Burning Tower (21 page)

R
umor said that there was no fresh water along the barren shore of the Forefinger, and no wind. You rowed all the way. Gods help the oarsmen if a greedy captain stowed extra cargo instead of extra drinking water.

The sails stayed rigged and ready, just in case. Today there had been a long afternoon breeze. Oarsmen could doze. When daylight went and the breezes died, sails came down and oarsmen slept. Regapisk had never slept better before boarding the
Angie Queen.

But he woke, on his sixth night since Condigeo, when a lash fell across his shoulders. Not a whipstroke, he realized after that first spasm and gasp, but just the lash sliding along skin.

Still dark. It felt as if he'd just fallen asleep.

“You're wanted,” the Oarmaster said. “Make one wrong move, and we'll be one oar short.”

Naw,
Regapisk thought as he watched the Oarmaster open his chains.
You'd row in my place if you lost me this way. What kind of bribe did they offer?
Uncharacteristically, he didn't say any of that. Up close, dark against starlight, the Oarmaster was scary. His shoulders and arms were huge and ridged with scars. He must have been an oarsman himself.

Regapisk stood, his legs badly cramped, and moved as he was directed.

Up a ladder to the Oarmaster's perch. Up another ladder to the deck, then into one of the better rooms. The Oarmaster left him there, but Arshur the northman loomed.

The huge old man said nothing. Despite a twisted body and lavish scars, dark mottled scalp, and sparse white hair, the barbarian was still a tower of muscle, an accident waiting to happen. Very clearly he was Tras Preetror's bodyguard, if Regapisk proved untrustworthy.

Tras Preetror remained seated. “Next bread you're a Lord,” he said.

“I want half your bet,” Regapisk said. “Have you worked the oars, or do you just listen good?”

“Both,” the teller said. “I have to listen or the tales don't come to me. Tell me a story. I saw you talking to the oar behind you, and he's Lordkin.”

“That's Fethiwong of Dirty Birds. He robbed a clothing shop and had some
won
derful luck. He got most of the gowns for Lady Tzarbon's wedding. Worth a fortune, they were, and he gave a few away to friendly women. All he had to do was not tell stories in dockside. She's married a captain from Condigeo, you know?”

Tras Preetror chuckled. He patted air: “Sit. Tell me stories.”

Regapisk sat. He nibbled pastry filled with meat paste, as if he weren't prepared to devour it in a mouthful. Manners. “I know some of
your
story,” he said. “Where you were when the Toronexti were burned out at the Deerpiss Meadow. How Whandall Feathersnake put you both in a tree so you'd live through it. You must have missed some of the battle, but I've heard the rest.”

“What I didn't see, I got from witnesses.” Tras Preetror dismissed the matter, a tale told too often. “The little girl, Burning Tower, who burned the manuscript of the laws? I saw her in Condigeo.”

“She was on this ship twenty days ago, with my cousin, Lord Sandry.”

“Curse, I'm sorry I missed her! But what I want to know about is the birds. Have they got as far as the Burning City?”

Birds?

A little desperately, Regapisk said, “Big killer birds? I only heard about the birds in Condigeo port. I do know tales a teller wouldn't hear unless he talks to Lords' children. And you can tell me about birds. It's your turn.” Tellers traded tales; everyone knew that.

Tras waved, expansive generosity. “You first. What was it like to be a Lord's boy?”

So Regapisk told him about Lord Sandry and the mirror.

Mirrors were expensive. Outside Tep's Town, they might be magical. Regapisk had been twelve, Sandry had been ten, when Regapisk talked Sandry into trying to enter the mirror world. “I told him I'd already been inside,” Regapisk said.

At a walk, Sandry only bumped his nose. At a run, he knocked over Lord Fesk's mirror and cracked it. He was caught trying to repair it with chicken fat.

And Regapisk got the blame. He'd never understood that.

“Maybe you had a reputation by then,” Tras suggested.

“Nah.”

Tras Preetror told how he'd learned to bet with next bread, in a galleon's oar pit, after he tried to talk his way into Lordshills with the aid of a Serpent's Walk boy. “That was Whandall Placehold. A lot of these scars are from when he caught me later.”

“Caught you doing what?”

“Well…yes.” Tras laughed. “Invading his privacy, he said.”

The child Regapisk had hidden on balconies and spied on Lords and their ladies, and learned nothing Lord Regapisk thought interesting. But Tras probed for details: how they dressed, what they ate, how they talked, schooling and schoolmasters, and what children did when they weren't around….

“Now, the birds,” Regapisk said. “It really is your turn.”

“Lots of them off to the east,” Arshur said. “Not so many up north. In the high north country, we had three in cages until it got too expensive to feed them meat, then we ate the birds. Taste like chicken, but the meat's red like bison.”

“You never told me any of this,” Tras protested.

“You never asked.”

They talked to each other that way, Tras and Arshur. Regapisk wondered why. But Tras was asking the questions now, so Regapisk need only listen.

“Did the birds up north attack wagon trains? People?”

“Not more than once,” Arshur said. “They were just birds. Took more than one man to kill one, unless it was me. I figured out a way to kill one by myself. Most times you got six or eight guys to surround one with spears and lassoes.”

“One,” Tras said. “The stories we're hearing are about a dozen and more birds attacking people and wagon trains and towns. They've closed down the Golden Road.”

“Never heard of them doing anything like that,” Arshur said.

 

They got Arshur to tell a story of theft and battle in the far north.
Lordkin in a land of ice and peaks,
Regapisk thought, and was captivated.

Then the Oarmaster was there, wanting his oarsman. Regapisk went without complaint.

“Keep your bread,” he told Fethiwong loftily. “I ate better than that.” Maybe the sails would go up and he could sleep away the morning. He'd been taken away in the middle of a tale. Maybe he'd be summoned back.

T
ras summoned him again the next evening.

Regapisk had heard Lordkin's tales of thefts and turf wars. He tried to tell of Whandall and the Suitors, but Tras had heard it from Whandall himself, and told it better too.

Regapisk told a tale he'd heard in Serpent's Walk, of the brothers who could read. Tras knew where one of the brothers had wound up—bookkeeper for the tax collectors.

Tras spoke, like Fethiwong, of huge birds running through Condigeo, leaving a trail of destruction. Tras had followed the monstrous flock until four were killed and the rest escaped into the countryside. Had they reached Tep's Town? Not that Regapisk knew; but he remembered the caravan girl, Burning Tower, who danced in a costume made from a terror bird's feathers. Arshur told how he had fought the terror bird single-handedly, strangled it with his bare hands. Watch for the wing daggers; keep pulling the bird off balance so it can't claw you with a foot….

Regapisk was yawning before the Oarmaster came for him.

DAY 8: SOUTHBOUND, WITH THE WIND

He'd been summoned three nights running. Regapisk was getting enough to eat, but not enough sleep.

He knew sailors' stories, but so did Tras. But Regapisk knew stories the mers told. There was a mer who tried to claim his landborn daughter when she'd reached a proper age. The man realized in the nick of time that she was drowning. The magic goes away….

Tras had been in the heart of at least one Burning, and maybe started it. Of course he hadn't participated. No looker dared be caught gathering property that Lordkin rightly considered their own.

“They never stopped
me
from gathering,” Arshur said. Both men laughed, and neither answered.

When Regapisk ran out of stories, he talked about himself.

Tras asked about kitchens and cookery. The kitchen in Lord Fesk's house was huge, and Fro Hassic, the cook, was excessively territorial. Regapisk told them about the Great Race, when he and several other boys ran a route through the old house. When they charged through the kitchen, Fro Hassic tried to chase six of them at once. She caught Orsith, Lord Minder's son. Regapisk waved a shaker to get her attention, then began to scatter black pepper around. Hassic dropped Orsith. Regapisk charged for the dining room, still on the path—

“Idiot,” Tras laughed.

“But she had Orsith!”

“But you hadn't done any damage yet!”

“That never stopped Hassic,” Regapisk said.

“Would the cook whip a child?”

“No. She'd just tell Lady Fesk.”

“You didn't have to stop Hassic. If Hassic has something to tell Lady Fesk,
then
you get whipped. Like if you wasted black pepper and ruined their dinner! Did you get whipped?”

“We both did. But that was just Hassic. She didn't catch us, but she knew who we were.”

Regapisk normally liked telling stories about himself. The trouble was, too often Tras would notice something Regapisk hadn't. He'd see why it was all Regapisk's fault. Regapisk grew tired of Tras knowing more about himself than he did.

One night he said so.

S
andry kept his chariot just ahead of the lead wagon. Chalker pretended to watch diligently, but his eyes closed from time to time. Sandry said nothing. He'd chosen Chalker for convenience, and now he'd have to watch for both of them. It was worth it.

Besides, the road was well marked, and despite the cautions of the villagers and farmers, they had seen no dangers since the attack of the birds not far outside Condigeo. Now there were no more farms, just thickets and wildlands.

The next morning Sandry kept his forces together at the wagon train, sending one chariot out ahead to scout. He rode alone in another, shuttling back and forth between the scouts and the wagon train itself, while Chalker kept another chariot ready but with no load. If there were trouble, Sandry could rush back to the wagon train to fresh horses already hitched and ready.

The road led steeply down. There was a thicket ahead. This looked like good land gone wild, once cultivated but now covered with bushy scrub and vines and brambles. Idly he wondered why no one claimed it to build a farm village here. There was certainly enough water to keep all the vines green. He reached the bottom of the valley and crossed a small stream no more than a foot deep.

On the other side of the stream, a small road led off to the right. Signs in some unknown language pointed south down the fork. Sandry found Maydreo and Whane staring at the signs.

“What's this?” Sandry demanded. “Why stop here?”

“Well, it's a road fork,” Whane said. “You said to wait at crossroads.”

“Crossroad?” Sandry pointed off to the right. “Doesn't look like much traffic went that way. It's clear that this is the main road.”

“Yes, sir, but look.” Maydreo pointed to one of the signs. It depicted a wagon train in a circle, pots of stew in the center, crudely drawn wagoneers wearing crudely drawn smiles.

“So?”

Maydreo asked, “Aren't you hungry?”

Suddenly, he was. Good food, hot food. The letters on one of the signs seemed to swim and change, and now said “
EVERYONE WELCOME
!” Another sign changed from unreadable words to a picture of a rapidly flowing stream, clean fresh water flowing through a field of grain and fodder.

But I just crossed that stream,
Sandry thought.
And it won't flow over there where those signs are pointing; that fork goes uphill. There's no water over there!

“Reminds me of those berries,” Whane said.

Maydreo was getting angry. “Fallen Wolf tells us about hospitality towns along the Hemp Road. We haven't seen any here. Think this is one? Did we bring enough rations to make it all the way without buying some decent meals once in a while?”

“No idea,” Sandry said. “It might be a hospitality town; it might not be. Wait here. Can you do that? Wait—don't explore—just wait.”

“Sure,” Maydreo said.

Sandry wheeled the chariot and drove back to the wagon train. “Wise One,” he called, “if you would come with me…and Bentino, you drive my chariot. Take Chalker and follow.”

“What's the matter?” Burning Tower called from the lead wagon. “I'll get Spike and come with you.”

“Might be a good idea. And Spotted Lizard, if you'll come also…”

The chariots weren't designed for three, and Clever Squirrel had trouble keeping her footing as the small car lurched over the rutted road. Spotted Lizard clung to the chariot sides, his face twisted in fear each time they hit a bump.

Sandry explained what he had seen. “Whane said it reminded him of bloodberries,” Sandry said. “But Maydreo was wondering if this leads to a hospitality village. Spotted Lizard, you know of one here?”

“No. This is an unfriendly stretch,” the boy said. “They tried to set up toll gates here, and the Condigeo marines came and burned out the whole town. My father told me—it was maybe five years ago. That's why there aren't any farms here.”

“So what will this be?” Sandry asked.

“I think I know,” Clever Squirrel said. “But let me see first.”

 

Maydreo and Whane were arguing as Sandry drove up.

“He said to wait,” Whane was saying.

“Sure, but we could go have a look…oh. Sir. You're back.”

“And just in time,” Clever Squirrel said. She examined the signs carefully. “Well, it's certainly true that everyone is welcome,” she said. She grinned. “A feast, and everyone is invited.”

“So!” Maydreo said. “A feast! I am tired of the rations we brought, I'd love a proper stew.”

“Not from inside, you wouldn't,” Clever Squirrel said. She gestured, and the letters on the sign swam again, to form new words that Sandry still couldn't read.

“All right, fine, but what does it say?” Sandry asked.

“Everyone welcome to Vic's Vampire Feast.”

Spotted Lizard turned pale.

Sandry and the Younglords looked at each other. “What does that mean?” Sandry asked.

“Ah. No undead in Tep's Town? Not so far, anyway.”

“Undead?” Sandry demanded.

“I'll explain later. It's enough to say that your scouts did well not to go have a look.” She looked up at the sun just past overhead. “I don't know what you'll find up there in the daytime,” she said. “But I know what you'll find at night.” She got off the chariot. “And I'm staying here until everyone is past, well past. Just in case. Now, you scouts, go on ahead, keep looking, and if you see anything else like this, come straight back to me.”

“What about the birds?” Maydreo said.

“I would be very surprised to find any terror birds on this part of the trail,” Squirrel said. “Or any other big, meaty creature. Now move along, Younglords. I'll explain tonight.”

 

Sandry left Chalker and a chariot to wait for Clever Squirrel and rode ahead. He shook his head slowly.
Too much
to learn, he thought.
But Green Stone and Tower don't seem to know any more than I do about this…