The Tower of Fear (6 page)

Azel stirred himself, strode forward. His heels clicked upon the basalt floor. Echoes bounded and rebounded and mixed till they sounded like the noise made by the wings of a flight of bats.

Azel paused beyond the glow, considered the tableau frozen before him.

Nakar still lay arched backward over the altar, Ala-eh-din Beyh’s enchanted dagger in his heart. One hand gripped the altar for leverage. The other was a claw at the end of an extended arm, now clamped upon air as once it had been clamped upon the Herodian sorcerer-hero’s throat. Ala-eh-din Beyh lay on his side at Nakar’s feet, still locked in the stance of a man using both hands to drive a blade into an enemy’s heart while trying to lean back from a hand tearing at his throat.

All the Witch’s power had been able to do only that much to separate them. The enchantment into which she had put them at death was that powerful.

Azel came to view the tableau each time he visited the citadel. Each time he came the darkness seemed to have closed in a little more.

If it devoured the glow entirely would it be too late for the project? Too late for Qushmarrah?

Was the Witch so driven because she was racing against the darkness?

As he did each time he came, Azel genuflected slightly—but whether to Nakar, the altar, or to the god in the darkness beyond, even he could not have said. Then he turned and left that place, and went out through the Postern of Fate into the real world of a Qushmarrah sprawled helpless at the feet of her conquerors.

*   *   *

Bel-Sidek got the General seated at his table only moments before the first of the “nephews” arrived. The old man had called forth surprising reserves of will and had banished the appearance of ill health. He almost looked like the General of old.

That first to arrive was “King” Dabdahd, who ran the Astan quarter. King was the least important of the guests expected. No trouble came out of the Astan. King was the General’s man.

Qushmarrah within the wall was divided into seven “quarters”: the Shu, the Shen, the Tro, and the Hahr (the original four quarters of the “Old City”), the Astan, the Minisia, and the waterfront. Bel-Sidek and the General ran the waterfront and the Shu. The troublesome quarter, the Hahr, belonged to one Ortbal Sagdet.

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 put 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 Naszif’s 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. Naszif’s 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 Naszif’s 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.”

Naszif’s 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.