The Tower of Fear (21 page)

Azel never made mistakes. Not to the old man’s knowledge. Nor to his own, either, probably. But his stroke of tactical inspiration, invoking the name of the Living, just might turn into a strategic nightmare.

Not Azel’s fault, really. His own, for overutilizing his best man. Had anyone noticed his frequent visits? Those had to stop, inconvenient as that would be. He dared not have a child-stealer connected with this house or the Living.

The Living would have to disavow him, condemn him, demand that he be punished for using the movement’s name. Azel was deft. He would evade trouble. Whatever notoriety came of this would die out soon.

He looked across the room to his writing table, miles away. He had to scribble a note to Azel, warning him off, advising him that he would have to endure the name of outlaw for a time.

He started working his way along the wall, wishing there was someone he could bring in on what he was doing. He was too feeble to carry the whole burden. But did he dare inform his khadifas? Most would be appalled, even outraged, though not all for the same reasons.

Zenobel or Carza? Maybe. If it was presented carefully enough and he revealed the full scope of his duplicitous stratagem, so they would not be repelled by its unsavory immediate aspect.

The old man had spent too much strength getting to the door. He did not retain resources adequate to the return journey.

*   *   *

For once bel-Sidek was not sorry about the condition of his leg. Had he been healthy he would have arrived in the middle of things, while tempers burned their hottest and reason bent before a draft out of Chaos.

There was residual anger enough to trouble him as he questioned his neighbors. Inner, secret shame had left some defiant. They could not admit that they had been gulled by a thug. His reassurances were not well received.

He dared not pursue it too closely. He limped home irritated. Ortbal Sagdet had proven insiders could use the movement to their benefit. But who would have thought the baser sort of villain might use its name as a tool?

He burst in ready to treat the General to an angry monolog.

“Sir! Oh, Aram have mercy!” He dropped a squash he had bought for supper, fell to his knees. “Sir?”

The old man croaked, “Bel-Sidek?”

“Yes sir. I’m here, sir.”

“The flesh betrays the spirit.” The old man’s words came one to the breath. “Get me to the writing table.”

Bel-Sidek lifted him. He was so light! “What were you trying to do, sir?”

“Watched that uproar in the street. Bel-Sidek, a beast of a man, a child-stealer, used our name to escape Dartar justice. If there is such a thing. Where are you going? I said the writing table.”

Bel-Sidek lowered the old man into his bed. “You talk too much, sir. Shut up and rest.”

“The writing table. An order.”

“So try me for mutiny. At least you’ll have the pleasure of being alive to enjoy it.”

“The word has to go out. That man has to be caught. People are too eager to think evil of us now.”

“Dictate. I’ll take care of it.”

The old man worked his way around till he faced the wall. Stubborn old bastard. What was he doing walking around without help? At the very least he could have broken brittle bones.

Bel-Sidek began his meal preparations, and worried. He was supposed to join Meryel again tonight. But it was obvious someone had to ride herd on the old man, whose reason was slipping. He could not leave. But
it
was imperative that he meet with Meryel and arrange for the disposition of the weapons in her warehouse. They could not be kept there in a mass. Too much to risk.

Hadribel. The new khadifa of the Hahr had not yet left the Shu. He would do anything to overcome the embarrassment of having allowed a Herodian agent to rise so high in his organization.

Yes. Hadribel. He would not have to be away from the house more than a few minutes to get Hadribel.

10

All the news came to Muma’s first and fastest, Azel reflected sourly. Or, at least, all the news that was bad news.

A child-taker stomped to death in the Astan. He did not want to go, but he had no choice. If Agmed or Bel-Shaduk had got himself killed they would need to know in the citadel. Now.

He half hoped the man killed
was
one of those two. That was the sort of whack upside the head the Witch needed to wake her up.

Azel pushed away from his table and went out into the late afternoon. He headed east by alleyway and back street. The better streets all boasted Dartars headed for the Gate of Autumn and the compound beyond. He did not want to run into any more Dartars. He was in a mood to try to hurt them and that wouldn’t be smart. They would only hurt him back.

He did not have to go rooting around the Astan to find out what he wanted to know.

Here and there along Goat Creek, in the open spaces before the Old Wall, were grounds designated for dumping. A Herodian conceit. They bred flies and rats by the million. But so had the pre-conquest custom—still followed west of the acropolis—of dumping anything unwanted out the nearest window, in hopes the rains would wash it away.

One of the bigger heaps served a grim purpose. It was there the corpses of criminals were thrown out for scavengers. It was next to the mound where unwanted babies were set out to die or be found by those who did want them. These days few were unwanted, few were exposed. Azel passed the place wondering if it might not have been better had he been exposed.

The body was there on Skull Heap. The day was failing but there was light enough. He turned back the way he had come.

Sadat Agmed, looking pretty harmless now.

*   *   *

Mo’atabar came almost before Yoseh settled himself to his supper. “Fa’tad wants him as soon as he’s eaten,” he told Medjhah, who was in charge because Nogah had stayed in the city with Faruk and another, hidden inside the Shu maze. “You, too.”

Medjhah grunted. So did Yoseh.

Once Mo’atabar went, Medjhah said, “It didn’t rattle you tonight, little brother.”

“I hurt too much to worry about Fa’tad.” He flinched, but not from the pain. They were questioning captives in the compound. Some needed convincing and were a little exuberant with their protests.

Yoseh did feel less uncomfortable crossing the compound. He supposed you could get used to anything. Yahada showed them inside and pointed out places to sit. Fa’tad was receiving reports from his captains.

He asked, “The man used the same powder we saw before?”

A man Yoseh did not know replied, “Twice, apparently. Our people weren’t there to see it. He wasn’t reluctant to use a knife, either. He cut a dozen men trying to get away. A couple probably won’t live.”

Fa’tad grunted.

“He was Dartar, Fa’tad.”

Fa’tad looked up, grunted again, sourly. Yoseh wondered if he was having trouble with his digestion.

“One of the men recognized him. His name was Sadat Agmed. An outcast. From al-Hadid clan.”

“I recall the man. A thief. And too quick with a blade. What did you find on the body?”

“Nothing. Except gold. Three pounds on each ankle and more on each arm.”

“Child-stealing must be lucrative. So. Now we’ve run into two of them, armed with minor sorcery. Are there more? Who’s buying the children they steal? What are they doing with them?”

No one had an answer. No one had a suggestion about how to find out, short of catching one of the child-takers.

“Tell me about the other one,” Fa’tad told Yoseh. So Yoseh related events of the afternoon. Medjhah gave al-Akla the perspective from camelback.

“The important thing we learned,” Joab interjected, “is that we’re making no headway in the Shu. The man said he was an agent of the Living and the crowd turned on these boys.”

Yoseh was surprised. He had not known that.

“The Living. We’re not fighting them right now, Joab. We’re crying to disarm them by example.”

“Not fighting them? We’re trying to take away the night. Their time.”

“True.”

“And how long before Cado gets wind of the fact we’re leaving men in the city overnight?”

“Not long. But if we take the night from the wicked and Herod orders us to give it back, who gains in the eyes of Qushmarrah?”

“I still say you play the game too subtly,” Joab grumbled. “Find the captains of the Living and come to an accommodation.”

“We play for higher stakes, old friend.” Al-Akla seemed to realize, suddenly, that he spoke before more than the inner circle. “Yoseh, Medjhah. You may go. Thank you. Your efforts will be remembered.”

They rose. As he followed Medjhah out, Yoseh heard Joab say, “The one boy suggested we dress some men as veydeen.”

“And how do we make their faces look veydeen?”

As they crossed the compound Yoseh mused, “I never thought how our faces would give us away.”

“Maybe wisdom does come with age.”

*   *   *

The old man heard the street door close and steps approach. Not bel-Sidek’s familiar shuffle. He felt a moment of fright. Then he chuckled when Hadribel moved into the room.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine.”

“Bel-Sidek was very concerned. He said…”

“For all he’s the man I’ve chosen to replace me when the time comes, bel-Sidek is a damned old woman when he starts fussing over me. The gods have been merciful tonight.” He’d gotten worried about how he would get Naszif delivered to Azel.

“I have work for you, Hadribel. Work that
must
be done immediately, that bel-Sidek would have ignored even had his lapse meant the death of the movement. First, take me to my writing table.”

Hadribel hesitated only a moment.

As he wrote his note to Azel, the General said, “I want you to go to Carza and tell him I have to see him immediately. If you both hurry he’ll be with me most of the time you’re running other errands. There’ll be no cause for a nagging conscience.”

“Other errands, sir?”

“After you’ve summoned Carza you must collect the traitor Naszif bar bel-Abek, blindfolded, and deliver him
to
an agent of the movement.” The old man gave detailed instructions on how and where, with a strong caution against making any effort to get close enough to get a good look at the agent. “He’s my most precious asset and I’ll have no one know who he is lest he be betrayed even inadvertently.

“Once you’ve delivered the traitor you’ll take this message to the hostel called Muma’s Place.” Hadribel needed special directions. He did not know the place. “Deliver the message only to Muma himself. Then return here. Knock. If Carza hasn’t left he’ll answer and you’ll have to find some way to occupy yourself till he goes. If he doesn’t answer then you’re to come in and remain till bel-Sidek returns. Clear?”

“Perfectly, General.”

“Good. Then help me to my bed and be on your way.”

The old man sank into bed and collapsed into a deep, exhausted sleep, interrupted only when Carza entered, to be introduced to the ultimate secret of the Living.

*   *   *

Zouki came alert as sudden silence invaded the cage. It was a silence filled with terror. He looked around and saw the big man step through the cage doorway.

The big man came straight toward him.

His heart hammered. He wet himself. He whimpered. He wanted to get up and run but his body refused to obey.

The big man scooped him up and carried him out of the cage, through that huge place, into a large room lighted only by two candles at the far end. The big man set him down between the candles. “You stay there, boy. You don’t move unless I tell you. Or you’ll be sorry.”

Zouki was too terrified to do anything else.

*   *   *

In the dusk a man leading an incongruously gaily decorated donkey cart came down the dusty country lane leading past the home of the widow of the Qushmarrahan hero, General Hanno bel-Karba. The man stopped before an old woman sitting by the roadside, weeping, watched over by several servants whose loyalty the Moretians had not been able to banish through threats or acts of terror. The man said, “Help her into the cart.”

A servant, shaking, asked, “Who are you?”

“An old friend of her husband. I’m here to take you to safety.”

The man’s air of authority convinced the servants. They lifted the old woman into the cart, then followed the man when he turned and led his donkey back the way he had come.

Two miles up the road he turned off into a wood not yet devoured by the Herodian beast. He took them to a camp in a glen in the heart of the wood where they were received with great honor and solicitude by a band of men strangely garbed in black camisards and pantaloons. The men were blackening one another’s faces with charcoal.

They made the refugees comfortable and fed them well while the cart man asked questions about the Moretians who had put them out of their home. He changed to the strange clothing himself and allowed his face to be blackened while he talked.

The old woman never spoke, never took her gaze from the fire.

The cart man asked, “Are we ready, Naik?”

“Yah, Khadifa.”

“Then let’s get to it.”

Now the old woman looked up. “Are you the ones they call the Living?”

The khadifa inclined his head slightly. He did not answer directly. He said, “You will be back in your own home before the sun rises, honored lady.”

*   *   *

Azel was late to the rendezvous because Muma’s sons were so uncomfortable about the whole situation they had overscouted it. But his man was there, head tucked up in a cloth bag, and his escort was back where it was supposed to be. Good.

The man in the blindfold jumped when Azel touched him. “Come,” he whispered. The man came, saying nothing, cooperating even though he could have no certain idea what was afoot. Azel kept an alert watch but saw nothing. No one moved in the acropolis at night. Not even the Herodian sentries who were supposed to be on duty. He led his charge in through the Postern of Fate.

Torgo was waiting. He beckoned Azel to follow him. Azel frowned. The eunuch showed none of his habitual impatience.

Torgo led him to a large room. The boy sat between two candles at the far end, looking miserable.