The Burning Tower

by Colin Glassey

  Although he couldn’t see any horses, he could smell them; the unmistakable scent of horse manure was coming from near the big tower, doubtless the east gate. When they reached it, Ako was unimpressed. The horses for sale were of poor quality. Some were quite old and in Kelten would not be suitable for a day’s rent in Seopolis. However, Russu was pleased to see them, though she did comment on how unhappy some of the horses appeared. Ako asked one of the horse merchants where the good horses were sold.

  The horse seller, his face weathered and his hands stained from years of leather polish, held his hand out and turned it palm up and then palm down several times. “It’s the war,” the man said. “All the good ones are with the cavalry. Hard to keep even bad horses in stock. If I had any good ones, I’d have to sell them quiet. If I had any.”

  Ako knew what the man meant. Horses got sick just like men, and keeping the scouts supplied with fresh horses was a constant struggle for the Kelten army, even in peacetime.

  The other animals for sale—pigs, cows, goats, chickens—all looked good. Healthy, well bred. In fact, he thought the pigs were bigger than any he had seen back home. Everyone knew that Kelten just wasn’t good pig country, not compared to Melnehlan.

  Russu eventually lost interest in the animals, and so they turned back, heading toward the carts filled with vegetables.

  Ako wasn’t aware of any danger, yet without really knowing why, he drew his sword just as a pair of short men brandished long, curved daggers and tried to stab Russu. Using his sword as a shield, he blocked one overhand stroke and then shoved the man violently back into the crowd. With his left hand, he punched the other man in the face, sending him sprawling to the hard ground.

  Russu produced a long needle from her hair and stabbed at the first attacker as he rushed toward her, but her aim was poor, and he jumped past her thrust. Two more men who looked a little like the guards outside her uncle’s house joined in the attack on Russu.

  There was shouting and a surge of shoppers away from the fight. Ako paid no attention to the civilians. His rage and anger had risen like a great wave on a hitherto calm sea, and with a fury he slashed at every man who approached. One fool fell for a simple feint to the face while Ako dropped his point and stabbed him hard in the upper thigh. Another would-be assassin thought he could block Ako’s sword slash with his curved dagger. Ako laughed as he fought through the block and forced his blade deep into the man’s neck; blood spurted out of the wound, and the man fell. Ako lowered his head and yelled as he charged toward the first attacker, but it was a ruse; he veered to the right and suddenly ran his sword all the way through the second attacker’s midriff. The man’s surprised expression lasted just a second till blood ran out of his mouth.

  Ako jerked his sword out of the man and faced their first attacker. His rage was burning like a living fire, hotter than any he could remember; he barely managed to hold himself in check, waiting for the assassin to make a move. The man, with a dirty blue cloth wrapped around his head, his simple shirt torn, his eyes wide, glanced about the ground at the bodies of his compatriots. There was no help there. He yelled some strange words at Russu and then turned and ran. Ako gave chase briefly, but the assassin was like a snake, darting through the crowd, slipping between market stalls. Ako realized that he was not going to catch him, and there might be still more assassins waiting to attack the Rakeved princess.

  He returned to find Russu standing, shaking but defiant, holding her long steel needle in one hand and one of the assassins’ daggers in the other, a ring of gawking shoppers around her.

  “Do you want to talk to the city guards about this?” Ako asked her.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Then let us leave this place. I’m sure people know where to find me.”

  Ako grabbed Russu’s hand, and they walked away from the bodies on the street. Several people shouted at him, urging him to stop and explain, but Ako ignored them and pushed on into the market. Blood was dripping down his left arm, and he had a cut on his right hand. As often happened after a battle, he had no idea how either wound had occurred.

  Russu, seeing him bleeding, stopped for a moment. Using the dagger, she cut a strip of fabric from her yellow dress and wrapped it around his hand. She wrapped another strip around his upper arm. It slowed the bleeding.

  They continued on and took a side street back to the expedition’s house. Russu said nothing. Finally, Ako asked, “What did that man say to you?”

  Russu replied slowly, reluctantly. “He said my family should not have come here, and that the Soinine were with Iron.”

  “What does ‘the Soinine are with Iron’ mean?”

  “I don’t know. He spoke in the language of eastern Rakeved. The Soinine are a strong faction within the royal family. To be with Iron? Perhaps it means the Soinine support relations with the Iron King. But this is too much to believe. Would the Soinine murder a member of the royal family, here, in Serica? Over a political dispute? It’s too much. I can’t believe it. If news of this returned to the capital, it would be…but then maybe this news will never reach Hemina. Oh…”

  Russu stopped dead in the street and swayed from side to side. Ako reached over and pulled her next to him. They stood there together for a few moments, and then Russu drew some deep breaths and pulled away.

  “How strange. I felt so odd. You saved my life. Those men were going to kill me. My own countrymen.” She paused and then, rather solemnly, she said, “In my country, if a man saves a woman’s life, the man can ask any one thing from the woman. It’s called a ‘life gift.’” Russu looked up at Ako with a wan smile. “It’s in all the old stories. I never expected I should ever actually have to say this. Oh, how does it go?”

  She got down on her knees, keeping her face cast downward, and said, “Russu Ti Tuomi swears that she owes osetia loken to Ako of Kelten.” She looked up at him and said, “What do you wish of me?”

  Ako resisted the obvious and just said, “Do I have to make my choice immediately? Here and now?”

  Russu got up and smiled, covering her mouth. “Oh no. You can wait for years and years. At least that’s how it is in the stories. But don’t wait too long. The longer the man waits, the worse it becomes for everyone. I must say, you did very well back there. In Rakeved, we have many good warriors. We prize war skills highly in my country, not like the Serice. And I have seen some duels fought before our king. You’re good, just like in the stories we have about Kelten opmi. I was terrible, but in my country, women don’t fight any longer; it’s not proper for a princess. We mostly use these hairpins to kill ourselves if a man is threatening to rape us.”

  Ako was just walking along, letting Russu talk as he mulled over the idea of having a “life gift” from this stunning young woman. It was both intoxicating and disturbing in equal measure. He decided to say nothing about it for the moment. Instead, he said, “We are going back to the Kelten embassy for now. It’s safer. Several of the men who attacked you looked a great deal like the men guarding your uncle’s residence. Till we know more, you need to stay with us.”

  Russu was silent for a while and then said, “I agree. Though I do not understand how that could be true.”

  Once inside the courtyard, Ako explained to Sandun and the others what had happened. Valo Peli just shook his head and said, “You people seem to have a talent for finding trouble.”

  A small, empty room was set aside for Russu. She went to lie down, and the housekeeper later reported that the girl was fast asleep.

  Before sunset, a middle-aged man of average height but with a serious demeanor appeared at their gate; he carried a large leather bag over his shoulder. “I am Dr. Haz, and I am here to examine the opmi named Ako.” The man looked like a doctor, and they let him in.

  Sandun asked him why he was here, as no one had sent for a doctor.

  “The Lord of Kunhalvar commanded me to be of assistance,
and I do my lord’s bidding.”

  The doctor looked at Ako’s wounds with the barest hint of emotion. “Your hand will be fine. I see you are no stranger to such injuries. I will stitch up your arm. Give your arm some rest for a few weeks, and it should heal well.” He picked up the dagger Russu had carried back and smelled it.

  “I see no sign of poison, and the weapon seems clean. The Rakeved are known to use poison in their native land. Fortunately, it seems they did not bring it with them when they came here.” The doctor poured some reddish liquid from a small vial onto Ako’s wound; then, with deft fingers, he sewed up the deep gash with silken thread. “If it swells up and oozes fluid, have Scribe Renieth send for me. I should like to check on the Rakeved girl now.”

  Dr. Haz came back down shortly and told them the girl’s breathing sounded normal and that she was doubtless exhausted from the shock of the attack. Sandun offered the man some of their coins, but he gravely refused them. “No need, gentlemen. We Serice know how to treat our guests from distant lands, even if the Rakeved do not.” With that, he left them.

  After dinner, Ako was detailing how he’d fought off the killers for his rapt audience, when a new party showed up at their gate.

  “A Rakeved merchant claiming to be the young lady’s uncle is here,” said their door warden.

  Ako, feeling a strong sense of irritation and other emotions, stepped out of the gate and onto the street. Sandun and Ashala followed him.

  Russu’s uncle was a short man. He wore an embroidered cloth wrapped around his head, and his robe appeared to glitter in the evening light. He had two armed men behind him, but they were not the gate guards that Ako had seen earlier. All were Rakeved, shorter and darker than was typical in Tokolas. “Is Russu Ti Tuomi here?”

  “Yes, she is. Sleeping.”

  “She needs to return to my house. Please bring her out.”

  “No.” Ako said this in his most commanding voice, the tone he used when he rebuked one of his men for breaking some rule.

  “Perhaps you don’t know who I am. I am Atos Vepsailin. I am her guardian. She must be returned to me.”

  “No. Russu leaves when she wishes. I know who tried to kill her today. Go away, little man.”

  Atos looked up at Sir Ako with a twist of hate to his mouth. “Kelten opmi you may be, but you are a stranger in this land. I will not bargain with you out here on the street.”

  “Then there is nothing more to say.” Ako turned back and entered the courtyard. The gate was closed behind him.

  Sandun sat beside Ako in the hall beside the fireplace. “Do you really think that man was behind the attempt on the girl’s life?”

  “Sandun, I was raised in the household of an earl. If someone is trying to kill you, it’s a crown to a copper that the person behind the attempt is a relative. I don’t know why he is trying to kill Russu, and I don’t care. But I know this: if she goes back with him, she will be killed.”

  In the middle of the night, Ako was woken by a faint noise. It was repeated: a tapping at his door, faint, like the sound of woodpecker far off in the forest. His heart was beating in his chest as he walked to the door and silently opened it.

  Standing small and shapeless in the gloom was Russu, wrapped in a blanket. Ako stood aside; Russu, with a hesitant step, came inside his room. He shut the door behind her.

  She sat on the corner of his bed. She started speaking in a low voice, barely a whisper. Ako stood beside the door, listening. He caught some of her words, but he had to guess at part of what she was saying.

  He heard her say “sleep” and “knives” and “dream.” Then she started speaking more clearly.

  “What have I done? They were going to kill me…for what? Who can I trust? I am alone.” She began to make little choked sobbing sounds.

  Ako knew some men who could listen to a woman cry without it clouding their judgment, but he was not one of them. He went over to the young woman and pulled her close, and then he kissed her. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She kissed him back, clumsily but urgently. In the back of his mind he was thinking, This is trouble I don’t need, but as his hands explored the girl’s body, all rational considerations were submerged in the oceanic swells of animal attraction. What little clothing Russu was wearing was soon off her, and she spent the rest of the night in his bed.

  Two days after Sir Ako brought the Rakeved princess to stay with them “till it was safe,” Scribe Renieth showed up in an agitated state and asked Sandun to follow him.

  Curious, Sandun asked Ashala to come along. She put on her best shawl and then followed him out of the house and down the street. They did not go far before they were at the large open gate leading to one of the temples. Sandun had visited the temple closest to their house a day before, but while he wandered around the grounds for an hour, his mind was unsettled, and he took no comfort from the place.

  Today, he followed Scribe Renieth into the temple grounds with an air of expectancy. Something was up—he just had no idea what. This temple was like a sparse forest, with ranks of younger trees and an inner core of old twisted trees of unknown age. Renieth gestured to him to go on while he waited at the edge of the ring of old trees.

  Inside the ring of old, twisted trees, there was a small stream some six feet below the ground level. A stone bridge crossed the stream. Along the sloped banks were a group of carved stone turtles, all staring down at the water. Sitting on one of the turtles was a man about Sandun’s age, his gaze fixed on the rippling water, like the turtles around him. The man wore a white silk tunic with black pants, and there was a jeweled ring on his left hand.

  He turned at Sandun’s approach and said, “Come and sit on one of these turtles. Supposedly they are ‘keeping the realm in harmony’ by balancing stone against water. Don’t worry, they won’t bite.” The man had a striking face, with large dark eyes and prominent cheekbones. Sandun could tell the man had lived a hard life; his face was creased and the scar of an old cut ran down from his left ear to his jaw. More old, white scars could be seen on his forearms.

  Was this the Lord of Kunhalvar? Sandun said nothing but took a seat on a turtle.

  “You came all the way from Kelten, across the mountains, traveling for more than a year. An astonishing journey. How did you do it? Was there a road? Did you lose many men along the way? Why did you come? I admit that I wished to make the journey from here to Kelten when I was young. It is wonderful that you came to my city.”

  So this was the Lord of Kunhalvar. His enthusiasm was plain to see. Though Sandun did not doubt that the man had hidden chambers to his mind, this much was genuine.

  Sandun smiled and responded, “So many questions. Where shall I begin? First, we had an old map to guide us. Also, in many places, we found the remnants of trails to follow. Third, one man died, three were badly injured and stayed behind, two were sent back with our horses when we reached a pass that the horses could not cross. Why did we come? We hope to establish friendly relations between Kelten and Serica, including trade.”

  “I see your mind is as good my advisors reported,” the Lord of Kunhalvar replied. “Do you know there are rumors and more than rumors about you? They say you have a magic sword, one made by the secretive Junithoy. We know only this much about the Junithoy.” He put his hands palm to palm, not quite touching. “And my advisors are completely divided on the issue. You don’t look like a man with a magic sword; in fact, you look like a scholar.”

  Sandun had to laugh at this; it was exactly what he told himself every day. “You are right about that. I am a scholar. In Kelten, I help run our government’s library.” Sandun held up his hands. “These ink stains are the product of a decade of work. I will tell you this: as a gesture of goodwill, we did meet with a group of very unusual people. We call them ‘Piksies.’ I’ve never hear the word Junithoy before. In Gipu, they call Piksies the Orenik.”

  “As you no doubt ha
ve guessed, my name is Jori Vaina, known around the city as the Lord of Tokolas or the Ruler of Kunhalvar. My enemies call me the Beggar Duke, which is not really fair.” Here Sandun saw a flicker of old pain cross Lord Vaina’s face; it was replaced by a serious expression almost instantly. “I don’t like to talk about those years, but I will say this. I had no money, and I traveled widely. Once I had a pair of cheap grass sandals, but when they wore out, it was back to bare feet.”

  Lord Vaina took off his finely worked leather shoe and showed off his right foot to Sandun’s startled view. “They should call me ‘Iron Foot Duke.’ But then that would confuse men. No doubt some would say, ‘But the Iron King, he must have iron feet as well?’ We can’t have that. My soldiers might think they should be fighting for the other side. Ha!

  “Ten thousand tik is a long way to travel for trade. And over the Tiralas as well! Still, there was trade in the past. Why not again? What do you think of our land? My city? The great river is truly a wonder, isn’t it? Nearly all the waters of Serica find their way to the river Mur, not to mention mud and trees and other things.”

  Sandun told him honestly that the great river of Serica was a wonder and that surely no river in the world could compare to it. “It takes courage to cross a river like that every day.”

  The Lord of Tokolas smiled at Sandun’s remark. “Yes. My father and grandfather were tough. I remember going out on their longboat, early in the morning when the fog mutes the sounds and the sun is just a pale coin.”

  They talked for a few minutes, as Sandun tried to fit the story of his travels into the hail of questions Lord Vaina kept asking.

  An official appeared at the edge of the line of trees. He did nothing but stand in the sunlight with his hands clasped together just above his heart.

  Lord Vaina noticed the man instantly, and he stood up.