Burning Tower

by Larry Niven

  Tower dashed inside, came back to stand in the doorway. She screamed at the rooster, waving the statuette. The rooster thought it over, then charged the bathhouse.

  “Remember, you first,” Squirrel shouted.

  Tower nodded. As the bird came up, she ran into the bathhouse. She dropped the stone bird. The hole in the foamed rock wall was just big enough. She scrambled into it, through ankle-deep ash, up the chimney and out. Squirrel followed her through the hole and stopped there.

  The bird hadn’t stopped to kill Spike or Regapisk. It shouldered through the enlarged doorway and stopped suddenly in the sweat room. Squirrel heard the big new door slammed shut and barred from outside.

  Regapisk had better be back on the roof, before a thousand more birds arrived…and here they were now. Squirrel could hear them thumping against the thick stonewood walls.

  Squirrel began to chant.

  There was no magic in her words, other than that she was speaking a tongue the gods understood. Magic wouldn’t work here anyway. She was taunting the god, hoping to drive him to blind rage.

  The bird’s response was a beak thrust into the chimney. Squirrel leaped up, caught herself, and kept climbing. Up and out of the chimney, with a bird’s beak below her smashing big chips out of a stonewood wall. And Regapisk to lift her free.

  Regapisk asked, “What’s happening?”

  Squirrel said, “It’s the god’s decision now.”

  Regapisk looked blank.

  Poor Regapisk, always out of the loop. Squirrel said, “The god is riding the terror bird rooster. The rooster is in the box. It can’t even call for help; see how the birds are milling around? No magic gets in or out. When the walls have absorbed enough manna, the god goes myth.”

  “He doesn’t need to call,” Regapisk said. He pointed to a distant figure. Thundercloud, resplendent in his robes of office, surrounded by a host of apprentices, was running toward the bathhouse door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Arrows

  “He’ll break the door down,” Squirrel shouted. “Stop him.”

  “How?” Regapisk demanded. “You stop him.”

  Squirrel sang. Little happened.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a slowing spell, but it’s not working,” Squirrel said.

  “I knew it would come to this,” Regapisk said. He leaped down off the roof to stand in front of the door. He fingered the salamander brooch. “Tell Aunt Shanda.”

  Squirrel looked around for help. “Tower! Get Sandry! Get Arshur! Bring help!”

  Burning Tower whistled, twice, and Spike jumped over a bird he had been fighting and ran to stand next to the roof. Tower leaped on his back, and they galloped toward the guard tower.

  Sandry could see the roof of the bathhouse but not the door. Something was happening there. And now Burning Tower was riding Spike, coming toward him. She needed help.

  He signaled to Younglord Whane down on the road below the rim, his arm circling over his head then pointing down to the base of the guard tower: Come here with my chariot. Now.

  Whane waved and leaped into the chariot. Good driving, Sandry thought, as Whane wove between two squabbling birds. Squabbling. The birds were fighting each other as well as humans. They weren’t working together at all.

  A flash of lightning from near the bathhouse. He caught a glimpse of green and gold robes, a high headdress, a flashing arrow followed by lightning. Thundercloud was coming. Thundercloud the traitor.

  “My Lord!” Whane was shouting from below the tower. He looked pleased with himself.

  Sandry came down the ladder too fast, knocked his breath out landing, and climbed painfully into the chariot. “To the bathhouse,” he wheezed.

  “Sir?”

  “Follow the lightning. Ride to the lightning.”

  “Sir!”

  The chariot wheeled. Here in the compound, the ground was clear enough, nothing for the horses to stumble on. Tower was coming, though, and the horses reared to avoid Spike.

  “Sandry,” she shouted. “Squirrel needs you! Over here!”

  “I saw.” He was getting his breath back. He took his bow, already strung, from the bow case and selected a stout bone-shafted arrow. A flight arrow, for range.

  The chariot clattered between the low buildings of the compound, past the common bathhouses, toward the rose garden. Lightning flashed among the roses, then there were flashes of green and ruby red. Hummingbirds, Sandry thought. Afraid of the lightning.

  Lightning. From where? And it was pouring rain now, rain in bucketsful. The bow string wouldn’t last long in this.

  Another lightning flash, this time just next to them. The horses reared from the thunderclap. “There!” Whane shouted.

  Master Thundercloud, splendid in his robes of office, running toward the bathhouse.

  “Stop him!” Squirrel was screaming from the roof.

  Burning Tower shouted, and Spike dashed forward and stopped as if he’d hit a wall. The beast screamed in agony. One of Thundercloud’s apprentices was holding up a sigil, and whatever it was, it was more than Spike could bear. The one-horn screamed again, an eerie sound in the driving rain.

  Thundercloud ran toward the bathhouse door, bow in hand. Whane whipped the horses forward, but they were confused by the thunder. We’re too far, Sandry thought. We’ll never stop him….

  And Regapisk dashed out, sword raised. He waved it in Thundercloud’s face, struck at him clumsily, missed. Another flare of lightning and Regapisk was down. Thundercloud raised his arms in triumph, nocked another arrow.

  Sandry’s arrow was already in place. He drew the arrow to his ear, held steady, released…

  Thundercloud screamed in pain and outrage. He turned toward Sandry and shouted curses. A wave of pain ran through Sandry’s head and body. Another wave of pain in his arm. His arm was heavy, too heavy to hold the bow.

  “You can bear it.” His mother’s voice, speaking in his ear. His mother? Or Squirrel, who was singing in a language Sandry did not know but was at the edge of his understanding, soothing, easing the pains. He gestured for Whane to turn away from Thundercloud, turn away, turn away…

  “Away?”

  “Go! Now!”

  “Sir!” The chariot wheeled. An arrow fell behind them and the horses reared again from the thunder, leaped forward.

  “Now stop. Turn,” Sandry said quietly.

  “Aye.”

  His arms ached, and Squirrel’s song was softer, but he could lift his left arm. Another arrow, bone-shafted, a flint arrowhead, gull feathers. Sandry noted every detail of the arrow as he drew it. Thundercloud laughed and turned away contemptuously, nocked an arrow to fire at the door of the bathhouse.

  Slow. Aim. Smooth release. The arrow took forever to fly. It struck Thundercloud in the back. The priest screamed and dropped his bow. Lightning struck, knocking Thundercloud and two apprentices to the ground. Another apprentice turned to run, but now Spike was free of whatever had held him. He ran forward to batter the boy to the ground, and danced on him with sharp hooves.

  Whane had already started forward when Sandry’s arrow struck. “Drive!” Sandry shouted. Thundercloud was thrashing on the ground, trying to rise. Spike turned toward the priest, but the apprentice with the sigil managed to get to his feet, and Spike was driven away. Thundercloud shouted another curse. Sandry felt his strength begin to drain. “Drive!”

  “You can bear it.”

  But I can’t. I can’t stand up—there’s no strength in my legs. His mother’s voice was blended with Squirrel’s wordless song: “You can bear it.”

  Thundercloud was shouting. Squirrel’s song rang out above the shouts. Whane was urging the horses forward. Sandry struggled to find the strength to raise his bow. They were close enough now to hear the frantic shrieks from inside the bathhouse, furious pounding on the doors as the rooster god tried to batter his way out.

  Thundercloud struggled to get to his feet. Blood poured from wounds in his shoulder and
back. “I come, I come.”

  “No. You will not.” Tower stood in his path. She raised her war hammer. Sandry felt a rush as his strength returned, and now it was Tower who fell helpless to the ground.

  “Enough,” Sandry said. He leaped off the chariot and seized Thundercloud’s arms. “Whane.”

  Whane was already there. They held the priest’s arms behind him. Whane stuffed something into the priest’s mouth so that he couldn’t talk. Sandry felt the priest’s struggles dying away.

  The clatter inside the bathhouse stopped. There was a long and ominous silence.

  “The birds have stopped attacking,” Whane said quietly. “They’re milling around.”

  “And running away.” Clever Squirrel had come down from the roof. “Blazes, you all right?”

  “Yes,” Tower said weakly. “Whew. What was that?”

  “It will pass,” Squirrel said. She listened. “Quiet in there.”

  “What does that mean?” Sandry asked. He held Thundercloud tightly, but the priest had ceased to struggle.

  “I think the god is myth,” Squirrel said.

  Thundercloud spit out the ball of waste that choked him. “He cannot be dead,” he shouted. “He cannot die. But—”

  “But what?” Squirrel demanded. She put her hand on Thundercloud’s forehead. “What?”

  “Did you not dream it?”

  Squirrel looked puzzled. “I dreamed of a transformation, of a god made small and angry.” Suddenly she stood straight and laughed hysterically.

  As she did, a hummingbird rose out of the chimney.

  It flew straight at Clever Squirrel’s face, then veered off as if abruptly realizing how big she was. It circled once, and then buzzed off toward the garden.

  “Left-Handed Hummingbird,” Squirrel said. “Now I know what that means.”

  “Is it over?” Regapisk struggled to sit up. He was favoring his right arm. Something wrong there, the shape…

  “It’s over,” Squirrel said.

  “Welcome back, Cousin,” Sandry said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Red Seeds

  The station’s visitors lined the crater’s rim to watch the Emperor’s messengers appear.

  Regapisk clutched his cloak around him. His arm itched. Ruser the Jeweler eyed him suspiciously. “You fought alongside us,” Regapisk said to Ruser. “Everything’s changed. The Emperor might invite you in.”

  “No.”

  Regapisk waited. Ruser was troubled. There was a story here…

  “No. Even if he did, I wouldn’t dare. I have had enough of Aztlan to last my life. I will send you with signs and sigils that will prove you to be my partner.”

  Ruser took a small stonewood box from an inner pocket. He opened it. “Here. Hold this.” Ruser held out a small crude statue a fingerlength tall. It was dressed in a small silver loincloth. Crude as it was, the statue was clearly of a naked male.

  “Hold that. Think about women. Think about the last time you had a woman. Think about the most exciting woman you ever had.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it. Are you aroused yet?”

  “Yes, curse you. She was a mer.”

  “Good. Now take that silver off it and put the statue in this box.” He gave Regapisk the stonewood box. “Don’t open that box until you’re with Flensevan in a place with manna. Anywhere in Aztlan will have enough.”

  “And then what?”

  “Flensevan will know what to do. It won’t work except the first time you open the box. Remember that.”

  “All right.”

  “So. Ask Flensevan about the boat. We are wealthy, you and I,” the jeweler said. “As is Flensevan, if he wishes to be, which I doubt. With what I can take to Crescent City, we have enough to rebuild our business, even to rescue Zephans Mishagnos from his salt farm. Return when you can.”

  “What’s keeping you out of Aztlan? I go with Arshur—he’s demanded it—but I can meet you at the gate. As king’s companion. Or even with an invitation from the king.”

  Ruser shook his head. “They come,” he said. He pointed to a rapidly growing dot on the high road. “They come.”

  Four officials rode in a woven basket that flew just above the High Road along the line of petrified logs. They left the basket at the end of the road, still afloat above the last log. They climbed to the rim through windrows of dead terror birds and dead men. It didn’t shake their dignity.

  Regapisk had to depend on rumor for the rest.

  They didn’t give names. Tall, narrow-headed, lean, and bony, they seemed to consider themselves as interchangeable, even though they were garbed very differently. “Road Runner, Jaguar, Bighorn Sheep,” Fur Slipper whispered, “by their headdresses. I don’t know the bareheaded one. Maybe he was supposed to be Left-Handed Hummingbird.”

  They interviewed Arshur where he reclined in the infirmary. It took over an hour. Regapisk watched with mixed emotions. The old warrior had actually become a king. Was he still under Regapisk’s protection? Could a king ruin himself by not knowing how to use cutlery? Regapisk wondered if he was only jealous.

  Barehead and Jaguar spoke to Hazel Sky in the infirmary. She was too exhausted to tell them much. Then Captain Sareg took them into the main building, and only rumor followed.

  Rumor came in bits and droplets:

  The Office of Rain had numbered nine. All of them were priests of Left-Handed Hummingbird. When the terror birds attacked, the Office of Rain had been found empty but for scattered robes, and those were weirdly changed.

  At least half a dozen priests had fled out onto the plain. They must have been sure they could control the birds, and they must have been wrong. Birds tore them apart.

  “Jaravisk didn’t run. He was Thundercloud’s chief apprentice. We’ve got him downstairs,” Manroot told them at the noon meal. Manroot was an imperial of no great rank. “The messengers want to interview him, and I’ll be on duty.”

  At the evening meal they all found themselves facing Jaravisk, the imperial messengers, and Hazel Sky. “We have seen great changes,” Hazel announced. “It is best we come to terms with them. Jaravisk, tell us what you told the messengers.”

  Jaravisk didn’t bear marks of torture, but he wobbled as he walked. Perhaps he’d been chewing coca leaves. Below coca’s induced calm, he seemed scared out of his wits. He didn’t speak until the bare-headed messenger showed him something pinched between two fingers. Then he blurted, “Left-Handed Hummingbird is no longer a terror bird. The god of war has become a h-h-hummingbird.”

  The hall rang with amazed laughter.

  “A hummingbird,” Jaravisk repeated. He seemed ready to cry. “The feathers of my cloak changed. I was casting ilb’al to learn more—”

  “For our visitors,” Hazel suggested.

  “What? Ilb’al, the red seeds of the flute tree, what we use for seeing.” Jaravisk blinked about him. “Seeing other times and places. Captain Sareg found me, but I learned a little first. Our god of war is cast out of power for ages to come, ten thousand years or more. I couldn’t learn my own fate, but what I have to tell the Emperor—please, Jaguar, please, Voice of All Gods, don’t bring me to the Emperor. Kill me now.”

  “Tell them about trade.”

  “What if I laugh at the Emperor? The Emperor’s cloak, symbol of his might, that must have changed too. He’ll be wearing a cloak covered with little teeny feathers.” Jaravisk’s high-pitched giggle ended in a hiccup. “Trade? I followed Thundercloud’s orders and I obeyed my god. What do I know of trade? We sent the birds to attack people and horses on the roads that link the western cities. The god watched and guided them. Now it’s over. We’ll use up our magic or sell it away, and one day our folk will be gone and our city will be blowing dust and roofless ruins to be picked over by lookers. I have seen it in the pattern of red seeds.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sand Paintings

  A large canopy covered the reception area and courtyard outside the gates to the cr
ater. Where the canopy ended, rain beat down on the High Road. The basket floated above the High Road, bright against shadow, just caught by the rising sun shining in bright skies to the east. The basket was wet, but the rain ended a few hundred feet away. The ground around the gates and down into the crater was frothy pink, but much of the blood had already washed away.

  A day and a half had passed since the battle, and Arshur was only now setting off to meet the Emperor. Arshur the Wanderer, now Arshur the King, walked under an umbrella held by a soldier. Another imperial spearman held a large umbrella to cover the other three in the king’s party. Two more soldiers followed behind. Arshur was slow to climb into the great floating basket, and so were his companions.

  They were all wounded, the three who boarded the great basket with the Emperor’s Jaguar-headed emissary. Arshur was marked with bloody gouges. The birds had scored him again and again while he twisted, turned, danced, so that claws and beak tips almost missed. The merchant Regapisk, Sandry’s cousin who had once been a Lord and thought himself Lord again, was walking a little crooked, looking uncomfortable and favoring his right arm. Hazel Sky was unmarked save by a strange torpor.

  Imperial guards brought them blankets and cloaks and saw to their comfort. When all four had settled themselves in their finery, Jaguar gestured. The basket slid away, slowly at first, but faster with every breath.

  Burning Tower watched them go, but she was also watching Squirrel work with her meticulous, somewhat exaggerated portraits of colored sand.

  The sand grains rippled. Twisted Cloud’s portrait smiled. “Daughter! Happy birthday. Are you well?”

  “Mother! I’ve defeated a god!”

  Sand rippled; the smile became an O. “Anyone we know?”

  “Long story, which I will be pleased to tell at length.” Rain pounded on the leather awnings above the sand paintings. “Have you got Whandall and Willow?”

  Two more paintings stirred. Willow’s said, “Squirrel, what have you gotten yourself into?”