The Tower of Fear Read Online Free Page A

strain. How long before it broke, he surrendered, and he became just another crippled veteran begging at street side?
    As it did every time, the thought sparked white-hot rage. He would not surrender! He would not become a vegetable patch beside the thoroughfare, watered by the charity of Herodian conquerors whose generosity consisted of tossing back fragments of the ghosts of plunder ripped from the heart of Qushmarrah.
    Bel-Sidek sometimes tended toward a dramatic turn of mind.
    The leg did not hurt as badly, nor drag nearly so much, when the thought of a commander of a thousand begging at street side drove him into a fury. Dartar and Herodian had humiliated him and reduced him by strength of arms and right of conquest. But he would not finish what they had begun. He would not degrade himself.
    “They have not won,” he muttered. “They have not beaten me. I am one of the living.”
    For the true believer the formula was as potent as a magical cantrip.
    There was something wrong with his surroundings. He stopped instantly, coming out of himself to look around suspiciously. Yes! Dartars and Herodians everywhere. How had they…?
    Wait. Maybe not. Whatever had happened, it was over long since. And the enemy did not have that grim look he got when his own had been hurt. Someone would have gotten hurt had they found the General.
    Still …
    Still, it had been something that interested them a great deal. A great deal. That was Fa’tad al-Akla himself. The Eagle would not be out here for trivia.
    Was he at risk here? Had they been found out? Was it a search?
    No. Hardly. How would the old man know them in their present circumstances, after ten years, when he and the General had been but faces in the background when last they had crossed paths?
    There was Raheb Sayhed and her daughter. Raheb spent her life planted on her mat there. Nothing escaped her. He limped over to the two women.
    A smiling face peeped around Raheb’s skirt. Bel-Sidek grinned. “Ola, Stafa.” He liked the child. “Ola, Raheb. Laella.”
    The older woman replied, “Ola, Khadifa.” She inclined her head almost imperceptibly, to show that she still honored him. She continued to stare at Fa’tad.
    Bel-Sidek frowned his question at the daughter.
    Laella said, “The foundations of her world took a shaking this afternoon.”
    “What happened?”
    “A child-stealing. Reyha’s son, Zouki. A Dartar patrol was right in front of the house when it happened. They tried to rescue Zouki. Three of them got hurt.”
    “That explains Fa’tad.”
    “Maybe. But I don’t think so. They weren’t hurt bad. I hear he’s here because they think the Living had something to do with it.”
    “That’s absurd.”
    “Is it?”
    “Why would they take a six-year-old kid?”
    “Why would they beat up shopkeepers and steal from artisans and leave their own people floating in the bay while never, ever, laying a finger on the people they’re supposed to be fighting?”
    “You’re exaggerating.”
    “Am I? Let me tell you something, Khadifa. There are ordinary, everyday, loyal people in Qushmarrah—people who hate Herod and Dartars as much as you do—who’re so fed up with the Living they’ve talked about maybe letting Fa’tad find out some names.”
    “Laella.”
    Bel-Sidek turned. “Aaron. How are you?”
    “Upset. I have small children. It disturbs me that the Dartars seem more interested in their safety than do those of my own people who might say they have some claim on my sympathy. People who, by their nature, ought to have some insight into the problem if there’s a racket behind the child-stealing.”
    Bel-Sidek understood. He did not like it. “I hear what you’re saying, Aaron. Here. Come. Walk with me to my house.” He began dragging the leg uphill.
    The man turned his son over to his wife and followed. It did not take him long to catch up. Bel-Sidek asked, “Is it true, what she said?”
    “You know how women are when they’re scared or mad.