The Tower of Bashan

by Joshua P. Simon

  “And what about the village where you want to have the work done? It isn’t far from the city. What’s to stop them from talking?”

  “Quite a bit of coin for one. We’ll be buying silence. Half up front and half again when we leave. Even still, no one will know why we want the work done. Just that we’re getting it done. News about Lord Rickar entering Bashan will probably never even reach the village. It’s too unimportant to them. Even if it does, and they put the pieces together that I am Lord Rickar, no one from the upper class of Bashan will believe a bunch of poor commoners from outside the city, should they even report us.”

  * * *

  Lela ran through the streets of Bashan. For the first time she wasn’t running from someone, but to someone. The day began on a high note with Kunal getting work for Rondel and Andrasta. It ended on just as high a note with her becoming a personal servant to the princess.

  A grin crawled across her face as she realized the latter’s success would likely have not occurred if not for Seeta’s cruelty.

  A scrub brush to the head was worth the reward. I guess she helped me after all. Ha.

  She went over mental notes from witnessing the confrontation between the prince and princess. Though they had guarded their tongues with servants about, the tension was palpable. Lela picked up several names she hoped would be important as it pertained to disputes over trade routes.

  I need to decide how much to tell Beladeva and how much to tell Rondel and Andrasta. I guess it doesn’t make sense to hold back from either since their goals are different. It’s not like they’re competing against each other.

  She put aside those thoughts. She’d have plenty enough time to work it out later. The last thing she wanted was for Kunal to see her stressed. She entered their building, dashed up the stairs to their door, and turned the handle while giving it a push. Rather than the door giving, she inadvertently slammed her shoulder into it with a loud thud.

  “Ow.” It’s locked.

  “Is that you, Lela?” Kunal called from inside. “One moment.” He mumbled something else she couldn’t make out while footsteps came to the door. “It better be you by the way. Otherwise, you’ll be sorry.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What are you talking about, Uncle?”

  A click sounded and the door swung open. “Ah, it is you. Good.” He went back to his work without giving her a second look.

  Lela froze in the entrance. Their entire space looked different. Someone had cleaned and disinfected the room. Spools of thread, shears, and needles of various sizes sat on a table in the center. Two wooden dummies stood on pedestals in front of the table. Cloth lay over each dummy with more rolls of fabric on the floor.

  “Uncle,” Lela whispered. “What happened?”

  He looked over his shoulder and tsked. “Come in and lock the door behind you. The last thing I want is to let others see all this. It was difficult enough trying not to draw too much notice when I had others come by and clean the place. And then came the deliveries.” He began pacing back and forth over the space. A light sheen of sweat ran across his forehead and he rubbed his hands together while talking. “None of it was cheap, especially not the new lock. I ended up spending the entire amount advanced to me.”

  “That much already!”

  “You have to spend money to make money, they say.” He wiped the sweat from his brow on his sleeve, then walked over to drink a glass of water. “Besides, what I spent it on was well worth it. The tools aren’t as nice as those I once owned, but they’ll do until I can afford something . . . .” He paused. “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Kunal did his best to hide the withdrawal, but Lela could tell he still suffered with desires for the opium. He popped a piece of hard sugar candy into his mouth while waiting for her to answer.

  Something to take his mind off the cravings? He’s trying. More than ever.

  Lela jumped up and squeezed him around the neck. Kunal nearly fell forward dropping to a knee. “It’s just good to see you acting more like your old self. I missed you so much.”

  He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m trying. I promise I won’t fail this time.”

  “I believe you.”

  Her plan had already begun to work.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rondel paused in his painting of the carriage. He smiled as a cool breeze danced across the single street of Sagal, a small village half a day’s ride from Bashan. His graying brown hair fluttered across his forehead and behind his ears. He took a deep breath and shook out his arms. The sun had yet to rise, but already every muscle in his body ached.

  At least I can breathe fresh air. No trash, no rotten food, and most importantly, no privies to clean.

  After weeks of wasted work in Bashan, the last two days in Sagal had rejuvenated his spirits. He didn’t care that the idea had originated with a little girl, he was the one giving it character and building it into a plan he felt confident would work.

  The breeze grew stronger, sending goose bumps across the bare skin of his neck.

  And if the plan doesn’t work, at least we’ll go down with more dignity than before. Gods, what was I thinking? Cleaning privies.

  He paused, smile flipping into a frown. He knew exactly what he had been thinking. He had suffered two unlikely, but great losses in Erba—the woman he loved and their son.

  Several months had passed but the bitter memories stung as though it had occurred yesterday. Not enough time has gone by. Is there such a thing as enough time when mourning?

  He took a deep breath. He had to be careful not to slip into those morose thoughts that crept up on him sometimes. Otherwise, one thought would lead to another and his mind would be worthless until something snapped him out of it.

  At least I’m more aware of it now. That should help stave off the worst of things. At least until this business with the tower is done. Then perhaps I’ll crawl into a bottle for a month and really pay my proper respects to them.

  He wiped his eyes, not sure if it was the breeze or the lack of sleep that had caused them to water.

  He picked up a brush and continued painting the carriage by lamplight. He and Andrasta had worked tirelessly in preparation for what would be their grand entrance into Bashan. The work refocused his mind. Just have to stay busy. That’s the key. Think about the task at hand. About what I can control.

  A false dawn arrived, graying the dark sky until pale sunlight oozed over the horizon, spilling into the small valley where Sagal lay nestled. Rondel stopped his work only to dim the oil lamp. He finished painting the sides of the wagons bright white and moved on to the trim which called for simple black.

  Uneven footsteps approached from behind. He recognized the gait immediately, pausing in his work to bid good morning to Dinesh with a nod of his head.

  Dinesh had a dozen years on Rondel, but other than the limp he bore from an old war injury, he carried himself like a man half that age. He wore a simple white dari and kurta, common attire for a man of his station. Both articles of clothing smelled clean, but bore sweat stains due to a life of hard physical work.

  Dinesh handed Rondel a steaming cup of coffee that he eagerly accepted. The rich smell gave life to his tired eyes, and the warm liquid provided relief to his rough throat. With just a few swallows, energy coursed through his limbs.

  They stood in silence, admiring the carriage while sipping their bitter drinks. The open carriage they left the city with now had an enclosed cover to ride in.

  Dinesh took another drink after examining the work. “You surprise me.”

  “How so?” asked Rondel.

  “I didn’t think you’d have it ready for me to finish so soon. Or if you did, the work would be sloppy and I’d end up spending half the day fixing what you rushed.”

  “I take it you’re happy then.”

  He nodded. “You have a steady hand and a great deal of patience.”

  “They were once necessary in my previous profession,” Ro
ndel said. “Actually, those things are still necessary now that I think about it.”

  The old soldier set his empty cup down. “Well, you can run along so I can get started.”

  “Don’t you want some help?”

  “No. With something this delicate, I work better alone.”

  “And it will be done in time for us to leave tomorrow morning?”

  He flashed a mouth still full of teeth. “With what you’re paying me, absolutely.”

  Dinesh pulled out a small case of thin paint brushes made from horse hair. Each varied in size and length. He dipped one into the black paint Rondel used earlier and with the slightest of touches of brush against wood, a perfect black swirl took shape against the white background.

  Rondel watched him a moment longer in admiration before leaving the man to his work.

  Stepping through town, others were out and about, milking goats, weeding gardens, and chopping wood. Like Dinesh, several of the villagers busied themselves with tasks Rondel had hired them to do.

  A middle-aged woman sat near an open window of a small hut while putting the finishing touches on dark-red curtains for the carriage’s windows. He had worked with the same woman the previous day to create small leather covers for each of the finger tips on his bad hand. The material took away the feel of the flute against his skin when he practiced, however he no longer had an issue properly covering each opening.

  Hopefully that will be enough.

  An old man, good with herbs and potions, boiled liquids over a roaring fire while mixing various powders in a stone bowl beside it. Rondel watched him pour both the powder and liquid into small clay containers, sealing each with wax. The alchemist must have had at least three dozen ingredients around him, but all Rondel could smell was sulphur.

  Finally some luck going our way. Who would have thought to find someone with knowledge of smoke and fire bombs out here?

  In the stable, a young boy brushed out the coats of Rondel’s mount and another they purchased to pull the carriage. Andrasta was adamant about not demeaning Jewel in such a way.

  Things are coming together. Just waiting on you, Andrasta.

  As if on cue, she entered the village atop Jewel. Rondel breathed a sigh of relief upon noticing several packages tied to the saddle behind her.

  Well, Kunal got the work done on time. That’s at least something. Now to check the quality.

  Rondel had been hesitant to trust Kunal, but decided to take a chance based on the man’s knowledge. Even still, Rondel couldn’t afford to place all his bets on the recovering drug addict so he had also hired a local to throw something together in case Lela’s uncle failed to meet their timeline. Though the local did good work, the clothes didn’t stand out in the way Rondel had hoped.

  Andrasta dismounted. Her excitement from days earlier when he began to put parts of his plan into motion had waned. In its place, her scowl reasserted itself. It looked as comfortable on her as a pair of broken-in boots. The scar crossing her face puckered slightly as eyes flitted over the village.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “What’s wrong is that half the village is working for us.”

  “As I said before, there’s no other way to get all the work done in time.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m serious. Just because we’re paying them a lot of money doesn’t mean they won’t turn on us.”

  “True. But you have to look at all the facts. They’re off the beaten path. The village sits near the border of two Kindi territories and therefore doesn’t hold the same level of allegiance to the prince or princess. And again, no one here knows why we’ve wanted all this work done or what our intentions are with the items upon completion. They only care that we need it quickly and have the coin to pay for it.

  “Let’s say someone gets a wild hair and follows us into Bashan. They go to the local authority and tell them about us. Without any real knowledge of who we are, what our intentions are, or anything else, no one will give them the time of day. Even if they do, it will be our word against theirs. After tomorrow we’ll have already established ourselves as completely different people within the city. Attitude and money will work just as easily in Bashan as it has here. We’ll be fine.”

  She rubbed her jaw and sighed. “We better be.”

  Gods, she’s more on edge every day. And this is the easy part.

  “How are the clothes?”

  Andrasta shrugged. “I didn’t really examine them since it was your idea. Just made sure they were there. He was adamant that it was just the thing you were looking for.”

  Rondel opened one of the packages. Out flowed a pair of dark-blue trousers with black stripes down each leg. A matching overcoat lay underneath it as well as a sky-blue shirt trimmed with white. Kunal took something simple and made it more elegant than what many of the kings I once performed for had worn. He smiled. “Would you look at the stitching on this? Our little Lela came through for us in a big way. If your outfit looks half as good as this, we’re set.”

  Andrasta frowned. “But it doesn’t look like anything I saw people wearing in the city.”

  “That’s the idea. A rich emissary from Bratanic who is hoping to secure new trade routes for the queen won’t dress as a local.”

  “You sure you can pull that off?”

  “Of course. It’ll be hard to trip me up on information from where I grew up.”

  “Didn’t you tell me it’s been over fifteen years since you’ve been there?”

  “At least.”

  “You don’t think it’s changed.”

  “Not that much. Right now it’s probably raining or foggy, or both, just like it is most of the year. And I’ve kept up on the major happenings in the political realm through bar conversation. I’ll be fine.”

  “What about me? Being an emissary won’t work in my case. Juntark chooses to stay mostly to itself with the exception of the two countries that share its borders.”

  “Just as well. No ruler would send you as an emissary anyway. Don’t give me that look. There are only a few cultures in the entire world that hold women to the esteem you feel they should. If I recall, Juntark isn’t one of them.”

  She scowled. “So what am I supposed to be?”

  “My bodyguard.”

  “You just said there weren’t many female emissaries out there. I’m pretty sure there are even fewer female bodyguards.”

  “Probably. However, because of your size, the way your carry yourself, and frankly the lack of knowledge most people have of Juntark, I think it’ll work. Worst case scenario someone tries to prove your unworthiness to hold the position and you get to put them in their place.”

  “Fine. But just so we’re clear, I’m your bodyguard in every sense of the word. Don’t try to make me do things that a servant would do.”

  “Of course. I’d never dream of degrading you in such a way.”

  “So what do my clothes look like?”

  He nodded to the package. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Andrasta removed the other package off Jewel. She began cutting the strings with her dagger.

  “Careful,” said Rondel. “Kunal worked fast, but we don’t have time to do another.”

  Andrasta scowled, yanking the bundle of cloth out like she was withdrawing her blade from a man’s chest. She held up the long black cloak, black trousers, and a black tunic.

  “What is this?”

  “Let me explain before you get upset.”

  “I’ll look like a blasted headsmen in these things.”

  “I know, but it’s necessary. You need to look the part.”

  “I won’t look the part. No one in Juntark dresses like this. We’d die of a heat stroke within an hour.”

  “You’re not dressing for authenticity, you’re dressing to a stereotype. Sort of.”

  “Explain,” she hissed through a clenched jaw.

  “Look, I know you hate all those stup
id misconceptions that most of Untan believes about your people, right?”

  “You mean that our dark skin comes from sleeping with demons, our women wear chicken bones through their nipples, and we eat the flesh of our first born?”

  “Among others. This is the thing. When I tell anyone that you’re from Juntark, they’re going to expect something exotic, something that fits the stereotypes. Even Kunal, brought that point up. But you don’t want to know what he suggested we make for you to wear.”

  “And this is your solution? This is ridiculous and if you think I’m going to—”

  “By the gods, enough!” snapped Rondel, leaning in close. “What is more important, your pride or the jewel?”

  She said nothing.

  “Look, they’re just clothes. Simple black clothes. Nothing except the color will make you stand out. I made sure of that for you. But, you have to meet me halfway here.”

  Andrasta sighed. “All right. At least we’re not still picking up trash.”

  “There you go. Be positive for once. Now, regardless of what you wear, we both need to be clean. C’mon, I hired a woman to meet us at the stream with soap, oils, and shears for our hair. Everything needs to be perfect.”

  * * *

  Sitting with his back to a mahogany tree, Rondel breathed a wistful sigh while stroking the smooth skin of his cheek. His hand drifted down his neck until his thumb touched the scar at his throat. He pulled it away quickly as a frown forced its way onto his face. Though he had tried to keep his beard trimmed before, he hadn’t been clean-shaven in some time. The change made him feel exposed.

  Get over it Rondel. A means to an end. Vanity doesn’t suit a scared, has-been minstrel. You do whatever it takes to succeed now. For Andrasta. She’s the closest friend you’ve ever had. You owe her.

  He sighed and pulled out the silver flute. He spun it in his hands before pausing and reading the inscription for what he estimated was at least the hundredth time.

  “Play it loud and play it true.”

  Such a dumb phrase made him loathe the instrument even more.