The Tower of Bashan (3 page)

How is this possible? Sorcery?

Only now did Andrasta fully believe the stories her mother once told. No longer did they seem like fairy tales with their foreign descriptions.

Skylarks sang as a warm breeze danced across her face. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the morning sun as it reflected off retreating fog. In the distance, tiny rows of trees decorated hilltops. White specks she thought might be sheep moved slowly inside low, stone walls that crisscrossed each other. Farther out, the faint gray outline of her grandfather’s castle stood against the horizon.

She breathed deeply.
It even smells different. Cleaner.

Despite having gone without sleep the night before, the excitement of walking the land her mother once knew gave Andrasta energy. She climbed back into the saddle and made for the castle.

Farmers paused warily as she passed them, griping their tools of trade in a way that said they were ready to defend themselves. Young children working the fields ran away or hid at their parents’ sides. Already, she felt unwelcomed.

By midday, she reached her grandfather’s castle. A ten-foot granite wall boxed in the large, square keep behind it. Small towers jutted out from the corners of the wall with a fifth protecting the gate. According to her mother’s stories, the castle was small and unimpressive by Cael’s standards, but to Andrasta it loomed large. Her father’s home was one of the few among the Juntarkan tribes that consisted of mostly stone. Even then, the walls protecting Kanu’s palace were made of felled timber.

Two guards greeted her. They wore mail similar to her own, but each paled in stature to the warriors of the Dawaro tribe. Fear and uncertainty shone brightly in eyes peeking out from their bowl-shaped helms.

She remembered her brother’s words.
They do hide behind their armor. They aren’t as large, or from the look of things, half as fierce, as a warrior from the Dawaro tribe.

“Who goes there?” asked one of the guards.

Andrasta remembered the lessons her mother had taught her about the Caelic language and replied slowly, doing her best to enunciate each word. “My name is Andrasta, from the Dawaro tribe. I wish to speak to Lord Dacey.”

“You are a messenger, then?”

“Of a sort.”

“What is your message?”

“Are you Lord Dacey?” she asked, trying to place the right amount of annoyance on the foreign words.

“No.”

“Then why am I still talking to you?”

The guards exchanged looks. “Wait here,” said the other. “We’ll let his lordship know of your arrival.”

Later, an older man with more salt than pepper in his beard, and neither atop his head, rode out atop a white horse. The older man and the half dozen guards flanking him wore dark blue tunics emblazoned with a red sun.

Andrasta knew her grandfather immediately.
Mother looked so much like him.
She dismounted quickly and took a knee. “Lord Dacey.”

Lord Dacey grunted. “You might be the first Juntarkan messenger to arrive at my doorstep and show me any respect. You’re also the first I’ve seen dressed with any civility. As well as the first woman.” He paused. “Rise. Let’s hear Kanu’s message. I assume it’s about the food shortages we’ve heard about.”

She rose slowly and grasped for how to begin. All her life she had imagined meeting her grandfather, yet confronted with the situation, her tongue felt heavy.

“Well, what is it? I’ve not got all day to sit out here.”

“I was hoping we might speak in private. The message is of a delicate matter.”

“Delicate? From Kanu?”

“The message is not from Kanu, my lord. It is from me.”

“You?”

Andrasta felt the piercing stare of blue eyes she once found comfort in as a girl when they belonged to her mother. “You see, I am your daughter’s child. Your granddaughter.”

One of the guards coughed. Dacey’s eyes narrowed. “Leave here. Now.”

Andrasta frowned. “But—”

“My daughter is dead. She died the day I was forced by my sovereign king to marry her to Kanu to secure peace. I choose to remember her the way she was before she was defiled. I am not interested in the abomination of such a union, some tainted half-blood.” He eyed her up and down. “Granddaughter? More like grandson the way you’re dressed.” He spun his horse around, calling out over his shoulder. “Captain, see that she is on her way by the count of ten. If not, have your crossbowmen loose their weapons.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Andrasta’s mouth hung open. Every childhood story of her grandfather all seemed a lie. She knew she didn’t fit the typical granddaughter mold, but she hoped to at least catch a glimpse of the warmth, kindness, and love her mother had spoken of. Her mother believed that Dacey would have loved Andrasta, often begging Kanu for permission to present Andrasta to him. Kanu always refused.

A blessing in disguise. Mother would be crushed at such a reaction.

“Four,” a voice called, jarring Andrasta.

She looked to her left and saw that the captain had been counting. She jumped on her mount and spat in the direction of Dacey’s trailing back before spinning her horse and kicking it into a gallop. Wind whipped her face. Her mother’s land no longer seemed beautiful. In fact, she couldn’t wait to leave it behind.

Why did I come here? I didn’t want money or titles, or even a place in his household. Just knowledge that I mattered to someone.

She rode north in the midday sun. The sooner she reached and stole the infamous Jewel of Bashan, the sooner she could return to Juntark.

Perhaps then, she might prove herself worthy enough to be wanted.

CHAPTER 1

Tiny streams of sweat ran down Lela’s armpits as she leaned against a wall of smooth red sandstone. Coupled with the dirty rags she wore, the sweat urged her to claw at her skin. She refrained. People already looked at her with crinkled noses like some rodent that had crawled out of a sewer drain.

No need to act like one.

The closest thing she had recently to a bath was a month ago. Admittedly, that had occurred by accident, falling into the dockside waters. Her little fists tightened as she recalled the laughs of nearby fishermen while scrambling ashore.

They could use a bath themselves. Smelling like fish guts.

She squinted into the midday sunlight. An overweight merchant dressed in brown churidars—trousers usually worn loose at the hips and thighs while tight at the ankles—stood near the entrance to one of many banks on the busy street. On the merchant, the churidars were tight all over.

He also wore a traditional sherwani. The coat extended to the man’s knees. Even in its plainest form, a sherwani signified wealth and status. Green in color, she thought the merchant resembled one of the large bushes that stood outside the palace’s walls. If she wasn’t so nervous, she might have laughed.

A hand rested on her boney shoulder and squeezed. “Remember what I told you.”

She flicked her gaze back to Chand. The wide-shouldered man appeared disinterested in all around him, yet she knew better. She had seen him work many times over the last few weeks. His rise in Beladeva’s organization had just as much to do with his wit as it did with his size and demeanor.

He is not another dumb thug. Remember that.

“I’ve done this before,” she answered, more sharply than intended.

Dark eyes met hers. They dominated a massive head that sat on a neck fit for an elephant. “No two targets are the same. No two situations are the same. You have stolen before, but you have not stolen under these circumstances. Remember that, Little One.”

Little One.
At eleven, she could easily pass for seven, so the moniker did make sense.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
She fought her natural inclination to remind him of her name. The phantom pain in her jaw from the last time she corrected Chand helped her remain respectful.

“I will,” she said.

Chand removed his hand, satisfied with her response. “Do not wait too long, Little One. I will not be pleased if you let the opportunity slip by.” He left her, somehow disappearing in a crowd he stood half a head taller than.

She turned back to the merchant, taking deep, slow breaths. Lela had stolen many times before, but today was different. She had never tested her skills outside the market. The reduced traffic increased the difficulty of success. To make matters worse, her target had begun to speak with a powerful banker. A handful of guards dressed in several layers of silk and carrying long spears stood near the two men.

She preferred to wait until the merchant moved away from the guards before approaching. However, part of the job called for her to steal the purse in plain sight of others.

Job?
She snorted.
Another test. One more way I must prove my worth to Chand and the organization.

“Once we get a true measure of your skill, then you’ll get a greater share of the take,” Chand had told her weeks ago. “Until then, you should be happy with what you’ve been given.”

Lela’s reward thus far consisted of several loaves of stale bread and a few chips of copper, the lowest denomination of coin in Bashan, one most people discarded just to avoid the hassle of carrying.

Barely enough to survive. Especially with another mouth to feed.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she needed to get on with it if she wanted more of that stale bread.

Licking cracked lips and lowering her head, she pushed herself off the wall. She slowly worked her way toward the merchant as he continued to speak near the bank’s entrance. A joke must have been exchanged for both he and the banker tossed their heads back and roared. Even the guards smiled.

The banker wore black churidars and a sherwani of red with silver trim.
A man of higher means.
He slapped the merchant on the arm while whispering in his ear. They laughed again, and by doing so, the banker exposed a purse at his waist. It looked slightly more secure than the one at the merchant’s side.

But also twice as heavy.

An idea struck Lela. Chand hadn’t made any mention of when her cut of the take would increase.

She sped up to match the steps of two heavily-perfumed, young women dressed in similarly styled saris. Both were blue, but the one on the right wrapped hers a bit more provocatively and pinned a jewel near the middle of her breasts. They gossiped about a neighbor having an affair with her brother-in-law while the husband worked in the city-state of Vidish.

As Lela hoped, the merchant, banker, and guards all noticed the passing women, pausing in their conversation to offer a smile and a slight bow of their heads. The women giggled at the attention.

Like a couple of braying goats.

Using the distraction, Lela slipped beside the merchant and banker. Her hands darted out and she undid the merchant’s purse, pocketing it under her clothes. Her other hand snaked around to undo the banker’s pouch.

The banker’s knot was more secure and the extra tug and twist needed to remove the purse caused the banker to turn as it came free.

The banker moved one hand to where his purse should have been, the other whipping out toward her. She leaned back to avoid his grasp.

“Thief! Grab her!”

A meaty hand latched onto her arm. She wheeled, leg instinctively coming up. The toes of her bare foot struck the guard between his legs. He wailed, releasing her to cup himself.

More hands lashed out. Nails raked at her skin and clothing, trying to find purchase as she twisted and dodged. A tug at her sleeve preceded a rip of cloth. She slipped away, racing down the street with one bare arm. Shouts, curses, and heavy footsteps followed.

Lela darted through the street in a zigzag pattern. Coins from the merchant’s purse bounced and clanked against her side while her slender hands squeezed the banker’s purse tightly. In the market, she could get lost easily among a mix of people, but down the Gold Road, too few people were about.

She glanced to the left and right, hoping she could will an alley to magically appear, but there were none. The few alleys that once existed on the Gold Road had been filled with quickly raised walls and quicker roofs. Those narrow places of business barely had the space to accommodate a handful of people, yet the lower class sought them out in earnest as the banks of greater repute would not do business with anyone who did not maintain the appearance of wealth. She overheard a homeless man once complain that “in Bashan, a man needed money to borrow money.”

A woman squealed behind her. A man yelled in anger, threatening to call the watch. Guards growled something in response. Lela could only imagine what was going on. Spear butts cracked the street, boots slapped stone, and people thudded into walls as guards likely threw them aside.

Up ahead, an intersection stood out like a gift from the gods. Taking the right would lead her to the docks. The left would take her to the bustling streets of the market.