Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

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.