The Tower of Fear (3 page)

The square was almost empty. The kid was out of fight again. Gorloch knew what might creep out of the labyrinth behind him if he sat on his hands.

He grabbed the brat’s paw and headed out, fast, like an angry parent. The kid stumbled and whimpered, and that fed the illusion.

As he tramped across the square Azel lifted his gaze and rehearsed and nurtured the rage he was going to vent.

And that fed the illusion, too.

*   *   *

Aaron pressed up the hill, the black fear gnawing his heart. He was a man kept strong and trim by his labors, but emotion had driven him to a violent storm up the long climb from the waterfront. His legs were billets of lead, as they were in his nightmares.

It was over now. Long over. But some of the spectators remained, still telling one another what had happened. Beyond them were a handful of Herodian soldiers and several Dartar horsemen. Ranking Dartar, Aaron realized after a second look. Startled, he found himself exchanging momentary glances with a fierce-eyed old man who had the face of a raptor and a savage grey beard.

Fa’tad al-Akla himself! Fa’tad the Eagle, commander of all the Dartar mercenaries, bloodthirsty as a vampire, merciless as a hungry snake. What was he doing? Making himself a target for the Living?

Of course not. Was he not supposed to know as little of fear as the desert windstorms that brewed over the Takes and raged north over the Khadatqa Mountains and beyond, to inundate Qushmarrah with dust and torment it with a ferocious dry heat? Fa’tad al-Akla held the Living in contempt.

Aaron thought them quixotic at best. But he also believed they were going to kill Fa’tad, and he did not think it would be long before the dark angel brushed the Eagle with the shadow of his wing.

Ahead, in front of the house, he saw Laella and her mother. They were not bereaved. His heart spread white wings. Then it soared as he spied Arif.

His son was all right! The nightmare had not come true!

Arif saw him coming and ran to meet him. He snatched the boy up and surrounded him in a hug almost brutal in its intensity. Arif squealed, surprised. People stared. It was not a culture that encouraged emotional display.

Arif wanted to tell him all the news but he had squeezed the breath out of the boy.

Aaron joined Laella and her mother. His wife had Stafa, their younger son, seated upon her left hip. Stafa was midway between his second and third birthdays, and on his better days he was happy mischief incarnate. Arif was, by contrast, a quiet child, often seeming sad.

The younger boy reached out. “I want some Daddy hugs.”

Aaron reached and let him monkey over to sit on the hip opposite Arif, grinning. Aaron told Laella, “I heard. I was afraid it was Arif.”

There was pain and relief and guilt in Laella’s eyes as she said, “No. It was Zouki. Reyha’s Zouki.”

“Oh.”

Laella’s mother watched Fa’tad with the fixity and dispassionate intensity of a vulture waiting for a corpse to cool out. “They went after him.”

Aaron turned. “What?”

“The Dartar patrol. They were right here when Zouki was taken. Not much more than boys themselves. The children screamed ‘
Bedija gha!
’ and the Dartars went after the taker.”

She sounded amazed. As if so human a thing was beyond comprehension if done by the villains of Dak-es-Souetta.

“And?”

Laella said, “Three went in Tosh Alley. And they caught him.” She did not sound joyful.

“Something bad happened?”

“They were all burned when they brought them out. Not dead. Not really bad hurt. But one of them’s clothes was smoldering.”

Aaron grunted.

“Aaron, something has to be done.”

He grunted again. He agreed. But he did not know
what
could be done. There had been talk among the men, but it never went beyond that. One could do nothing when one did not know which way to strike.

The old woman muttered something.

“Mother?” Aaron asked.

“The Dartars think the Living did it.”

So. No wonder she was in shock. For her the Dartars had become the wellspring of all evil. And here they had tried to rescue a child, and thought the last ragtag remnants of Qushmarrahan partisans had done the grabbing.

“The children yelled ‘
Bedija gha!
’ Could that be it? Are the old gods stirring?”

Bedija gha
sprang from an older form of the language. Today it meant “child-stealer.” In Qushmarrah, as in all cities in all times and lands, there were people who wanted to buy children. For whatever reason. So there were others willing to harvest and sell. But before “child-stealer” or “kidnapper,” in the old days
bedija gha
had had a more sinister and specific meaning, “collector of sacrifices.”

That had been in the time of Gorloch, cast down and banished by Aram long since. The god’s followers had been dispersed, his temples demolished, and his priests forbidden human sacrifice. He had not gone quickly or quietly, though. Superseded gods never do.

Aram the Flame had brought light to Qushmarrah but Gorloch had clung to the shadows and it was not till the coming of the Herodians, with their strange, nameless, omnipotent god, that Gorloch’s last High Priest’s time had ended.

Aaron shivered and glanced uphill. Nakar the Abomination. How he had deserved that name, that dark sorcerer-priest-king unassailable in his citadel. Bless Ala-eh-din Beyh and the Herodians for having laid that terror to rest.

Laella said, “No, it couldn’t be Gorloch. They say Nakar was the last priest who knew the rites.” Her mother nodded agreement without taking her eyes off the Eagle. “And the Witch never was a believer.”

“There must be manuscripts that tell about the rituals.”

“You’re trying to talk yourself into something again, Aaron.” Laella smiled to take the sting out of the admonition.

She was right. He wanted conspiracies to explain away his fear of something he did not understand. Chances were there was no more child-stealing going on now than there had been at any other time. He was just more aware of it because he and his contemporaries were of an age to have children of an age to be at risk. That and the fact that there had been a rash of kidnappings in the area, some as broad-daylight-brazen as this latest. A thing like that caused a lot of talk that led to more talk that maybe magnified the problem out of all proportion.

If it were not for the nightmares …

He realized his arms were aching with the weight of the children. “All right, Stafa. Back to Mom. Arif, down you go. Daddy’s arms are tired.”

Stafa flashed his little white teeth and shook his head “Can’t,” he said.

“Yes, you can,” Laella told him. “Come here. Your father’s been working hard all day.”

“Can’t. My dad.”

Aaron bent and let Arif down. Arifs feelings were hurt, of course, but he hid that as he always did. He was convinced everyone loved his brother more than him, and no logical argument could reach his heart and convince it that a smaller child always needed more attention.

The firstborn are always the sad ones, Aaron thought, and felt vaguely guilty. He always seemed to expect more of Arif.

He leaned toward Laella, who tried to pry Stafa off him. Stafa laughed and declared, “Can’t! Daddy’s Stafa!” He grabbed two fistfuls of Aaron’s hair. Aaron suppressed the usual flash of anger and impatience and played the game out.

Laella finally peeled the boy off. The battle shifted ground. She wanted to put him down and he did not want to be put. Laella won. Stafa went into a pout, declared, “I hate you, Mom!” He ran and clung to Nana’s leg. But the old woman had no attention to spare.

Aaron grabbed Arif up and set him on his left hip, ignoring the ache in his arm and shoulders. “Come on, big guy. Let’s see what’s going on.” His relief at finding Arif safe persisted. It left him feeling select and immune and more daring than was his nature. He even managed to meet the Eagle’s eye without flinching.

*   *   *

Bel-Sidek dragged his log of a bad leg up the slope of Char Street. It got worse every day. His pride was under ever more severe strain. How long before it broke, he surrendered, and he became just another crippled veteran begging at street side?

As it did every time, the thought sparked white-hot rage. He would not surrender! He would not become a vegetable patch beside the thoroughfare, watered by the charity of Herodian conquerors whose generosity consisted of tossing back fragments of the ghosts of plunder ripped from the heart of Qushmarrah.

Bel-Sidek sometimes tended toward a dramatic turn of mind.

The leg did not hurt as badly, nor drag nearly so much, when the thought of a commander of a thousand begging at street side drove him into a fury. Dartar and Herodian had humiliated him and reduced him by strength of arms and right of conquest. But he would not finish what they had begun. He would not degrade himself.

“They have not won,” he muttered. “They have not beaten me. I am one of the living.”

For the true believer the formula was as potent as a magical cantrip.

There was something wrong with his surroundings. He stopped instantly, coming out of himself to look around suspiciously. Yes! Dartars and Herodians everywhere. How had they…?

Wait. Maybe not. Whatever had happened, it was over long since. And the enemy did not have that grim look he got when his own had been hurt. Someone would have gotten hurt had they found the General.

Still …

Still, it had been something that interested them a great deal. A great deal. That was Fa’tad al-Akla himself. The Eagle would not be out here for trivia.

Was he at risk here? Had they been found out? Was it a search?

No. Hardly. How would the old man know them in their present circumstances, after ten years, when he and the General had been but faces in the background when last they had crossed paths?

There was Raheb Sayhed and her daughter. Raheb spent her life planted on her mat there. Nothing escaped her. He limped over to the two women.

A smiling face peeped around Raheb’s skirt. Bel-Sidek grinned. “Ola, Stafa.” He liked the child. “Ola, Raheb. Laella.”

The older woman replied, “Ola, Khadifa.” She inclined her head almost imperceptibly, to show that
she
still honored him. She continued to stare at Fa’tad.

Bel-Sidek frowned his question at the daughter.

Laella said, “The foundations of her world took a shaking this afternoon.”

“What happened?”

“A child-stealing. Reyha’s son, Zouki. A Dartar patrol was right in front of the house when it happened. They tried to rescue Zouki. Three of them got hurt.”

“That explains Fa’tad.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think so. They weren’t hurt bad. I hear he’s here because they think the Living had something to do with it.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

“Why would they take a six-year-old kid?”

“Why would they beat up shopkeepers and steal from artisans and leave their own people floating in the bay while never,
ever,
laying a finger on the people they’re supposed to be fighting?”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I? Let me tell you something, Khadifa. There are ordinary, everyday, loyal people in Qushmarrah—people who hate Herod and Dartars as much as you do—who’re so fed up with the Living they’ve talked about maybe letting Fa’tad find out some names.”

“Laella.”

Bel-Sidek turned. “Aaron. How are you?”

“Upset. I have small children. It disturbs me that the Dartars seem more interested in their safety than do those of my own people who might say they have some claim on my sympathy. People who, by their nature, ought to have some insight into the problem if there’s a racket behind the child-stealing.”

Bel-Sidek understood. He did not like it. “I hear what you’re saying, Aaron. Here. Come. Walk with me to my house.” He began dragging the leg uphill.

The man turned his son over to his wife and followed. It did not take him long to catch up. Bel-Sidek asked, “Is it true, what she said?”

“You know how women are when they’re scared or mad. Say any damned thing that pops into their head.”

“Yes.” He glanced back at Raheb, still frozen in place. There was an omen as sinister as her daughter’s threat. “I know some people who know some people. I’ll say something to someone.”

“Thank you. How is your father doing?”

“He sleeps a lot now. The pain doesn’t bother him as much as it did.”

“Good.”

“I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

*   *   *

The old man wakened when the door slammed. It had to be slammed or it would not close all the way. “Bel-Sidek?” He winced as the pain shot down his side.

“Yes, General.”

The old man composed himself before the khadifa entered the dimness of his room. Only a part of the dimness was due to a lack of lighting. His eyes were growing feeble. He could make out few details of bel-Sidek when he appeared. “Was it a good day, Khadifa?”

“It began well. Three ships came with the morning tide. There was work. We needn’t worry about where our meals will come from for a few days.”

“But?”

“I encountered an unpleasant situation coming home. It was illuminating.”

“Political?”

“Yes.”

“Report.”

He listened carefully, with a feeling for nuance. His hearing was excellent. Time had been that kind. He heard not only objective substance but the implication that the khadifa was troubled in heart.

“The woman—Raheb?—bothers you. Why?”

“She had one son. Taidiki. Her sunrise. Her full moon. He went to Dak-es-Souetta with my Thousand. A brave lad. He held his ground till the end. He was one of the forty-eight of mine who came home. He came back in worse shape than I did. A lot worse. But he was a proud kid. He thought he’d done something. His mother cried for him, but she was proud of him, too. And of everyone who fought the odds at Dak-es-Souetta. Fanatically so.”

“Is there a punch line to this story, Khadifa?”

“A year ago Taidiki went into the street and started telling anyone who would listen the same things his sister said today, only he spoke more straightforwardly. He said hard things about our class and the Living. He said the Dartar tribes were not the traitors of Dak-es-Souetta, that Qushmarrah had betrayed them first by ignoring them in their need. They had done only what they had to do so their children could eat. When one of the Living tried to hush him, he denounced the man. When the man resorted to threats, Taidiki’s neighbors—our neighbors—beat him senseless.”