The Tower of Fear

by Glen Cook

  Mahdah and Kosuth came out carrying a corpse. It was not fresh enough to be one they had made. Its face had been obliterated by a beating. Entrails hung out through tatters that served as clothing. They dropped it amongst the prisoners.

  The veydeen man-Aaron?-grabbed his older son’s shoulder and said, “Come on, Arif.” He moved out fast.

  Mahdah and Kosuth watched him go. Mahdah asked, “What was that?”

  Medjhah said, “Too complicated to explain. What’s this?” Kosuth was not in a good temper. “What the hell does it look like?”

  Mahdah was less upset. “Came out of the same nest as these beauties. They must have been having some fun in there last night.”

  Medjhah dropped his lancehead toward the one prisoner who had a little spirit, who might have been the leader of the group. He slipped the tip under the man’s nose and lifted, forcing him to look up or be cut. “You’ll find us more imaginative but no less certain. Unless you care to help us?” The man spat at Medjhah.

  Medjhah drew the razor-sharp edge of his lancehead along the man’s cheek.

  Yoseh turned away from that casual cruelty-and let out a bark of astonishment. “Medjhah! That man! The one who took the boy... Hell! He’s gone now.”

  Medjhah said something to Mahdah and Kosuth, came over. “The one Fa’tad wants?”

  “Yes. I saw him up the street. But he disappeared in the crowd.”

  “Let’s take a walk. See what we can see.” He gave Yoseh a gentle push. “You go up the far side of the street.”

  They climbed halfway to the acropolis, saw nothing, gave it up. It was time, anyway. There were other things to do. The masons had arrived with their mud bricks and tools and somebody had to show them where Nogah wanted two maze passages sealed.

  Too, Joab was working his way up the hill, stopping to give instructions to the watchers outside the alleys.

  Tamisa’s mother and sister returned from marketing. Yoseh watched, wondering if Tamisa would age as they had. He barely overheard Joab tell Medjhah to tell Nogah that he should leave three men in the alley overnight. Fa’tad had been running units in and out the Gate of Autumn all morning. The ferrenghi could not have kept track of how many were inside and how many were out.

  Yoseh wondered if even Joab knew what Fa’tad had in mind.

  Yoseh was amused when he heard Medjhah take his earlier notion and turn it into a suggestion that some men be clad as veydeen if they were going to be left in the city. Joab looked like that was about the craziest idea he’d ever heard.

  Sadat Agmed had been stalking his quarry for six days, with no luck, and he was out of patience. It was not that the child was abnormally inaccessible. No more so than any daughter of a well-to-do family of the Astan. But she was inaccessible enough. He’d seen her only three times since he’d received the commission from the Witch.

  He hated collecting girls. They were much more difficult.

  He had spent too much time on this one already. People would remember seeing him around. He ought to report in, say he could not do the job, let her give it to somebody who could. But he had not failed a commission yet. There was pride at stake here.

  A woman-the mother?-came out of the house, leading the little girl. They followed the same routine they had before, taking the uncrowded street uphill. Meaning they would walk about two hundred yards and be admitted to the home of another well-to-do family. They would stay three hours, then would return. Possibly it was something they were not supposed to do. Near as Sadat could tell, the woman and child left home only when no one else was there and they were certain no one would be aware that they had stepped out.

  In this area women did not go out into public without a male companion. A conceit of the prosperous.

  There was only one way to do it under the circumstances. And as far as Sadat could see, there was no opportunity to create more favorable circumstances.

  He slouched after them, trying to look disinterested and innocuous, just somebody headed in the same direction and walking a little faster.

  He had worked it out a dozen times. His timing was exact. He overtook them as they reached the mouth of the only alley and escape route leading off that part of the street. The woman glanced back just as he moved.

  Her eyes widened and she tried to duck, but his blow put her down. He grabbed the girl.

  The child screamed. Someone yelled. The woman wailed. Sadat charged into the alley carrying the girl. She was not heavy. As he went he fumbled out a wad of wet cotton. He forced that into her face.

  A few blocks away he would be just some fellow carrying his sleeping daughter.

  The blow to the mother had not fallen solidly. She staggered down the alley after him, wailing. Damn! And now a couple of men were with her, asking what ha’d happened.

  Sadat Agmed ran. But the child slowed him. He distanced the woman but not the men who took up the chase. Each time he glanced back there were more of them, shouting louder and looking meaner.

  He became frightened. Frightened, he did not think ahead carefully enough. When he realized there would be no escape while he was burdened with the child, he abandoned her and took off toward the Hahr. But he misremembered a shortcut by one turn and ended up darting into a dead-end alleyway. Dead end in more ways than one.

  The mob pulled him off the wall he was trying to climb. Many were men who had small children, men who had become intimate with fear of child-stealers recently. They had no mercy in them, and no thought to ask questions. They were not armed, but that did not matter.

  Sadat used two packs of flash and after each almost broke free. He flailed away with his knife till someone knocked it out of his hand. The slashes only enraged the men more. They punched and kicked and stomped him till he had been dead for several minutes.

  Then, horrified by what the animal in them had made them do, they ran away and did not talk much about the affair.

  A Dartar patrol reached the scene only after it was too late for anything but a cleanup.

  Azel reported his conversation with Torgo to the General. The old man was more than ordinarily irritable. His aches and pains were piling up.

  “He’ll let you take the traitor to see the boy, at least?”

  “He gave me that much.”

  “I presume you don’t want to be recognized any more than he wants the citadel to be. Have you a way to handle that?”

  “Have somebody deliver him blindfolded to the third alleyway south of Muma’s Place. I’ll pick him up after the delivery boys go. After I bring him out I’ll walk him home.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as it’s dark. There’s nobody up there after sundown.”

  “Be careful. The best men in the organization will be handling something else.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “I know. Good day.”

  “Same to you.” Azel eased out the door after a glance to make sure no one was watching. He was uneasy, suddenly. Like it was not a good time for...

  He caught the tail end of a shout. Puzzled, he looked downhill. And saw a Dartar pointing at him.

  Another Dartar appeared, looked, nodded, and started heading toward him.

  Azel did not believe it for a moment. Why would they single him out? Must be one of the ones he had run into in the maze. Damn the luck!

  He bulled into the crowd, where they would have trouble spotting him because of his stature. He reviewed his choices, supposing they were serious enough actually to come after him. His favorite tool, the maze, was no good. A horde of those bastards were in there. He couldn’t fight them all.

  A horn sounded behind him. “Shit!” They had sounded an alarm. They were serious.

  Why? What the hell was the matter with them? What did they have on him? Why the hell should they give a damn about a kidnapping? Unless Fa’tad had begun to sense a pattern?

  He glanced back.

  They had stolen his physical advantage. One man had mounted a camel and was keeping him in sight. Tw
o more were pushing through the press on foot.

  “All right, you treacherous sons of bitches.” He pushed harder, edging toward the north side of the street, away from the maze and the Dartars uphill. In a conversational voice he said, “Make way for the Living, please,” repeating it over and over, hoping it would not do more harm than good.

  The horn sounded again. Answers came from uphill and down.

  The crowd began to chatter and grumble. Somebody tripped one of the Dartars. That started a fight that threatened to become a free-for-all. The camel rider began laying about with the butt of his lance.

  Azel chuckled. A long shot had come in.

  An uphill Dartar pushed into his path, threatened him with a lance he held like a quarterstaff. Azel did not slow. When the Dartar swung the butt of the lance Azel grabbed it and yanked, kicked the man in the groin, punched his head, and pushed on. He reached the mouth of an alley running north.

  He looked back again. The camel rider glared helplessly from a hundred feet away. Azel saluted him and entered the alleyway. As soon as he was sure no one was watching he climbed to a rooftop.

  He continued to move warily there. Qushmarrah’s rooftops, in the dense Old City, were another world, like the Shu maze, but one he did not know as well. He could not be sure he did not have enemies up there.

  The crowd had begun to disperse by the time Aaron got out to see the cause of the uproar. Qushmarrahans did not want to be around when Dartars gathered in strength.

  Two Dartars were lying in the street. One of them looked like the kid he’d been talking to a while ago. A man on a camel stood guard over them.

  Aaron did not think. He just ran out, arriving as the camel rider brought his mount to her knees. That was the one who had watched over the prisoners while he had spoken with the younger one. Yoseh?

  Aaron dropped to one knee. Both men were breathing. “What happened?”

  The rider said, “Yoseh saw the child-stealer from the maze. We went after him. He said something to the crowd. They attacked us.”

  The boy opened his eyes. He tried to get up. Aaron offered a hand. The boy flinched away, then accepted. Aaron lifted him, slipped an arm around his waist, helped him stumble back to where he had started. He did not notice the Dartars gathering like ravens. He did not notice the scowls of Laella and her mother, watching from the doorway.

  He set the boy down, looked back to see if the other needed help. That one was surrounded by Dartars. He looked at the boy again, intrigued by the scars and tattoos revealed when his face cloth was gone.

  “Thank you,” the boy said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll have a lot of scrapes and bruises. Otherwise, yes.”

  Aaron assayed a weak sally. “You’re going to have to quit chasing that man. You keep ending up...”

  “We’ll get him.”

  A one-sided row broke out at the house, Raheb so excited her voice squeaked. Aaron was surprised to see Mish headed his way with a bowl, rags, and what passed for medical supplies in their household. She settled on her knees before the boy, dipped a rag in the bowl, began cleaning the street dirt off his face.

  Aaron settled on his haunches. He wondered what Mish thought of the boy’s scars and tattoos. He smiled when she tried to scrub the latter away.

  There was another feminine outburst, Laella this time, then Arif was there beside him, left hand on his right shoulder. Arif did not say anything. Aaron slipped his arm around his son’s waist. In the background Stafa raised hell because his own break for freedom had been intercepted.

  Aaron watched Mish and wondered why the crowd had turned ugly so suddenly. What had the child-taker said? They would have turned on him, probably, had they known what he was.

  He realized that the shadow of a man on horseback had fallen upon them. He looked up. Into the wet grey eyes of an old hawk.

  Joab.

  The thin shell cracked, somewhere there in the back. The poison of hatred boiled through.

  Joab, whose horsemen had overridden a Qushmarrahan company on the Plain of Chordan, leaving Aaron’s father and brothers among the dead.

  Aaron’s body refused to be controlled. He rose slowly, coiled to spring. His limbs began to shake. A sound like that made by a cat trying to cough up fur balls came from his throat.

  Those grey eyes filled with surprise and maybe a touch of fright.

  Aaron caught a glimpse of bel-Sidek standing on the far side of the street, watching him in amazement.

  The dark fog parted. He shuddered, tore his gaze away from Joab, said, “Mish, come on,” and gripped Arifs shoulder hard, headed him toward home. Mish came without protest, having heard something in his tone that silenced her penchant for contradiction.

  Yoseh watched the girl walk away, saddened, puzzled. “What the hell just happened?” Joab asked. “I thought he was going for my throat.”

  Medjhah said, “You offended him somehow. About six years ago.”

  Joab looked at the veydeen man, grunted. “What went on here? Are these men all right?”

  “Just a little battered, sir,” Yoseh said. He explained about spotting the child-stealer. Nogah came out of the maze and hovered nervously while he talked.

  The General closed the door he had held open a crack throughout the excitement. He cursed softly, over and over. Azel had gotten away, but it had been a close thing and those bastards-Joab and Fa’tad, at least-were going to put in some time trying to find out why the man had been in the area.

  Azel never made mistakes. Not to the old man’s knowledge. Nor to his own, either, probably. But his stroke of tactical inspiration, invoking the name of the Living, just might turn into a strategic nightmare.

  Not Azel’s fault, really. His own, for overutilizing his best man. Had anyone noticed his frequent visits? Those had to stop, inconvenient as that would be. He dared not have a child-stealer connected with this house or the Living.

  The Living would have to disavow him, condemn him, demand that he be punished for using the movement’s name. Azel was deft. He would evade trouble. Whatever notoriety came of this would die out soon.

  He looked across the room to his writing table, miles away. He had to scribble a note to Azel, warning him off, advising him that he would have to endure the name of outlaw for a time.

  He started working his way along the wall, wishing there was someone he could bring in on what he was doing. He was too feeble to carry the whole burden. But did he dare inform his khadifas? Most would be appalled, even outraged, though not all for the same reasons.

  Zenobel or Carza? Maybe. If it was presented carefully enough and he revealed the full scope of his duplicitous stratagem, so they would not be repelled by its unsavory immediate aspect.

  The old man had spent too much strength getting to the door. He did not retain resources adequate to the return journey.

  For once bel-Sidek was not sorry about the condition of his leg. Had he been healthy he would have arrived in the middle of things, while tempers burned their hottest and reason bent before a draft out of Chaos.

  There was residual anger enough to trouble him as he questioned his neighbors. Inner, secret shame had left some defiant. They could not admit that they had been gulled by a thug. His reassurances were not well received.

  He dared not pursue it too closely. He limped home irritated. Ortbal Sagdet had proven insiders could use the movement to their benefit. But who would have thought the baser sort of villain might use its name as a tool?

  He burst in ready to treat the General to an angry monolog.

  “Sir! Oh, Aram have mercy!” He dropped a squash he had bought for supper, fell to his knees. “Sir?”

  The old man croaked, “Bel-Sidek?”

  “Yes sir. I’m here, sir.”

  The flesh betrays the spirit.” The old man’s words came one to the breath. “Get me to the writing table.”

  Bel-Sidek lifted him. He was so light! “What were you trying to do, sir?”

&nbs
p; “Watched that uproar in the street. Bel-Sidek, a beast of a man, a child-stealer, used our name to escape Dartar justice. If there is such a thing. Where are you going? I said the writing table.”

  Bel-Sidek lowered the old man into his bed. “You talk too much, sir. Shut up and rest.”

  “The writing table. An order.”

  “So try me for mutiny. At least you’ll have the pleasure of being alive to enjoy it.”

  “The word has to go out. That man has to be caught. People are too eager to think evil of us now.”

  “Dictate. I’ll take care of it.”

  The old man worked his way around till he faced the wall.

  Stubborn old bastard. What was he doing walking around without help? At the very least he could have broken brittle bones.

  Bel-Sidek began his meal preparations, and worried. He was supposed to join Meryel again tonight. But it was obvious someone had to ride herd on the old man, whose reason was slipping. He could not leave. But it was imperative that he meet with Meryel and arrange for the disposition of the weapons in her warehouse. They could not be kept there in a mass. Too much to risk.

  Hadribel. The new khadifa of the Hahr had not yet left the Shu. He would do anything to overcome the embarrassment of Having allowed a Herodian agent to rise so high in his organization.

  Yes. Hadribel. He would not have to be away from the house more than a few minutes to get Hadribel.

  10

  All the news came to Muma’s first and fastest, Azel reflected sourly. Or, at least, all the news that was bad news.

  A child-taker stomped to death in the Asian. He did not want to go, but he had no choice. If Agmed or Bel-Shaduk had got himself killed they would need to know in the citadel. Now.

  He half hoped the man killed was one of those two. That was the sort of whack upside the head the Witch needed to wake her up.

  Azel pushed away from his table and went out into the late afternoon. He headed east by alleyway and back street. The better streets all boasted Dartars headed for the Gate of Autumn and the compound beyond. He did not want to run into any more Dartars. He was in a mood to try to hurt them and that wouldn’t be smart. They would only hurt him back.