “Where did you hear that, Aaron? When?” Suddenly, Naszif was all attention. “If there was news like that I think I would have heard.”

  “I heard it yesterday at work. From this old man they call Billygoat. He’s a caulker. He lives across from where they found the kids.”

  Naszifs intensity disturbed Aaron. He had tossed the incident out as a crumb of hope, not because he felt it meant anything. Concerned though he was about Arif, he had given the story no weight. In a city the size of Qushmarrah children would be stolen and a few would turn up again.

  “How could something as important as that happen and the news not be all over the city, Aaron?”

  “Be reasonable. Because it isn’t news. You and me, we got a reason to care. Most people don’t. Only reason Billygoat told me was I was fussing about Arif and he wanted to cheer me up.”

  “But if there were two, maybe there were more. Maybe a lot. And nobody ever said anything.”

  “That’s possible. Good news don’t travel like bad news does.” Aaron noted that Reyha had stopped sobbing and was listening, face alight with irrational hope.

  Naszif said, “I’m going to look into it. I’m going to ask around. Maybe there’s something going on.”

  Aaron wondered what he had started. All he’d wanted was to lend a little support.

  Laella said, “Those Dartars that tried to get Zouki back. They seemed to think the Living did it.”

  Aaron sighed. He had known that would come. Sooner or later. When Laella got an idea in her head she could hang on as long as her mother.

  That’s absurd,” Naszif said.

  “How do you know?”

  Aaron had not repeated bel-Sidek’s assurances for Laella, though she, like everyone in the neighborhood, suspected that the cripple was connected with the Living and might even be important. She did not need more ammunition to be cast into the volleys of gossip flying around the neighborhood.

  “I just know,” Naszif said, and there was a smugness to his declaration that set Aaron’s teeth on edge, that hurled a moral dilemma into his face like a bucket of lava.

  Naszif among the Living? Naszif, who might have been a tool of Herod once before...

  Suddenly, like lightning’s strike, there were a thousand questions to be debated between himself and the ceiling beams. It was going to be a long and sleepless night.

  His abrupt withdrawal excited no interest. Naszif was preoccupied.

  Laella did look at him oddly, though. She would have questions. Whether to answer would be the first decision. If so, then he would have to decide how much he dared reveal...

  Zouki managed to cry himself into a shallow, fitful, whimpering sleep, interrupted often by the outbreak of nightmare from one of the other children in the cage.

  Azel strode into Muma’s Place with no thoughts beyond getting a decent meal and a hot bath, not necessarily in that order. The bath was overdue. Then a long sleep. Tomorrow was soon enough to decide what he’d do with the week or so he would let the Witch stew.

  Ride up to the Elephant Rocks country and do some hunting? Too much like work. Maybe to al-Quarda territory to fish in the sinkholes there. Whatever, wherever, someplace alone. He needed to get away from people and all the chains of duty, honor, loyalty, with which they tried to bind him, trying to jerk him this way and that. He needed to go somewhere where every step was not a step on a tightrope.

  He picked a table out of the way. It was late enough for the place to be quiet and offer him a choice of seating.

  Maybe he ought to let her roast for two weeks. Or even a month. She needed dead time to make her think, time to understand that she was not letting reason be her guide.

  Azel grew wary the instant he spotted Muma. Muma no longer waited tables. Muma no longer stayed awake till this unholy hour. He glanced around carefully, looking for that odd late patron who took special notice of Muma’s remarkable behavior.

  Anyone paying special attention did so with superbly feigned indifference.

  Muma came to Azel’s table.

  “Muma.”

  “Azel.” The proprietor invited himself to sit.

  “You’re up late.”

  “Got dragged out of a warm bed.”

  “I never have liked dropping in here late and finding you up. It’s like coming home and finding vultures perched on the roof trees. You know the news ain’t going to be good.”

  “Uhm.”

  “What is it this time?”

  “What would it be? A message.” Palm flat on the table, Muma pushed something across. “You know the sign.”

  That was not a question.

  “Yeah. How old is it?”

  “Half an hour, tops. Not stinking yet at all.”

  “Hmph! Time to get some food down, then.”

  “You know the sign.”

  “I got to take time to read the damned thing, don’t I?” “I suppose. What do you want?”

  “Something portable. This is bound to tell me to go somewhere and do something two hours before it was written.”

  “Be right back with something.” Muma hoisted himself up and waddled away.

  Azel read the message. Come to me as soon as you receive this. There was no signature.

  Elegantly simple. Nothing there to tell Herodian or Dartar a thing. Even the sign on the outside, a crudely drawn palm sparrow, had no obvious or suspect meaning or symbolism. If it fell into enemy hands it was unlikely to excite any interest, unless by circumstance.

  Muma came back with a loaf and a lump of a vigorous goafs-milk cheese. Azel
muttered, “It must be my day for gourmet dining.” “You’re going out?”

  “Of course. What else? Are your sons awake? I don’t see any trouble around, but it’s the kind you don’t see that catches you up.”

  “They’re awake. I told them. They’ll cover you.” Meaning anyone who tried to follow him would be in for some major distress.

  Azel stood, handed a coin across, collected his provender. “Later, Muma.” “Good luck.”

  “With him I may need it.”

  The night had grown cool and clammy. Dew had started to form. Down nearer the harbor it would be getting foggy. The air was still as death. His heels sent echoes frolicking through the night. He did not sense anyone following him. He saw no sign of Muma’s sons. But they were good. They would not be seen, unless by a watcher a moment before the risks of his trade caught up.

  Nevertheless, Azel took his usual detour through the Shu maze, where the only way a follower could stay on him would be by sorcery. He knew the maze well enough to walk it eyes closed at midnight.

  In places it was just as dark at noon.

  He left the maze for Char Street through the same alleyway he had used that afternoon. Fog had gotten that far up the hill already. He turned right.

  And three steps later nearly collided with a man and woman coming downhill. He muttered an apology as, startled, they dodged around him. His own damned fault, walking on cat feet, listening for footsteps behind him and paying no attention at all to the path ahead. He followed their hasty footsteps and urgent, whispered reassurances without turning his head. He let his heels fall like those of an honest man so they would know he hadn’t doubled back on them.

  He walked a hundred yards past his destination, then crossed Char Street and returned downhill on quiet feet. A hundred yards below his destination he crossed again and walked uphill. There was no sign of the couple he had startled. Nor were there any of the watchers against whom his maneuver was directed. He had not expected any, but when you had an al-Akla and a Cado finagling on the occupier’s side you took precautions.

  He glided to the door and inside with serpentine grace.