The Crown Tower

CHAPTER 16

The Crown Tower loomed before them, casting a shadow across the land like a behemoth sundial with Iberton village marking bedtime. Hadrian had watched the dark arm sweep the plains and hillsides, the tower growing larger with each mile. They were closer than before, having passed the turnoff to Iberton, which was already no more than a small cluster of buildings behind and far below. Each step brought them higher on the mounded plain and closer to the giant they were to challenge, but all Hadrian could think about was Pickles.

He could still see the boy’s face, his giant smile, and the happy tone in his voice. You are a great knight, yes? The swords were all he had seen. Pickles had watched everyone exit the ship in Vernes and figured anyone with three swords had to be a wealthy knight, but Hadrian had let him down.

He was going to take me out of here. We were going to go north. We were going to go to a university.

Hadrian would have been kinder to have left him in Vernes. He’d still be chasing bags in the streets along the docks, still dodging the press-gangs, and maybe one day he would have found a real knight-someone who wouldn’t leave him to die.

Hadrian was making a habit of leaving.

He had wanted to see the boy’s body, to say goodbye. He couldn’t even do that. Hadrian also imagined they had disposed of Pickles in a ditch or unmarked common grave. No ceremony would have been wasted on the likes of a poor child from a faraway city.

Hadrian squeezed the reins and glared up at the tower as if it were the source of everything evil. If he hadn’t been here … if he had been back at Sheridan, Pickles would still be alive. The thought was made all the more bitter, considering Hadrian hadn’t done anything on the last trip.

This time the two had traveled mostly by night, keeping their sleep patterns aligned with the job, as well as avoiding the expected return of the Seret Knights, who they imagined would ride by day. Royce turned off the road and cut through brambles and brush to a low, wet area concealed by a briar patch. The center had been cleared, and the remains of a campfire identified it as Royce’s base. The tower was only a few hundred yards away, up a steep slope within a maze of narrow stone streets. At this range it no longer looked like a tower. The base was too wide. Without tilting his head up, Hadrian might have thought it a slightly curved wall.

Royce was the first to break the silence. “Can you cook?” he asked without looking up as he gathered leftover wood and began stacking it for a fire. “This is our last chance to eat. We’ll enter the city as soon as the sun is below the horizon and will begin the climb once the stars appear. After the job, we’ll move fast. No stopping. No eating.” He glanced up. “Well, I won’t be. You can do as you like. In fact, I’d prefer if you went a different way than I do. I’ll likely head east toward Dunmore, so you can pick any other direction.” He returned to his pack for tinder. “It will be a long exhausting climb, even with the harnesses, so a solid meal is important. I wouldn’t chance a fire otherwise. I’m no cook, so if there’s any truth to what Arcadius said about us being opposites, I’m hoping you’re a chef.”

“Pickles is dead,” Hadrian said.

Royce stared at him a second. “What?”

“You heard me-you hear every stupid thing anyone ever says. That’s the most annoying thing about you. Well, not the most-it’s actually really hard to order them. The list is so ridiculously long.”

“Are you talking about that kid at the school?”

“Of course I am. What do you think I’m talking about?”

Royce shrugged. “Since I was asking if you could cook, I thought you were actually talking about, well, pickles.”

“I’m talking about Pickles! He was executed for the crime you committed.”

“Uh-huh.” Royce nodded. “How does that answer my question about your ability to cook?”

“Uh-huh?” Hadrian repeated, astonished. “That’s your response? They execute a kid because of what you did and your reply is uh-huh?”

Royce dragged a dead log over to sit on as he worked at starting the fire. “I didn’t kill him.”

“So you did know he was dead?”

“Like you said, I hear every stupid thing anyone ever says.”

“And you don’t feel any remorse?”

“Nope. He was hung by the sort of people who live in this tower, at the request of Angdon and his daddy. I wasn’t even there.”

“You committed the crime that Pickles was executed for.”

Royce peered at him, puzzled. “I stopped them from battering you senseless, and you consider that a crime?”

“I didn’t need your help.”

“Really?” The tone dripped with sarcasm.

“Yes, really.”

Royce made a sound somewhere between a breath and a chuckle. “Five against one, each of them armed with clubs and you with just your hands? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“Why didn’t you just join me? Two against five would have given them a lot to consider, especially if you had brandished your dagger.”

Again Royce looked at him confused, almost as if Hadrian were speaking in a different language. “What world do you live in?”

“One in which you don’t stab boys and allow other boys to die for it.”

“Boys? What does their age have to do with it? If someone comes at you with a stick, does it really matter how old they are?”

“Yes. They’re just kids. They aren’t old enough to understand what they’re doing.”

“And neither are you.”

“Me? You’re not much older.”

Royce, who had just coaxed a flame to life and was carefully feeding it twigs, paused. “It doesn’t matter. I imagine if you were Arcadius’s age you’d still be just as ignorant. Here’s something you really should have already learned: If someone intends you harm, and you have the opportunity, you kill them. Anything else leads to complications that you don’t need.”

“But you didn’t kill him.”

“Exactly. If I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I made a promise, so I’m on a leash, and Arcadius has rules-one is not to kill the students.”

“I wouldn’t think you’re the type to care about promises. Why haven’t you just killed Arcadius? That’s how you solve everything, isn’t it?”

“That was very much my plan, only the pledge I made wasn’t to the old professor, and the promise I made was not to kill Arcadius-at least not until I had repaid my debt to him.”

“Who did you promise?” Hadrian wondered what sort of person could instill such conviction in a man without morals.

“None of your business. Now, can you cook or not?” Royce left the fire and went to dig around in his pack. He pulled out a pot and a spoon and held them up. “Well?”

“You don’t care at all that Pickles died?”

Royce scowled and stuffed the pot and spoon back into his satchel. “Not in the slightest. I also don’t see how this conversation benefits us.”

“It benefits me because I want to know how you can be so goddamn cruel.”

“It’s a gift.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Being an orphan, I have no idea, but you might be right. Now, can we eat?”

“I’m not going to eat with you. And I’m sure not going to cook for you.”

“Fine.” Royce stomped out the fire. “Your loss. Truth is I was just being nice. Thought you’d like a last meal. You realize you’re going to die in a few hours, right? Look up there.” He pointed at the tower. “Does that look like Glen Hall to you? Do you think we’ve got a rope that long?”

This hadn’t occurred to Hadrian, but he was right. They had long ropes, but nothing that would reach the top.

“Because you can’t climb, we’ll have to carry extra coils up and do the height in sections. That means you’ll need to disengage from one rope, support yourself on these tiny anchors, and attach yourself to the next.” Royce raised his hand above his head. “Feel that breeze? Down here, it’s a nice gentle breath. Up there, you’ll swear Maribor himself was trying to blow you off the stone. Your arms will get tired. Your muscles will cramp. You’ll be dying of thirst but be too scared to drink. And it will be cold-real cold. That wind and the autumn night will numb your fingers until you won’t be sure how tight you’re holding the rope. You won’t be able to get enough air either-taking a deep breath will push your body out into the wind, and your muscles will be too tight, too tense to allow it. Then, I’m guessing about the three-quarter mark, that’s when you’ll slip. Stupid mistake. Fingers too numb to know better, muscles too tired to care. You’ll hit the street, bursting like a leather water-skin.

“Since you have the book and they’ll find it on you, and because Arcadius already said that if you fall on your own it’s not my fault, my obligations will be fulfilled. I’ll drop down a second or two later, careful to avoid the mess. There’s no guardhouse or patrol that works the base of the tower, so even if an alarm is raised, I could take my time and walk back here before anyone could catch me. Of course I’d run, and since we’re leaving the horses saddled and packed, I’ll ride in that direction.” He pointed into the dark. “In just minutes I’ll be far enough away that no one will ever find me, and in all likelihood they will guess you were the only thief. Assuming you are recognizable as human.”

He reached into his food sack and pulled out a piece of salt pork. “Then I’ll be able to find a nice comfy spot and celebrate with a veritable feast. I just thought you’d like to have yours now.”

Hadrian glared at him. “I’m going to climb that tower. I’m going to put the book back, and then I’m going to show you what this big sword on my back can do. And we’ll see who hits the cobblestones first.”

The city of Ervanon was a study of opposites. While not much larger than a quaint country hamlet, it contained more buildings per foot than Colnora. The streets were cobbled, narrow, and numerous. Instead of thatched cottages, every building was made of stone-not haphazard fieldstone as in Windham, but large cut limestone, mini-cathedrals each. And while each of the homes and shops were never more than three stories, each gathered at the base of the Crown Tower that sprouted like some mythical beanstalk out of a central plaza of colorful mosaic tiles.

The city also did not have a wall.

Dressed in heavy coils of rope looped around their shoulders, Royce and Hadrian crossed the gully out of the scrub, through a narrow gap between two buildings, and into the constricted alleys that forced Hadrian sideways. The sun was down. Only a trace of light remained in the sky and few torches or lanterns had been lit. Pressed between the blocks of stone and anchored by the rope, he waited while Royce peered out at the streets.

Hadrian could hear wheels and hooves that echoed off the stone. A distant voice called out followed by a whistle. A brief bit of laughter and the clap of a wooden door. Beneath it all, Hadrian heard music, a low vocal chorus chanting words he didn’t know. There was no telling its source. When it came to sounds, Ervanon was a house of mirrors.

After pausing for several minutes, Royce sprinted into the street, and Hadrian chased after. Royce wasn’t likely to abandon him again, but having been fooled once, Hadrian wasn’t taking chances. The job was personal now, and he would see it through.

The streets were not much wider than the alley. A single apple cart could block an entire thoroughfare, and wall-mounted cisterns, which acted as public basins, had to be recessed into niches. Otherwise anything with wheels and sides higher than two feet would become stuck. Royce led them into one such niche where the two stood to either side of an empty sink, allowing a carriage to pass. Built for Ervanon’s streets, the black coach was noticeably oblong, as if squished and stretched by the crush of stone. This city was a world of its own, and Hadrian began to wonder if the inhabitants might all be unusually tall and slender or flat like sliced bread.

They squeezed through another alley. The walls were not precise and the space between the two adjacent buildings tapered narrower as they went. Royce wriggled through fine, but Hadrian needed to press his back flat and suck in his breath to squeeze through.

Was that another attempt to lose me?

Hadrian felt he might be looking for problems, but he also knew he had good reason.

Coming out of the alley, they stepped on mosaic tiles across from which was solid darkness. The base of the Crown Tower blotted out everything. No lamps illuminated the circle, the light in the sky was gone, and the moon-what little they would see of it that night-had yet to rise. Hadrian paused to look up and nearly fell over. The thing was monstrous. Up close he could see the blocks of stone were the size of houses.

This is insane.

Royce led them around the tower. He was looking for something. How he expected to find it in the shadow with no light was a mystery but one he had no interest in asking about. His days of questioning Royce were over. All that remained was the climb. And after that…

Royce finally stopped, slipped on his hand-claws, and without a word, began to scale the tower.

Hadrian waited. There was nothing else to do. This is how they had performed the climb back in Sheridan, yet somehow it felt different, as if Royce was intentionally subjecting him to inactivity, treating him as a servant waiting on his master’s fancy.

Hadrian leaned against the tower, turning his head left and right, trying to penetrate the gloom, listening for the approach of footsteps. There was nothing except the growing howl of a rising wind. Looking up, he saw that Royce had already faded into oblivion, which added to his growing anger. He made it look so easy. He had found whatever mark he searched for in the night and scuttled up the tower like he was chasing a girl up a grassy hillside. Royce had even waltzed through the route there, passing between the alley walls as if he were a rabbit and the city his personal burrow.

Feeling the cold of the rock against his back, Hadrian looked out at the vague shape of buildings across from him and wondered … if he was the only one to return to this spot, would he be able to find his way out? What were his chances of finding that singular crack that formed the mouth of the alley they had entered through, and after that what street would lead to the other alley that led to the gully, the scrub, and their horses?

Not having paid closer attention, Hadrian realized he’d already made his first mistake. This only served to ignite his frustration. A moment later the tail of rope dropped, slapping the tile beside him.

Hadrian climbed, fueled by sheer anger. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up the rope, his eyes fixed on the dark form of Royce above. Being out of the shadow of the city, there was light-nothing more than timid starlight-but enough to see the black of Royce’s cloak. Just watching the way he practically scampered up the stone was infuriating. Everything about the thief enraged him now. The feeling was mutual, he was certain, as neither had spoken a word since they had left the horses.

The first three coils passed with hardly a notice. The climb wasn’t a hardship for Hadrian; he welcomed it. His temper was up and his muscles begged for use. The first half of the climb was consumed by fury. No thought was given even to the transfers. He took a grip and disengaged from the safety, hooking to the other line, oblivious to where he was. He took satisfaction from the surprised expression on Royce’s face each time he looked down to find Hadrian keeping up. Royce hadn’t lied about the climb, nor the cold and the wind. Currents of icy air blasted him. One shoved him so hard that Hadrian spun to his back, where for a moment he dangled like a turtle on a string. Right about then he realized his hatred was not an unlimited source of energy. As his fury abated, all that remained were his muscles-muscles that were becoming exhausted.

While hard to gauge from his position, he guessed he was above the three-quarters point when he conceded to rest. He tightened the rope, pulling the line, twisting it in the rings so he could hold himself securely with one hand and let himself just dangle. For the first time he looked down, and it didn’t seem real. Everything was too small. The buildings and streets were lost to darkness; only the pinholes of light that appeared as a cluster of stationary fireflies told the story of a city below. Another set of lights indicated Iberton. Hadrian spotted a silver wiggle, a river that caught the starlight and drew a meandering line from almost directly below them out to Lake Morgan. Other than these landmarks, he was surrounded by nothing but stars.

A gust of wind pushed him out and away from the stone. He felt his stomach rise as he imagined himself falling. He hovered for a moment, spinning. A toy for the wind, his heart pounding. Then the gust coughed and gave up the game. He slapped back against the wall, hitting his shoulder. He was slick with sweat, something he hadn’t noticed before but something the wind revealed with its cold breath. Overhead Royce had paused.

Is he stopping for me, or is he tired as well?

He dangled as Hadrian did, but he didn’t look nearly as concerned. The thief appeared to have no fear of death, and in a moment of clarity Hadrian wondered why he did.

What am I afraid of losing? My life?

Looking out at the starry universe, he didn’t feel small-he didn’t even exist. A copper coin had more worth.

Does it really matter? Is wishing to live another day enough?

Most people had reasons: loved ones, goals-making something, going somewhere, seeing something. Hadrian had left home to see the world and make a name for himself. He set out to be a hero, to right wrongs, save maidens, slay dragons. Instead, he became a butcher, a killer. That was the name he gained, the one he had earned. At first he thought Luck had been his friend. That’s all there was to it-a bad day for them, a good day for him. He was younger and they were older, or they were younger and he had more experience. Then they came at him in groups. Not even a cut. Awe hardly described the looks of those in the stands. It was so easy to think he was special, chosen, picked by the gods. Everyone said so. Some even worshiped him as a god. Those were his days of insanity, the months of blood and wine, the days that ended when he fought the tiger and watched it die. He wasn’t a hero. Heroes didn’t slaughter the innocent or let poor boys die.

Heroes also don’t climb insanely tall towers and steal books from priests.

The road he searched for, he couldn’t find.

Maybe it doesn’t exist.

He felt the rope twang and Royce was on the move again. That’s when he realized he did have a reason to live. If nothing else, he refused to give that bastard the satisfaction of being right.

He caught the rope with both hands again and, setting his feet, resumed the climb. Step, pull, wrap, hold; step, pull, wrap, hold; up he moved. The last leg was climbed on the long rope. They had one length twice that of the others. Royce wanted it at the top so they could drop out of sight if necessary. Hadrian had carried the coil up. Removing it from his shoulders made him feel buoyant.

“From now on, no talking,” Royce told him, having to shout to be heard over the wind as he hoisted the coil over his head.

Is that supposed to be a joke?

They were just beneath the alabaster stone of the “crown,” and here Royce scaled up freehand; then like a spider he worked his way to the outer ring while inverted before setting the rope and dropping the length. The line hung out away from the wall two feet beyond Hadrian’s grasp. They hadn’t practiced this. He looked up, but Royce was climbing once more.

From now on, no talking.

He had done it on purpose. To follow, Hadrian would need to disengage from his safety and lunge out in midair to catch the other rope. Only two feet, but any distance separated by death felt too far.

Does it really matter?

He hadn’t come all that way to fail. And who would really care if he died? He focused on the dangling line and half imagined Royce above him, poised, ready to shift it the moment he jumped.

See, Arcadius, I told you he couldn’t make it.

The bastard.

That was all it took and he jumped. Catching the rope was easy, but the swing and the sudden drop was unexpected, and he struggled to stop himself from sliding down the length. His skin began to burn as his weight dragged him down. He felt the heat between his thighs and wrapped his feet tightly, catching the cord. Together, his legs, feet, and hands left him alive and swinging out and back where he slammed hard against the stone, slapping his knuckles and cheek.

Above him, Royce was already on the parapet.