I mean was that really the best thing that the engraver could come up with? Seems like a waste of silver.
“Do you think that alchemist is worth the price he’s charging?” Andrasta asked over her soft footsteps.
The sound of her voice startled him from his thoughts. He looked up, surprised a second time at the style of her hair. After bathing, Andrasta had braided it in a much different manner than usual. The jagged design heightened her foreign features, making her appearance all the more menacing.
Gods, it even makes her scar stand out. Was that intentional? He wanted to ask, but he knew the reminder of her past was a sore spot, so he chose to keep his curiosity to himself.
“That’s a different look for you,” he managed, unable to ignore her appearance altogether.
She sat beside him. “Just getting into my new character.”
Good. She still trusts me enough to think my plan will work.
“Yes. I think he’s worth it,” Rondel said in response to her question.
“Didn’t you already pay someone in Bashan to make smoke bombs?”
“I did.”
“You don’t think having two people perform the same work is a waste of money?”
“No. This guy is much better. And like what we did with the tailors, it doesn’t hurt to have a backup. You never know what can happen and we’ve only got a small amount of time to accomplish our goals. Besides, I have no idea how many we’ll use once inside the tower.”
“Last time I checked, it looked as though he was doing more than just creating smoke bombs.”
“He’s also putting together a few things that should help with cleaning wounds.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Rondel shrugged. “Considering no one has ever gotten out of the tower, it’d be pretty naïve of us to think we won’t get any injuries from facing the guardians.”
She grunted in what Rondel knew was agreement. Her inarticulate noises were like another language at times, a slight difference in pitch changing the entire meaning of her throaty sounds.
Andrasta gestured. “Why do you hate it so much?”
Rondel looked down, realizing he’d been fiddling with the flute during their conversation. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve said more than once that you don’t like the flute and every time I see you with it, it’s with a frown on your face.”
“Well, I truly do think it is an inferior instrument, and not only to a lute, I might add.” He bit his lip. “Unless, it is handled by a true master. Then, I can at least respect the musician.”
“I sense there’s something more.”
He chuckled. “Sort of. It’s a bit of a sore spot.”
“And we haven’t discussed sore spots before?”
He snorted. “Good point.” He stared at the mid-morning light reflecting off the stream where they had washed earlier. “Alright. Why not?”
He cleared his throat. “The first lute I ever owned was a cheap hand me down instrument that often lost its tune shortly into any song. I hated it at first, but eventually its very faults were what made me into the player I became. It forced me to learn how to fret chords in different positions on the neck at a much quicker pace than most so I could continue playing in key during a performance until there was enough of a break to tune the strings again.” He grinned. “I grew to love that blasted thing, problems and all.”
It started my legend.
“Anyway, shortly after I left home, I entered a contest in Doldan. That’s Bratanic’s capital. Musicians far and wide came to play before thousands of people. There were no rules to the contest except anyone who entered had to play one song familiar to the audience and one song originally composed. When it was my turn to play, people heckled and laughed as I walked to the stage dressed in my then tattered clothes, carrying my ugly, old lute.”
“That must have made you angry,” said Andrasta.
“You know, not really. I was an arrogant little prick back then and I knew I’d make them eat their words.” He snorted. “Sure enough, after I played the opening of Live Each Day by Hermanes, you could hear nothing but my old lute and my voice.
“When I finished, the crowd cheered louder for me than anyone, demanding an encore, which I happily obliged. On my way down from the stage, I passed countless instruments that sparkled and shined in their extravagance. I couldn’t help myself. I made a show of turning my nose at each one, declaring loudly that the instrument doesn’t make the musician. The musician makes the instrument.” He paused. “That declaration held true as the day wore on and no one came close to out-doing my performance.”
“I’m having trouble seeing how this relates to a flute.”
“Patience. You asked a question. I’m giving you the answer. You don’t really expect a former minstrel to tell the tale in two sentences, do you?
“No, I guess not. Go ahead.”
“So, everything was going well. This was going to be my day. And then Tertulias shows up.”
“Who?”
His eyes bulged. “Who? Dear gods, I know your upbringing left a lot to be desired as far as your exposure to the arts are concerned, but not even Tertulias?” He shook his head. “A shame. Tertulias was old at this point and hadn’t seen the better side of one hundred in several years. People joked that he was so old that the word legend had been invented to describe him. However, that joke only went so far. The man could play so effortlessly, you’d think he was born with a flute in his hands.” He sighed. “They allowed him to close the contest.”
“And that didn’t go well.”
“Not for me. He hobbled onto the stage with help from two others who guided him to a chair. He sat, pulled out his famous golden flute, and played like an angel. It was then that I knew that a musician may make the instrument, but a musician without a great instrument had limitations.
“I ended up taking second place in the contest and was lauded for achieving so much at such a young age. However, the loss ate at me. Like you and your sword I had to be the best. So, after the night’s celebration, I took the prize money and bought the nicest lute I could find. The next day, I went to the inn Tertulias was staying in order to challenge him. Nothing showy. Just me and him. I had to know whether or not if I could beat him with a better lute.”
“Did you?”
“No. We never played each other.”
“So, he chickened out.”
“Nothing like that. The old man died in his sleep and I never got to find out whether or not I truly could have beaten him.”
His hands gripped the flute tightly.
“And that’s why you hate the flute so much?”
“In part. But be honest, it is a pretty silly looking instrument. I mean, there is no way to look even remotely masculine while holding the thing.”
She grinned. “I don’t see how you can look masculine holding a lute either.”
Rondel winked. “That’s only because you never saw me hold one.”
* * *
Andrasta rode Jewel alongside the horse-drawn carriage as they re-entered Bashan. They passed their first test at the gate. The guards flanking either side of the wide double gates, had actually pushed aside locals traveling into the city in order to make room for Rondel’s elaborately decorated carriage.
Just like he said. Act important and people will think you are.
The driver Rondel hired from Sagal played his part well, drawing as much attention to them as he could. She had worried that the young man might buckle under the pressure.
“He’ll be fine,” Rondel had said of Harshad. “He’s young enough to relish an opportunity at being brash and just old enough to pull it off convincingly.”
Heads turned in their direction from people traversing the sidewalks and streets. Harshad heralded locals to get out of the way with a voice thrice the size of his thin frame. He waved hands at business men, heckled elders, and practically ran over several children who didn’t step lively enough out of the way while focusin
g his greatest attention on several women standing on the corner.
Surprisingly, the women returned the attention, cheering him on. Andrasta didn’t understand what they saw in him. Even his face didn’t sit right with her. Too round and soft, it lacked strength.
But not arrogance. She eyed several local priests descending from high pyramid shaped temples painted yellow, turquoise, red, and blue. He even bosses the holy men around.
“It doesn’t matter if they hate us for his arrogance or if it projects onto us,” Rondel had told her. “We aren’t trying to make friends. In fact, hate can be a good thing. People talk more about those they hate than those they love. And the more people talk about us, the sooner the royalty will take notice.”
Well, this will definitely get people talking.
Harsh glares and narrowed eyes joined whispered words spoken out of the corners of mouths. Barely half a block into Bashan and Rondel’s plan had already found life.
Unlike Harshad, who shouted curses to draw attention, Andrasta rode in absolute silence. Head on a swivel, she scanned the crowd, looking for threats. Rondel’s last bit of advice before entering the city was simply to ‘be a more exaggerated version of yourself.’
A version of myself dressed like a shadow, she thought sourly.
In hindsight, she probably did overreact to the clothes. Understanding Rondel’s reasons for the look made it easier to endure the ridiculousness of it. She even volunteered to do something different with her hair. Normally, she wore long simple braids that hung off her head, a common style for women in Juntark. However, she changed the fashion to something more exotic, twisting the braids back and forth across her scalp in a lightning bolt pattern until the remaining hair flowed down her neck and upper back. She had done this with each braid excepting one that she purposefully draped over the front of her face so that it brought even more attention to her scar.
She hated doing that. In fact, she loathed it. But the idea had been hers. Thinking long and hard about what Rondel had said of her pride, she determined the level of discomfort was worth it if it meant increasing their chances of making an impression on others and gaining access to the Tower of Bashan.
A memory flashed before her eyes of a woman holding her down and raking a blade diagonally across her face. Spittle from her harsh words mixed with the blood running into her eyes.
Her father had killed that woman. Not out of love for me though, but out of the insult to his home. No one from Juntark ever showed me love. She sighed. Why do I care about fulfilling the promise I made to Father? Will he even accept the jewel should I bring it to him? Of course, he will. Regardless of what I mean to him, the jewel means power.
“You all right?”
Andrasta blinked, turning toward the carriage. Rondel’s head poked between the parted crimson curtains. Clean-shaven, he wore his newly trimmed, shoulder-length hair in a single, tight tail at the back of his head, a common style among the nobles in Bratanic according to him.
Without the beard, the scar at his throat is far more obvious. Like he said, we both need to put pride aside.
“What do you mean?” she answered.
“You look like something’s bothering you.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
She still could not bring herself to discuss what the Jewel of Bashan truly meant to her, and what it would likely mean for their partnership. I’ll need to say something eventually.
“Just trying to play my role as you requested,” she told him.
Rondel gave her a curious look, then grinned. “Well, you’re doing admirably.” He nodded to the front of the carriage. “Can you tell our overzealous friend that although I appreciate his efforts, he should tone things down a bit? I don’t want to incite a riot. And tell him to head toward the inn. But go the long way. We need to make sure we’re well seen with the carriage before settling into our rooms.”
CHAPTER 11
“What else?” asked Chand.
Lela had met him in an alley on her way to the palace. She had quickly recounted everything she could think of, especially the details of the conversation between Prince Minander and Princess Mira.
“That’s all they discussed.”
“But what else? Remember what Beladeva said. He wants to know everything.”
Lela frowned. She thought that the crime lord meant that as a way to drive the point home that it was important for her not to miss anything. She didn’t think to take the meaning literally. Lela took a deep breath and spoke about everything else that she could think of regarding the princess, regardless of how trivial it seemed. “ . . . . oh, and the princess is not as smart as everyone thinks she is.”
Chand showed the first bit of emotion with a slight bulging of his eyes. “What do you mean?”
What do I mean? That’s not true. She’s extremely smart. So why would I say that?
She realized in a very short time that despite rumors about Mira being a hard woman, she was likable.
Is this a small favor for Mira so Beladeva underestimates her? He already knows so much. What’s the big deal if I say one fib? The thought of continuing the small lie made her not feel as helpless under Beladeva’s control.
“I just think she’s lucky. I mean she isn’t an idiot, obviously. However, much of her success seems based on luck, not careful thought. At least that’s what I think right now. I’ll know more the longer I’m around her.”
“All right. I’ll let Beladeva know. You can go.”
Lela began to turn. A thought struck her. “I have a question.”
“Yes?”
“Seeta. She was dismissed by the princess. What happened to her?”
“Why do you care? From what others said, she was hard on you.”
“I know. I was just curious.”
“Dead.”
Lela’s hand went to her mouth. “Why?”
“Because she thought herself above Beladeva by going against his will and not helping you. She had also failed him several times. His patience goes only so far. Remember that.”
She swallowed, already regretting her lie.
I will.
* * *
Rondel eased his boots off with a sigh, massaging his insteps and cracking his toes and ankle. He sat on the edge of a long bed at an inn in the nicest part of the Business District.
He sniffed the air. One that actually smells clean. Though honestly, I think I miss the country smell of Sagal.
He winced switching feet.
Andrasta grunted. “Don’t tell me you’re that tired from the little bit of walking we did today.”
“We did more than a little bit of walking. We covered the market twice, the docks, and met with half the major bankers in the city.”
“If just a few days of not training is having this much of a toll on you, maybe you need to join me on the roof later tonight.”
Rondel rolled his eyes. “Yes, because that wouldn’t take away from the personas we’re trying to establish, me grunting and sweating on a rooftop with sword in hand while my bodyguard beats on me like a practice dummy.” He placed one foot down on the floorboards and picked up the other to work loose a knot near his heel. “It’s these stupid boots. They were designed for appearance over comfort. It’s hard work looking this good.”
She snorted and sat at a chair near the door. She drew her sword and began running a whetstone along its length.
Rondel strode over to a large window that led to a balcony. The view overlooked the western side of Bashan. Deep purples and crimson reds shone on the horizon while the last remnants of a pale yellow glowed in the distance. Before disappearing completely, the light danced off the top of the Tower of Bashan.
All of his notes said the jewel was kept at the top. The blasted thing is taunting us.
Two days since returning to the city. We should have heard something from the palace by now.
He drummed his fingers on the balcony railing. Though Lela had given them valuable information upon
re-entering the city, they had not seen her since. According to Kunal when he dropped off the rest of their clothes, her new duties to the princess kept her so busy she barely did anything more than stop at home to sleep before running back to the palace.
Only eight days away from the big event. Not much time to get on the guest list. A gurgling sound came from his midsection.
“Sounds like that curry we had at lunch isn’t settling well,” Andrasta said.
“It’ll be fine,” said Rondel, not so much speaking about the curry as he was trying to convince himself of his plan’s success.
A knock sounded at the door. Rondel turned slowly to Andrasta. She paused in sharpening her sword. He gestured.
“I told you I wasn’t going to be your servant.”
“I’m not asking you to shine my boots or wipe my rear. Just answer the door. Wouldn’t a bodyguard want to make sure someone dangerous wasn’t there to slip a dagger between my ribs?”
She sighed and gave in. A boy on the other side of the door handed Andrasta a letter. Rondel was sure the messenger was supposed to wait for some sort of acknowledgement but after one look of Andrasta he seemed eager to leave. She closed the door on him before he could change his mind, making the decision for him.
“It looks like it’s from the palace.”
Rondel hurried across the room, snatching it away from her. “Dear esteemed blah blah . . . welcome to the great blah blah . . . I hope you are blah blah blah . . . Please accept this invitation to tomorrow night’s dinner at the Rose Palace where we might discuss how Bratanic can become long term trade partners with Bashan, and perhaps, even allies.” He paused. “Cordially, Prince Minander I.”
“Prince Minander? I thought we were trying to get in with the princess.”
“Close enough. We did it,” said Rondel folding up the letter with a breathless sigh. “Besides, the safer bet is we play both sides to double our chances of getting that invite to the big party.”
“So now the hard part begins.”
Rondel began pacing. “No. The hard part was getting noticed.”
“You still look worried.”
“There’s always a little bit of worry, but I’ve spoken with kings and emperors with far more power and notoriety. The key is to be well prepared and kiss up at every opportunity.”
The Tower of Bashan Page 11
