Burning Tower (41 page)

W
ith the sun setting behind them, the king and his entourage skimmed through a city that was all squares and circles. The line of logs stopped at the edge of a great winding river. The basket skimmed across the water, brown roiling water with bright ripples and streaks of power. The basket was flying free…not falling…lifting toward a tremendous butte.

The flight had lasted all day. Regapisk, indisputably Lord, had endured, trying not to know how easily death could take him. Lord Regapisk was no coward, but none of his training had prepared him for this. He was flying at unnerving speed, a tall man's height above the ground, in a wickerwork basket! If he didn't want wind blasting in his eyes, he could look through the weave, squinting a little, to see land he might one day have to traverse on foot, if his fortunes continued their accustomed wild swings.

Hazel Sky watched him in amusement. Arshur barely noticed him. Jaguar…who could tell what the shaman was thinking behind the slits in his mask? He pointed at the butte and said, “Temple Mesa Fajada. Our major rites are performed on the peak. You'll compete to be king there.”

Arshur said, “Compete?”

“You'll kill a terror bird before you go up. It's one of the rites. Don't worry, Majesty, the bird will be drugged.”

“Drugged? I forbid it! Am I to cower before a bird?”

For now Regapisk was the king's companion.

And the king was having a wonderful time! Arshur stood up and braced himself as the basket rose up the wall of stone toward the rim of the butte. Four baskets already in flight converged on them as escorts. Each carried an armored guard.

The king's basket paused two thirds of the way up the butte. Here an arc of ledge sprouted from the vertical stone, and on it, a single round building, a
kiva
. A bare-headed man in a kilt watched them set down.

Odd to be seeing it that way, Regapisk thought, when the ledge was actually thick with people. Warriors on alert: four. Cooks tending an arc of hot stone and big haunches of broiling meat: also four. Four women bracketed a heap of clothing in wildly brilliant colors. One man in a mask…a mask of the god Coyote. With a tail, a splendid tail that waved like a part of the man. And beyond him, one ageless man in a wonderfully embroidered kilt.

Arshur was first out; he helped Hazel Sky down. Regapisk rolled over the side, hampered by his cramping legs. Jaguar's priest emerged last. He and Hazel flattened their foreheads against the stone floor as the man in the kilt strolled up. Regapisk prudently did the same.

The man's belly looked like knotted cables: it bore deep old scars. His face was ageless—certainly not young, but there were none of the wrinkles of age.

“Get up. You are Arshur?” He spoke slowly, spitting his consonants. Regapisk had no trouble understanding his Aztlan speech. “It's good to have a king again!”

 

“I was to translate,” said Coyote's priest. He was lanky and blond, with a long waist and short legs and a sharply pointed nose: a little like a coyote, mask or no. He'd taken his mask off to eat, but the tail remained. Regapisk still didn't know if it was real or a magical bit of costume. It waved from time to time. “We didn't know you would both speak as we do,” Coyote said. “How did that come about, King's Companion?”

“Call me Regapisk. There was an old man, a refugee from Aztlan. People don't leave Aztlan by choice, do they?”

“Why would they, Regapisk? Wait until you see Aztlan in daylight.” He was smiling, though the tail swished angrily. “Tell more about this man.”

“Not much to know,” Regapisk said.
And why is Coyote interested in old Zeph? Is it Coyote the god or Coyote's priest, loyal servant of the Emperor, who wants to know? Best to find out before I say much more,
Regapisk thought.

The king and the Emperor were talking. Arshur wasn't showing any kind of diffidence, and both men were enjoying themselves hugely. Regapisk wasn't the world's greatest diplomat, but even he knew better than to interrupt them. Meanwhile the four women were stripping Regapisk of his travel-worn clothing and draping him in finespun, marvelously decorated kilts and robes. They exclaimed at the feathers along his arm and down his legs.

“We saved Zeph from the sea. He taught both of us,” Reg said. “He knew a little wizardry, and he taught me that too, and something about raising crops.”

“Only a little wizardry?”

Reggy shrugged. “More than I'll ever know, but it didn't do him a lot of good.”

“Did he know Atlantean magic?”

Regapisk snorted. “I know little of Atlantean magic, but I do know Atlantis was powerful. Zeph was an old man living on vegetables. Tell me, is there a story to go with the Emperor's scars?”

“There must be, but none knows it. Some great secret is there. We know only that the Emperor has ruled for nearly a thousand years.”

Regapisk carefully didn't smile. “Do the kings live that long too?”

“No, only the Emperor.” Coyote's priest picked up an ear of corn. Regapisk took one and gnawed it, imitating the shaman's technique.

He asked, “Is it easy to become king here?”

Coyote looked to be swallowing a laugh. That was irritating. “Not so difficult,” he said. “Some cannot avoid it.”

“Then why were you so long without?”

“In his third year of rule, the old king choked to death on a chicken bone,” Coyote said. “Nobody had any idea what to do about that. We don't like to choose a king from ourselves, so we waited for a stranger. No stranger came.”

“Nothing else came either?”

“Hah! Nothing. We knew bad luck would come from the lack of a king, but we never guessed our own priests would revolt! It was the cursed birds, wasn't it? Blocking off the trade routes.”

“Until Sandry broke the siege.”

“Not Arshur?”

“King Arshur is a mighty warrior, but Lord Sandry is a thinker and fighter. He found a way to kill two hundred birds at Crescent City. We killed more than a thousand at the crater, and we couldn't have done it without my cousin. Coyote, how could you not know that you were cut off from the world?”

“This is the world. Even so, we knew,” Coyote's priest said. “But without a king, there was nobody to tell the Emperor.”

“I don't understand,” Regapisk said, but Coyote's priest only smiled and went on eating. Baskets rose from below bearing more food, and the women served them exotic dishes, describing what Regapisk found unfamiliar.

Regapisk said, “I know Coyote's daughter.”

“Is she really?”

“Oh, yes. The story's famous,” Regapisk said, and he told how Whandall Feathersnake, possessed by Coyote, had loved Twisted Cloud, the shaman's daughter. “Their child is Clever Squirrel, and she'll be coming here with Sandry.”

“I'm eager to meet them both, and Burning Tower too. Is she a mighty fighter?”

“Riding her unicorn, she is mighty enough.”

“I yearn to meet her. And Coyote's daughter. Is she a beauty?”

“Many would say so,” Regapisk said. “But not many think of her in that way.”

Coyote's priest grinned knowingly.

“Even the one-horns fear her wrath,” Regapisk said.

The grin widened. “Now tell me more of Sandry,” Coyote's priest said. “And I will tell you how we will cure you. Or try to cure you. You have been afflicted by the curse of a transformed god who has no love for you. A cure will not be easy. But first, tell me more of Sandry. Do you admire him?”

 

Their quarters were at the base of the canyon walls: a rectangular house with a
kiva
and several rooms.

Arshur had asked for four virgins to serve them that night. “I wanted seven. Lucky number in Atlantis. Then I thought—”

“Not so young anymore?”

“I thought: everything comes in fours here.”

Three of the girls were young, a bit thrilled, a bit scared. The fourth was a woman in her thirties: an instructor. She wasn't expecting to be chosen, and none of them were expecting to be seduced.

The older woman's name was Annalun, and she was the daughter of a king. She sat with Regapisk and poured wine over ice for both of them as she watched her charges tease Arshur.

“The king is more mannerly than we had been given to expect,” Annalun said. “You have known him a long time, King's Companion?”

“Call me Regapisk. Long enough, and we have shared adventures enough. But not so long that he can't surprise me.”

“He is not of your land?”

“No, from the north lands somewhere,” Regapisk said. “I'm not sure even he knows how to get back there now.”

She smiled as if Regapisk had made a clever joke.

“I cannot believe someone of your beauty can still saddle a one-horn,” Regapisk said.

She smiled again. “There is a great deal of manna in this place, and with enough manna all things are possible. The girls, now”—she indicated the three, who were making a complicated game of undressing Arshur—“have always been able to ride the one-horns, because we have had no king for a year. They have grown impatient for this night. As my mother was impatient the night I was conceived.” She poured more wine. “Bring your drink, Lord Regapisk, and come with me. I see my ladies have nothing to fear, and we can find more pleasant work than watching them. I doubt we will either of us be missed.”

Regapisk hesitated.

“Your heroism at the crater has been told,” Annalun said. “I will not laugh at the marks of a hero. But the girls will want to see. Come, Feathered Lord.”

A
t dawn outside Sunfall Crater, the emissary who wore the mask of a road runner boarded a floating basket. Sandry, Burning Tower, and Clever Squirrel climbed after him, wincing at stiffness and bruises, flinching from the wobble of the basket and the strangeness of what they were doing and what was to come. The emissary, impassive in his mask, watched them settle themselves. Tower could not have said when the basket began to move; but they were drifting down the line of logs, faster and faster. A wind picked up. All ducked their faces beneath the wicker rim, all but Road Runner, protected in his mask, with slits for eyeholes.

The road on both sides of the High Road was very broad. It ran straight as an arrow's flight. Tower found she could watch the road unreel behind her, wind whipping her hair around her cheeks. For a glimpse ahead, she could brave the wind for a few seconds at a time.

 

Sunfall Crater was hours behind them. As the basket reached the top of an uphill slope, Clever Squirrel told them, “It looks like islands scattered across a sea.”

“No, it doesn't,” said Sandry. “It's a jumble out there. Wilderness. Plants that reach out and stick you with needles.”

“I can see manna glowing in spots and lines. Flickers of light in a sea of darkness. I can't make you see it. Fur Slipper had that talent. There—close up—Sandry, do you see twin spires of light?”

What he saw, when they drew closer, was two great petrified trees standing upright. Lesser stone trees began appearing along the High Road, many fallen, many still upright. They glided through a forest of stone. From time to time, armed men showed between the trunks.

“Our priests have dreamed, aided by the
ilb'al
seeds,” Road Runner said. “Stone men lived in a stone jungle until gods fought a war here. They fled south until doom overtook them. Clever Squirrel, magic once gone doesn't return. That may be what happened to the stone men, and the trees too. They no longer grow.”

“What do you guard?”

“What the Emperor holds, we guard,” Road Runner said.

Sareg said, “We guard the stone wood from thieves. People who know nothing of magic would steal it for its beauty alone. The Emperor sells it to far lands.”

Near day's end the High Road ran through a canyon. The great road still ran straight as a rain arrow's flight. Dusk was coming on. Shadows marked out a maze of rectilinear structures. There was a pillar of light ahead, an enormous fluted tower far too large to be made even by wizards. The view of the tower was framed by impressively tall gates leading into the city. This side of the gateway were big, ornate wagons laid out with travel nests, blocky buildings, and a stream running through meadow.

“Aztlan?” asked Sandry, and “Aztlan,” said their guide.

There were sentries on the cliffs. Smoke from signal fires rose in puffs.

“I was expecting a sea,” Sandry said to Road Runner. “Aztlan is thought to be an island.”

The basket slowed, stopped, and settled almost to touch the stonewood log. The Emperor's emissary said, “Whatever an island may be, this is Aztlan. We may not enter tonight. The Emperor will have ceased his duties for the day. Come, we'll find meals and blankets below.” He shooed them over the side and followed them down.

 

At that day's dawn, Regapisk woke to squabbling voices.

The girls had prepared them a meal of potatoes, corn, and flatbread. Arshur was already up and trying to eat, but a dozen men were waiting to talk to him; four guards were keeping them in line. The official talking to Arshur was getting frustrated and trying to hide it. He talked slower and slower, as if dealing with a fool.

Arshur wasn't having trouble with the language, but the concepts were odd. “But how could you keep such a thing secret! Whole towns are deserted or dead, and nobody's doing anything about it. Somebody
had
to tell the Emperor.”

“None would risk his life. None but the king would be safe,” the official said.

“Why not choose a new king, then, or a king for the day?” He noticed Regapisk. “Welcome! How's your head?”

“Pounding. How's yours?”

“I did not see why anyone would not want to be king until this moment! Well, Swarm of Hornets, find me a map so that I may know which villages have not paid tribute, so that I may tell the Emperor. Is the army prepared to ride out and deal with these matters?”

Regapisk said, “I need to go out into the city.”

The king grimaced. “Better there than here, friend. What do you need? A chariot?”

“That would be handy. I want to talk to my new partner.”

 

The river that wound through Aztlan was bounded by three- and four-story structures that leaned over the water. The streets were narrow and shadowed.

Reg's charioteer drove them unerringly to Flensevan's shop.

Flensevan was small and burly, older than Ruser. He bowed low before the king's markings on chariot and charioteer. “I am Flensevan and your servant. What would Your Lordship want with me?”

“I bear a letter from your brother and partner, Ruser.” Regapisk gave the man a parchment roll.

Flensevan read. “Ruser lives, then.”

“Healthy and happy and busy, with a new scar healing along here.” Regapisk drew a diagonal along his shoulder and chest. Flensevan's eyes bugged as he saw the feathers inside Regapisk's wide sleeve. “I last saw him at Sunfall Crater. He would come no closer to Aztlan.”

“Hardly surprising. I take it you are my new partner, then,” Flensevan said with little enthusiasm.

“Shall we speak inside?”

“Enter.” Flensevan led the way.

“Rejoice!” Regapisk said when he judged they were out of earshot of the charioteer. “Our first business dealings have made us rich! Or will, when Ruser reaches Crescent City.”

“Ruser was too optimistic when I knew him. The letter says he was penniless when you came along.”

“Yes, and I came as a pauper, and he took me into his house, and Arshur too. Arshur the new king,” Regapisk said pointedly. “And I am king's companion, and we owe Ruser. Partner, you could have done worse.”

He could see the wheels turn in Flensevan's mind. “What are you to King Arshur?”

“He was placed under my protection by our employer. We've fought together since.”

“And how do you know the language of Aztlan? Did Ruser teach you this?”

“Refinements. I learned from an old wizard, Zephan—”

Flensevan cut him off. “I see. Welcome, then. Will you have tea, Regapisk? Or wine?”

“Tea. Don't threaten me with wine today, Flensevan. The king and I drank half our life's allotment last night….” Regapisk stared as Flensevan led him through the jewelry shop. Stonewood stood in great slabs; turquoise, jade, and treasure Regapisk couldn't name was heaped in bins and on shelves. Aisles ran between. He saw wealth on display in a fashion never seen anywhere in Tep's Town.

A wicker screen covered one wall, and hand weapons were mounted on it: spears and atlatls and swords. He asked, “Do thieves bother you much?”

“Not much,” Flensevan said.

The only man on duty was half-grown and lightly built. His beard was just coming in. His eyes followed Regapisk mistrustfully as Regapisk bent over a bowl of deep purple gems without quite daring to touch them. Flensevan set the young man to closing up shop.

“What's to stop somebody”—
some Lordkin,
Regapisk didn't say—“from just walking off with a handful of this?”

“The Emperor,” Flensevan said.

“Not personally?”

“No, but a thief would lose his heart to the wall.”

The young man was Pink Rabbit, Flensevan's eldest. He prepared their tea, and then remained in attendance while his father and Regapisk explored each other's pasts. Regapisk named his home as Tep's Town and was relieved when Flensevan showed no sign of recognition. He described his financial arrangements with Jade Coin, tacitly admitting that his people didn't expect him home, ever. Ruser, of course, couldn't go home either. Regapisk hinted that he would like to know why, but Flensevan did not respond.

Regapisk waited until the boy was out of the room before he said, “Ruser told me to ask about the boat.”

Hot tea slopped over Flensevan's hand. Flensevan's face did not move. “Boat?”

“Boat. He said not to speak of this until we were alone.”

“Mmm. Rabbit?” He didn't raise his voice. Pink Rabbit appeared. Flensevan asked, “Where is the charioteer?”

“Guarding the chariot. He hasn't moved.”

“Were you able to hear us in the kitchen?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Stroll with me, Regapisk. There is a place where we will be harder to hear, even by an Emperor's servant. But first—” He held out his hand.

Regapisk took the small crude statuette in its box from his pocket and gave it to Flensevan. Flensevan opened the box and held the statuette to Regapisk's forehead.

The statuette grew an erection. So did Reggy.

Flensevan nodded. “Come with me, partner.”

 

In an inner room, two of Flensevan's servants joined them. It took them both to lift and move a table, exposing a rug. Then the rug had to be rolled up to expose a wooden floor. Then—not the trapdoor Regapisk was expecting. Four heavy timbers in the floor had to be slid along their length, and then eight steps led down by a man's height, down to water. Boards bordered a sluggishly moving pool.

Flensevan reached to touch a fist-size blob of jade, raddled with stony intrusions, hanging on a rope. It lit up in garish green. He lowered it into the water. By its light Regapisk could see a boat tapered at bow and stern, nine or ten paces long. The mast lay along the length of the boat, dismounted. There was no room for oarsmen, a thing Regapisk was inclined to notice. The boat was tilted on its side on the mud, and the bottom had windows in it.

“My brother must trust you amazingly,” Flensevan said. “Then again, that may be how he lost the money he was given—”

“No, it was the blockade. Lots of people in Crescent City lost everything. They were starving when we came,” Regapisk said.

“Ah? Good. In any case, the boat is a secret. It's our means of escape if politics turns nasty. It was Atlantean, of course.”

“It's very dark,” Regapisk said. “I mean it was dark underwater before you lowered the gem. There's no manna down there at all, and you'd have to float that thing with manna.”

Flensevan grinned thinly. “You're a wizard?”

“No. I can see manna. Sometimes.”

“Ah. There's manna. It's shielded.”

“Well shielded, then. Good. Is it provisioned? And you'd have to get it to the river.”

“We're on the river. There are barrels of water. I leave them open, so it's always fresh river water. If we get time, we could add stores of food, but starvation won't be our most urgent problem if we need this boat! Let me show you.” Flensevan walked along the boards to what should be the river side of the house, if Reg hadn't got confused. “Here. Throw all your weight down on this beam, then that one across, then this in the middle. It's a puzzle, so get the order right. The whole front of the house slides aside, and that's your access to the river.”