The Tower of Bashan (15 page)

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 stupid 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.

I mean was that really the best thing that the engraver could come up with? Seems like a waste of silver.

“Do you think that alchemist is worth the price he’s charging?” Andrasta asked over her soft footsteps.

The sound of her voice startled him from his thoughts. He looked up, surprised a second time at the style of her hair. After bathing, Andrasta had braided it in a much different manner than usual. The jagged design heightened her foreign features, making her appearance all the more menacing.

Gods, it even makes her scar stand out. Was that intentional?
He wanted to ask, but he knew the reminder of her past was a sore spot, so he chose to keep his curiosity to himself.

“That’s a different look for you,” he managed, unable to ignore her appearance altogether.

She sat beside him. “Just getting into my new character.”

Good. She still trusts me enough to think my plan will work.

“Yes. I think he’s worth it,” Rondel said in response to her question.

“Didn’t you already pay someone in Bashan to make smoke bombs?”

“I did.”

“You don’t think having two people perform the same work is a waste of money?”

“No. This guy is much better. And like what we did with the tailors, it doesn’t hurt to have a backup. You never know what can happen and we’ve only got a small amount of time to accomplish our goals. Besides, I have no idea how many we’ll use once inside the tower.”

“Last time I checked, it looked as though he was doing more than just creating smoke bombs.”

“He’s also putting together a few things that should help with cleaning wounds.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Rondel shrugged. “Considering no one has ever gotten out of the tower, it’d be pretty naïve of us to think we won’t get any injuries from facing the guardians.”

She grunted in what Rondel knew was agreement. Her inarticulate noises were like another language at times, a slight difference in pitch changing the entire meaning of her throaty sounds.

Andrasta gestured. “Why do you hate it so much?”

Rondel looked down, realizing he’d been fiddling with the flute during their conversation. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve said more than once that you don’t like the flute and every time I see you with it, it’s with a frown on your face.”

“Well, I truly do think it is an inferior instrument, and not only to a lute, I might add.” He bit his lip. “Unless, it is handled by a true master. Then, I can at least respect the musician.”

“I sense there’s something more.”

He chuckled. “Sort of. It’s a bit of a sore spot.”

“And we haven’t discussed sore spots before?”

He snorted. “Good point.” He stared at the mid-morning light reflecting off the stream where they had washed earlier. “Alright. Why not?”

He cleared his throat. “The first lute I ever owned was a cheap hand me down instrument that often lost its tune shortly into any song. I hated it at first, but eventually its very faults were what made me into the player I became. It forced me to learn how to fret chords in different positions on the neck at a much quicker pace than most so I could continue playing in key during a performance until there was enough of a break to tune the strings again.” He grinned. “I grew to love that blasted thing, problems and all.”

It started my legend.

“Anyway, shortly after I left home, I entered a contest in Doldan. That’s Bratanic’s capital. Musicians far and wide came to play before thousands of people. There were no rules to the contest except anyone who entered had to play one song familiar to the audience and one song originally composed. When it was my turn to play, people heckled and laughed as I walked to the stage dressed in my then tattered clothes, carrying my ugly, old lute.”

“That must have made you angry,” said Andrasta.

“You know, not really. I was an arrogant little prick back then and I knew I’d make them eat their words.” He snorted. “Sure enough, after I played the opening of
Live Each Day
by Hermanes, you could hear nothing but my old lute and my voice.

“When I finished, the crowd cheered louder for me than anyone, demanding an encore, which I happily obliged. On my way down from the stage, I passed countless instruments that sparkled and shined in their extravagance. I couldn’t help myself. I made a show of turning my nose at each one, declaring loudly that the instrument doesn’t make the musician. The musician makes the instrument.” He paused. “That declaration held true as the day wore on and no one came close to out-doing my performance.”

“I’m having trouble seeing how this relates to a flute.”

“Patience. You asked a question. I’m giving you the answer. You don’t really expect a former minstrel to tell the tale in two sentences, do you?

“No, I guess not. Go ahead.”

“So, everything was going well. This was going to be my day. And then Tertulias shows up.”

“Who?”

His eyes bulged. “Who? Dear gods, I know your upbringing left a lot to be desired as far as your exposure to the arts are concerned, but not even Tertulias?” He shook his head. “A shame. Tertulias was old at this point and hadn’t seen the better side of one hundred in several years. People joked that he was so old that the word legend had been invented to describe him. However, that joke only went so far. The man could play so effortlessly, you’d think he was born with a flute in his hands.” He sighed. “They allowed him to close the contest.”

“And that didn’t go well.”

“Not for me. He hobbled onto the stage with help from two others who guided him to a chair. He sat, pulled out his famous golden flute, and played like an angel. It was then that I knew that a musician may make the instrument, but a musician without a great instrument had limitations.

“I ended up taking second place in the contest and was lauded for achieving so much at such a young age. However, the loss ate at me. Like you and your sword I had to be the best. So, after the night’s celebration, I took the prize money and bought the nicest lute I could find. The next day, I went to the inn Tertulias was staying in order to challenge him. Nothing showy. Just me and him. I had to know whether or not if I could beat him with a better lute.”

“Did you?”

“No. We never played each other.”

“So, he chickened out.”

“Nothing like that. The old man died in his sleep and I never got to find out whether or not I truly could have beaten him.”

His hands gripped the flute tightly.

“And that’s why you hate the flute so much?”

“In part. But be honest, it is a pretty silly looking instrument. I mean, there is no way to look even remotely masculine while holding the thing.”

She grinned. “I don’t see how you can look masculine holding a lute either.”

Rondel winked. “That’s only because you never saw me hold one.”

* * *

Andrasta rode Jewel alongside the horse-drawn carriage as they re-entered Bashan. They passed their first test at the gate. The guards flanking either side of the wide double gates, had actually pushed aside locals traveling into the city in order to make room for Rondel’s elaborately decorated carriage.

Just like he said. Act important and people will think you are.

The driver Rondel hired from Sagal played his part well, drawing as much attention to them as he could. She had worried that the young man might buckle under the pressure.

“He’ll be fine,” Rondel had said of Harshad. “He’s young enough to relish an opportunity at being brash and just old enough to pull it off convincingly.”

Heads turned in their direction from people traversing the sidewalks and streets. Harshad heralded locals to get out of the way with a voice thrice the size of his thin frame. He waved hands at business men, heckled elders, and practically ran over several children who didn’t step lively enough out of the way while focusing his greatest attention on several women standing on the corner.

Surprisingly, the women returned the attention, cheering him on. Andrasta didn’t understand what they saw in him. Even his face didn’t sit right with her. Too round and soft, it lacked strength.

But not arrogance.
She eyed several local priests descending from high pyramid shaped temples painted yellow, turquoise, red, and blue.
He even bosses the holy men around.

“It doesn’t matter if they hate us for his arrogance or if it projects onto us,” Rondel had told her. “We aren’t trying to make friends. In fact, hate can be a good thing. People talk more about those they hate than those they love. And the more people talk about us, the sooner the royalty will take notice.”

Well, this will definitely get people talking.

Harsh glares and narrowed eyes joined whispered words spoken out of the corners of mouths. Barely half a block into Bashan and Rondel’s plan had already found life.

Unlike Harshad, who shouted curses to draw attention, Andrasta rode in absolute silence. Head on a swivel, she scanned the crowd, looking for threats. Rondel’s last bit of advice before entering the city was simply to ‘be a more exaggerated version of yourself.’

A version of myself dressed like a shadow,
she thought sourly.

In hindsight, she probably did overreact to the clothes. Understanding Rondel’s reasons for the look made it easier to endure the ridiculousness of it. She even volunteered to do something different with her hair. Normally, she wore long simple braids that hung off her head, a common style for women in Juntark. However, she changed the fashion to something more exotic, twisting the braids back and forth across her scalp in a lightning bolt pattern until the remaining hair flowed down her neck and upper back. She had done this with each braid excepting one that she purposefully draped over the front of her face so that it brought even more attention to her scar.

She hated doing that. In fact, she loathed it. But the idea had been hers. Thinking long and hard about what Rondel had said of her pride, she determined the level of discomfort was worth it if it meant increasing their chances of making an impression on others and gaining access to the Tower of Bashan.