In Part 1, Lilian is trying to dissuade her lover, Jem from a suicidal quest to Alinakard's twin city on the opposite riverbank. In Part 2, Lilian betrays Jem to her father, starting a chain reaction that forces her (and her reluctant accomplice, Kinley) over the bridge in Part 3. In Part 4, Lilian enters a fight court whilst Kinley is haunted by ghosts. In Part 5 and Part 6, they realise the extent of the stakes - that there are fates worse than death and they are trapped in the riddles of an insane city.
The food was surprisingly good. Lillian munched on a fresh bread roll, stuffed with cheese and herbs, followed up with a cup of wine. She’d eaten worse meals in Alinakard’s inns.
“Date?” Captain Afizere asked, holding one out to her. Lillian swallowed, coughed on the crumbs and swiped the fruit from his fingers.
“When you said the undead crowd threw food down to the survivors, I thought they would pelt us with it. Instead, they sent a neatly wrapped hamper.”
Afizere shrugged. “It’s not usually this good. Perhaps you impressed them.”
“Mmmn. It’s amazing what you can do by stroking a rabbit.”
Afizere caught the allusion and smirked, the expression lighting up his grim face. “You are your mother’s daughter. I forgot how much I missed Emre’s repartee.”
Lillian delicately licked her fingertips. “We missed you too. She never gave up the hope of seeing you again.”
There was a pause, filled with the clink of bottles and steady munching as the rest of Afizere’s men explored the hamper. It was big enough to hold a small child, stuffed with fresh produce and two beer flagons.
“Go easy,” Afizere warned them, catching sight of the alcohol. “We’ve got a demon to fight later.”
“I thought that was tomorrow?” Lillian asked, uneasily. She didn’t want to head back into the arena so soon.
“He turns up tomorrow in any case, but we can provoke a confrontation by hammering on the doors. We found that out the hard way.”
“The third trial,” Lillian remarked.
Afizare paused. “Yes, now that you mention it, that must be it.” He started to tick them off on his fingers. “The first was the rabbit - the trial of judgement. The second was the cube: the trial of intelligence. The third must be the arena. The trial of courage.”
“Like the rockpool fairytale,” Lillian interjected.
The captain hesitated. “Yes…” he said slowly. “But that tale involved a djinn and a stranded mermaid and three seashells. I’m not sure how that works here.”
Lillian leaned forward, flushed with excitement. “No, no, no - look, it all fits. Look at the patterns. The djinn meets the mermaid and dares her to complete the three trials, each one worth one shell. If she won three shells, he would rescue her. The arena is the rockpool and our audience is the djinn. The mermaid was going to starve if she couldn’t escape and we are looking at the same, here. I think this tale somehow made it to Alinakard and got twisted over the years.”
“So what happened to the mermaid?” one of the soldiers interrupted.
“She was taken to the djinn’s castle.”
“She won a net of gold and trapped him.”
Lillian and Afizare paused after interrupting each other. “Sorry,” Lillian offered. “Keep going.”
The captain ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Either way, it ends in a trap,” he said quietly.
“So we need to be prepared,” Lillian replied. She held out her hand for the beer flagon. “I can’t see demons being merciful.”
*
Kinley lumbered through the streets towards the white-walled tower that thrust upwards towards the sky like a challenge. He was leading a pair of donkeys pulling a full dunny cart and the smell kept everyone away. It was also an excellent excuse to keep a scarf positioned across his face without being questioned.
“Did it have to be pig shit?” he grumbled in a low voice to an extra-empty patch of air over his left shoulder.
“You were lucky to find any at all,” Legata Martia’s voice echoed in his ear. “Dung is a valuable commodity and most of it’s booked up for the city’s gardens years in advance.”
“Huh. When this gets scrawled for h’story, I’m changin’ up the cargo.”
“A hollow wooden horse, then, carrying jars of olive oil?”
“Hah! Yeah, with a thief in ev’ry one.”
Kinley fell silent then, as they passed the interchange leading to the fight court.
“I should’ve gone with her,” he muttered. “She was a rare woman.”
“Then you would be dead, along with your Pearl,” Legata retorted. “From what I have heard, they can stay alive for weeks. If that’s the case, your best hope and hers is to undo the time curse in Gowan’s Tower.”
Kinley shrugged, feeling surly. Logically, Legata was right but it still grated to be advised by a dead woman.
The streets around the tower grew smaller and more twisted, with high walls and small doors hinting at a cloistered life away from the street. Finally, Finley dropped the reins, staring ahead. He could see a glimpse of the tower’s white staircase up ahead, but the road to the small plaza containing the steps was too small for the dunny cart. “Thank your man,” he muttered. “I will take it from ‘ere.”
“Good luck with whatever God you pray to,” the Legata responded. “I will stay with you.”
Kinley moved forward, without bothering to answer. The deserted plaza was an octagon, with the same high walls as the rest of the streets, each side containing a door and a fountain splashing merrily in the middle. He paused to drink.
“What are you doing here?” someone yelped, from high up. Around the courtyard, shadows moved and shutters slammed back as people leaned out of their windows or moved onto the rooftops.
“Hells below,” Kinley cursed. He ran, just before the first arrow struck the flagstones, zig-zagging for the wall.
“Stay in the shadows. Avoid corners,” Legata snapped in his ear.
Kinley spun and punched his first assailant who had run up from behind. The skinny boy gave a soft huff and collapsed on the ground, clutching his stomach. The tracker did not even pause to check, racing for the steps. They wound around the outside of the tower, no handrails, no shelter and no way off except down. Any Padfoot tracker with sense would avoid it.
“Use the mirror!"
“I know!”
Kinley swallowed his irritation and fumbled in his belt, pulling out a small, polished metal hand mirror. He raised it to his cheek, turned outwards, and swivelled the surface back and forth. A second arrow whizzed overhead, bouncing off the tower’s stonework. The mirror’s blinding reflection was working.
Behind him came the sound of thundering feet.
Kinley picked up speed, using his long legs to take the stairs two at a time.
“There’s a sweep-step coming up…” Legata moaned.
Kinley jumped, just before the step dropped away under his feet. At this height, the ground’s impact would be enough to break a leg. Trembling, with one hand splayed on the wall, he kept going. From below, a rhythmic chant had started up.
“…Tower Fall! Tower Fall! Tower Fall! Tower Fall!”
“How much further?” he asked his ghostly companion, pausing for breath.
“Four more turns around the tower-oh.”
Kinley huddled against the wall and slid his free hand across his ribcage to where the arrow had lodged itself. His shirt felt warm and heavy with blood. There was surprisingly little pain. He’d been hurt worse from a knife cut. The hand mirror bounced on the steps; he had not even realised he had dropped it.
“Unghf.”
“You need to keep going,” Legata urged. “If they catch you now, they will throw you off the side.”
“Right,” he muttered. It didn’t feel that bad, a bit like an intense heat spot. He knew that would change quickly if he pulled the arrow out.
“Keep movin’” he mumbled again.
He managed another full turn around the tower, then stopped, feeling dizzy.
“They are catching up!” Legata Martia yelled in his ear.
“Right.”
He could hear the footsteps, but they seemed to be coming from above. He was trapped above and below, with a metallic taste in his mouth and no way off, except down. It had all seemed so simple, back in the graveyard.
“Any more hints?” he mumbled.
“No,” Legata whispered. “You got further than most.”
He fumbled for his belt knife and smoke capsule. As the feet thundered down around the corner, he held his breath and snapped the capsule in half, blinding himself and his attacker in a grey plume. He heard a hacking cough to his right-hand side and lashed out, mindful of the arrow. Something hard and metallic slammed into his knuckles, causing another wave of pain, followed by an adrenaline spike. He swivelled back against the wall and brought his hand down on the outstretched arm flailing about at his waist level. He grabbed the limb and yanked sideways. Whoever it was yelped and fell into him. He braced to throw them off -
“Wait!”
Kinley froze. He knew that voice.
A gust of wind cleared away the smoke, revealing the black-eyed Jem. Just like the last time he had seen her, she was scowling.