Burning Tower (19 page)

“You're doing all the talking,” Pergammon said. “But it's the Tep's Town Lords who have to do the fighting. Qu'yuma, what's your price here?”

“Oh, we're content to learn. And perhaps, say, a tenth part of the value of the cargo that returns here. Of the whole, of course.”

“A tenth! That's ruin!” Pergammon said.

“I thought it generous,” Green Stone said. “Without them, there will be nothing at all. I can't fight the birds. And it's clear you can't either.”

“So you'll give them a tenth of your share if we'll do the same,” Pergammon said. “We'll have to confer about that.”

The other captains gathered around Pergammon. There were whispers, but Sandry didn't understand any of what they said. Finally they took their seats.

“A tenth, then,” Pergammon said.

“Clearly we asked for too little,” Qu'yuma said politely.

“But we pay the protection bets before we divide,” Pergammon added.

“Half,” Qu'yuma said. “Pay half from the undivided profits, then you will pay the rest from your share alone.”

“Robbery,” Pergammon muttered. He glanced at the other captains. Clearly they had anticipated this, because they all nodded. “All right,” Pergammon said. “Now, as to how we do this: much of the best cargo for the Inland Sea is large and heavy, heavier than you will like for your wagon train. We propose to send part of that by ship. It should arrive not long after you get there.”

“And I own half of that cargo too?” Green Stone said.

“If you buy it, you own it, yes,” Pergammon said.

“You buy it. I pay half. When it gets to the Inland Sea, your people divide it, and I choose which half I take,” Green Stone said.

Pergammon conferred with his captains again. “Done.”

Now they tediously dictated every part of the agreement, and each clerk wrote it down. The two accounts were compared and the documents passed around for inspection. Sandry couldn't read Condigeano, and he didn't think Green Stone could either, but Qu'yuma examined the parchments and nodded approval.

“It is done. So say I. So say you all?”

The four captains said, “Aye,” in unison.

“It is agreed, Green Stone of Feathersnake?”

“Aye.”

“Qu'yuma and Sandry of Lordshills, is this agreed?”

“It is.”

“Then it is done. Witness Jaguar and Cormorant.”

“And Coyote,” Clever Squirrel said. The look in her eyes that usually appeared when Coyote was present wasn't there. It was a bluff, Burning Tower thought, but nobody called her on it.

F
irst Captain Granton led them down the stairs to the docks. Green Stone dropped back a few steps and, when Sandry and Qu'yuma followed, asked, “What is a protection bet?”

Sandry shook his head.

Qu'yuma said, “I hope to learn a little more about that. My best information is that captains bet against themselves to reduce the risk of a voyage.”

“How does that work?”

Qu'yuma answered with a shrug.

First Captain Granton led them to a teahouse. The sign above the door showed a ship superimposed over a large bell. The ship on the sign looked like one of the wide, fat ones Sandry had noticed that morning. Granton led them inside and up to the second floor.

To their left was a public room. Men and women sat and talked in low tones as they drank tea and ate cakes and dried fish.
Captains and merchants,
Sandry thought.
Mostly. And who are these others?

“Ladies, it is best if you wait here,” Qu'yuma said. He indicated the public room.

Burning Tower started to protest, but her brother's frown cut her off. Sandry smiled faintly as Tower let Clever Squirrel lead her to a table.

Granton led the men through a doorway to the right. Two burly guards sat just inside. They waved greeting as Granton came in. Qu'yuma, Green Stone, and Sandry were waved in only after Granton said, “We have business here.”

“Certainly, Captain.” A young lady, pretty, expensively dressed, came to greet them. “Will you want your own table?”

“Yes, that will be best,” he said.

The room was about the size of the public room, but with fewer tables. Like the public room, it faced onto the sea, but there was no balcony outside the window, only thick thatched eaves jutting out below the windows. It would be difficult to hear anything said in this room down in the streets below, and when he looked out the window Sandry saw armed marines. No one would be listening down there.

Their table was near the window. A liveried waiter brought a pot of tea and cups. Sandry sipped. Mild tea, no hemp flavor that he could detect. He had seen wine bottles in the public room, but there were none here.

After a moment, a plainly dressed man in his thirties left his own table and came over. “Captain Granton,” he said. “Do we have business?” He bowed.

Granton and Qu'yuma stood, so Sandry and Green Stone did as well. “Betting Master Calafi, I present Wagonmaster Green Stone of Feathersnake and Lord Sandry of Lordshills,” Granton said. “You already know Lord Qu'yuma.”

“Indeed I do. May I join you?” The voice was smooth, educated Condigeano with only the tiniest trace of an accent.
Perhaps it is no accent at all,
Sandry thought.
I haven't met all that many Condigeanos. But this man has never been a captain—I'm sure of that.

“Please do.” There was already an empty cup at Calafi's place. Granton filled it from the teapot. The waiter quietly came and retrieved the pot, replacing it with another.

“I understand you killed three score of the monster birds,” Calafi began. He smiled softly at Sandry.

“Not quite so many as that,” Sandry said. “We had good luck.”

“I trust luck had nothing to do with it,” Calafi said. “I don't believe in luck.” He looked to Green Stone. “So you two will be taking the wagon train to the Inland Sea.”

“Yes.”

“Going yourselves, both ways?”

“Yes,” Green Stone said.

“Good. I always feel better about these bets when the owners are going along. But I understood there is to be a ship as well?”

Captain Granton nodded. “The
Angie Queen
will sail in the morning. Here's her manifest.” He took parchments from a pouch he carried.

“And half of this is owned by the captains, half by Feathersnake? Plus, of course, the ship herself.”

“Correct.”

Calafi studied the parchments. “Of course you have no objection to inspection and seals on the cargo.”

“Of course not,” Granton said.

“Good. Let us consummate this simple transaction before we study the matter of the wagon train,” Calafi said. He looked over the sheets again. “Yes, I believe we will have an offer for you. Excuse me.” He stood and carried the parchments to another table, where he was joined by four other men. They all looked alike, plain tunics and trousers, black hair cut straight at shoulder length, dark eyes in almond-colored faces.

“Would someone explain this?” Green Stone demanded.

“Protection bets,” Captain Granton said. “You don't do this in wagon trade?”

“I doubt it. I don't know what you're doing.”

“He will offer to pay the value of the ship and cargo if it does not arrive safely at Inland Sea,” Granton said. “And he'll name a price paid to him before she sails. In my experience, that will be close to one part in sixteen of the value of the cargo and one in twenty of the value of the ship.”

“I'm not paying for any protection of a ship!” Green Stone said.

“You'll have to, to get a protection bet on the cargo. But the ship owners will pay part of it too.”

Green Stone frowned. “What's to keep the ship owners from sailing the ship somewhere and selling it and then claiming it was lost?”

“It would not be wise,” Granton said. “The bets never cover the whole value of the ship. And if the story comes out, the captain and owners would regret their actions. It would not be wise.”

They sipped tea and waited until Calafi came back to their table. “We have an offer for the
Angie Queen
and her cargo,” he said. “I regret I can make no offer regarding the wagon train and its cargo.”

“None at all?” Granton said frostily. “Yet Bell's of Condigeo boasts that it will make protection bets on anything.”

“And so we can,” Calafi said. “But it will take time. We have no history of such journeys since the monster birds appeared. Without history, we must make guesses. Such guesses lead to offers that you will not like, for they will be very costly.” He shrugged. “No one of us wants any large part of such a bet. It will require the entire resources of this establishment, and it will take time to assemble all the partners and allocate the risks. I understood you were in a hurry.”

“I need no such protection to begin with,” Green Stone said. “My protection lies with Lord Sandry's chariots and our Lordsmen allies, and I think that will be protection enough.”

“So be it,” Calafi said. “Here is the offer for the ship.”

G
reen Stone and Qu'yuma were engaged in inspecting documents. Sandry found this tedious. He took Qu'yuma aside. “The troops will want to be paid extra for this,” he said. “Maybe a lot.”

“I know,” Qu'yuma said. “Make the best deal you can, but be generous rather than stingy. This will make our reputation. It may make our fortunes as well.”

“You see it as that important?”

“To bring the Condigeo Captains a cargo they can't get for themselves? Sandry!” Qu'yuma said. “Just get there and back. Leave the rest to us.”

“All right.” He turned to the table where Green Stone was still talking to Captain Granton. “Lord Qu'yuma can speak for me. I'll wait for you with Tower,” he said.

Green Stone nodded without expression. “We should not be much longer.”

Maybe, maybe not,
Sandry thought.

Burning Tower and Clever Squirrel were sitting with two men. One was stout and short and moved slowly. When Sandry reached the table, he saw that the man was old but dressed well, and carried a cane of black wood with gold mountings. The other man was a giant. Sandry thought he was at least forty. Up closer, he looked to a dozen years older or younger than that. His hair was blond and his eyes were Lordkin blue. The ears were Lordkin, but he did not act like a Lordkin, and his accent was not of Tep's Town.

Neither stood as Sandry came to the table.

“Sandry! This is Tras Preetror, the teller. He knows my father. And his companion, Arshur.”

Sandry nodded. “I heard you sing the story of the fall of the Toronexti. Last winter, in Lord's Town.”

“Indeed I did,” Tras Preetror said. “To an appreciative and generous audience. You and the lady had a prominent part in the song. As her father figures in the story of Tep's Town. An unfinished story, I think.”

“He was telling us how Father got his tattoo!” Burning Tower said.

Tras shrugged. “It is only a tale. When you tell your father of me, say also that I say it is only a tale, and one well known to many others.”

“Tell them I'm going to be king,” Arshur said. He had a wild look, battered and mad.

Clever Squirrel frowned. “With your permission.” She took Arshur's hand and studied it. “It may be true, but your reign will not be long. This old scar, this slash, changed the pattern.”

“Long or short, I'm going to be king,” Arshur said. “I have always known it. Even Tras believes it now.”

“I understand you travel east,” Tras Preetror said.

Sandry looked blank.

“Surely it is no secret,” Tras said. “And anyone can follow a trail of bison chips. A long and slow journey, east to the Inland Sea.”

“You've been there?” Sandry asked.

“Years ago. I went there by ship, a long passage south and around the Forefinger—dull for the most part, but sometimes there are wonderful things to see. Whales feeding their children. Fish that fly across the water, other fish with swords for beaks, great sea monsters with a hundred arms and eyes like giants. Crocodiles three manlengths long. I came back by wagon train.”

“What was that like?” Burning Tower asked.

“Wilder than the Hemp Road,” Tras said. “Long stretches where there is only wilderness. A day's passage across blowing sands that rise into hills that walk. Towns in valleys, towns of people who have never gone a league from the place they were birthed, and never will. Wonderful songs in strange languages.” He sighed. “I am minded to go again. Have you room for passengers?”

Sandry shook his head. “It's not entirely up to me, but I'd vote no.”

“But why?” Burning Tower said. “The stories—and he is an old friend of Father's.”

“I have not claimed that,” Tras said. “It is true that your father and I have known each other since he was a boy, but our relationship is more complicated than friendship. Tell me, Lord Sandry, why would you not want me on your journey?”

“One more thing to worry about,” Sandry said. “We don't know what we're facing. Never been there, and we know we have the birds to fight. That's enough for me.”

“Birds to fight. You came to town bearing trophies,” Tras said. “Tell me of that fight. Leave nothing out.”

 

He's good,
Burning Tower thought.
Tras Preetror is getting more details than Sandry ever told me.

“The trooper was pushed back,” Tras asked. “That would have been serious.”

“Yes, it would, if the bird could get among the troopers. Those things can kick a man to death in seconds. But Secklers saw what was happening and got his shoulder on Manneret's back and pushed him right back into the line.”

“Ah,” Tras said. He sipped tea. “And you were right there when that happened.”

“Yes, we were resting the horses, while Maydreo led the birds around the circle.”

“Resting the horses—is that important?”

“Sure. Tired horses can't outrun the birds, not pulling a chariot with two men in it. Everyone knows that.”

“Perhaps not everyone knows as much of horses as you,” Tras Preetror said. “So you were resting the horses. Then what?”

A waiter came to the table. “There is a boy here who wishes to see wagonmaster Green Stone,” he said. “But the Wagonmaster is in the Betting Rooms. I noted you were of his party; perhaps he could wait with you?”

“Certainly,” Burning Tower said. “Bring him here.”

Tras Preetror hid his unhappiness and tried to be interested in the newcomer.

Burning Tower guessed the boy was about twelve. He wore buckskins similar to the travel clothing of the Bison Tribe, but the fetish painted on his chest was a mountain goat. Distant cousins to the Bison Tribe, then. No relation to Feathersnake at all.

The boy stood politely at the table, waiting for someone to speak to him.

Good manners,
she thought. “I'm Burning Tower of Feathersnake,” she said. “My brother is Wagonmaster Green Stone. And you are welcome.”

“Thank you. I am Spotted Lizard, of the High Trail. They say that you are going east along the Golden Road.” His speech was slow, breathy Condigeano.

“That story sure gets around fast,” Sandry said.

Tras Preetror nodded. “There are few secrets in Condigeo.”

“And what can we do for you, Spotted Lizard?” Tower asked.

“Take me with you. I fell ill when my father's wagon left here to go east. That was three moons ago, and no one has heard from him since. I know something of the road. I have been across to the Inland Sea and back three times now. I can help you. And…and…I don't have anywhere else to go.”

 

Sandry hardly saw Burning Tower for the next two days. She was busy with the details of buying provisions for the wagons and cargo for both the wagons and the ship.

Meanwhile, Sandry was burdened with details of the military expedition. Buying spears, fodder for the horses, leather and bronze for repair of armor. And keeping Secklers and Trebaty out of trouble. For that he employed Nothing Was Seen, to follow them and keep track of anything they might gather, to offer to pay before there could be difficulties.

Surprisingly, there were none. Secklers bought a necklace and some perfumes, and Trebaty bought a dress, paying with the wages they had earned as wagon guards.

“How?” Sandry demanded, when Lurk reported to him that evening. “I didn't think they were that, well, smart.”

“Sea chanties,” Lurk said. “I learned a rowing song from Tras Preetror, and I sing it whenever they are in a shop.”

“I didn't see you anywhere around when I had that talk with them,” Sandry protested.

Lurk grinned.

 

“You leave in the morning,” Qu'yuma said.

“Yes. Do you have instructions?” Sandry asked.

“Only that you get there and back—alive, if possible,” Qu'yuma said. “Learn what you can of the conditions at the Inland Sea. You have a right to know, I think, but don't get accused of being a spy. Things may be different there.”

Sandry frowned.

“Some places keep secrets,” Qu'yuma said. “We don't usually allow strangers inside the walls of Lordshills.”

“But that's not to keep secrets,” Sandry said.

“No, merely privacy. And outside those walls, we don't care. We invite lookers and tellers. But that is—or was—because it was better that people knew how things were in Tep's Town than if they guessed. That we had no great wealth, and a good army, and fierce Lordkin ready to gather from anyone we considered enemies. And the protection of Yangin-Atep.”

“That wasn't much protection.”

“More than you know,” Qu'yuma said. “Think. Buildings would not burn unless Yangin-Atep wanted them to burn. Fires would go out. Magic weapons would not work against our army, while swords and spears worked just fine. And now that we don't have that protection, we have to rethink our policies. Do we want the world to know what things are like in Tep's Town?” He shrugged. “Condigeo is open. Many towns are. But there are places like Swallow's Nest in the hills north of here, whence no stranger returns alive, and the only traders are their own and won't talk.”

“The Inland Sea is different. We have a boy who has been there three times.”

“What does he know of the towns?”

“Little,” Sandry admitted. “He always stayed with the wagons. The town traders came to their wagon camp.”

“And have you met anyone who wandered freely in the Inland Sea towns?”

Sandry shook his head.

“Nor have I.” Qu'yuma shrugged. “Learn what you can. Information is valuable. But be careful. I don't have to tell you how successful you've been already. We already have a better reputation with the captains than we've ever had before. And now they've seen how useful horses are, they'll want some. So will the Bison Tribe. Sandry, we don't know the wagon trade, and we don't know the sea trade, but we do know horses.”

“Burning Tower knows the wagon trade,” Sandry said.

Qu'yuma grinned. “I'll be sure to put that in my report to the council and congregation,” he said. “She's an heiress too.”

“That's not—”

“Of course not, but it doesn't hurt, either. We train armies, we train horses. All good, but it won't hurt us to have the Lords involved in the wagon trains too.”

Sandry nodded, as if in agreement.

“Thing are changing fast,” Qu'yuma said. “We always thought we were adaptable, we Lords, but we never had to face changes like these.”

“Interesting times,” Sandry said. “Wasn't that an old curse?”

“Yes, from our ancestors,” Qu'yuma said.

Later, alone, Sandry thought about his conversations with Qu'yuma, and with the Lord Chief Witness before he left Tep's Town.
They're assuming I will always be a Lord of Lordshills, and that anything I do will be for the Lords. That I can't possibly just go off on my own, be a wagonmaster or a horse trader.

Then he chuckled.
Wagonmaster? I think wagonmaster, but I'd be lucky to be a wagon owner, and then it would be Tower's skill that keeps us from starving. But I do know horses.

And I am a Lord of Lordshills, and these are interesting times.