by Zephyr Dorsey
in Issue 140, September 2023
His beard flowed down his chest, stiff and tangled, like a stream of wire hangers. His clothes hung from him in tattered strips. Lightning flashed in his eyes. A wild look. He kept to the vicinity of the Community House, speaking only gibberish and gesticulating excitedly.
When he saw the stranger on the black stallion riding into the village, he hooted like an owl and ducked behind the short, rock wall encircling the well.
The stranger sat very upright in his fancy saddle. He wore a brown broad-brimmed hat and a wine-colored, long-sleeved shirt. A slender sword hung from his belt inside an elegantly wrought sheath.
He surveyed the neatly kept, wooden buildings surrounding him and headed toward the old well at the center of the dusty crossroads. He threw a leg back and swung it over the bushy tail of his tall horse and leapt nimbly down from the shiny saddle.
A young woman dressed in a cream-colored blouse and skirt was drawing water at the well. Her hair was thick and held behind her neck by a red ribbon. She silently observed the well-dressed stranger’s movements as she filled the clay jars sitting in her small, unpainted wagon.
“Good day,” said the stranger, putting a polished leather boot on the plank-bench running along the side of the well wall and resting an elbow on top of his thigh.
“Good day,” she returned.
Her smile was sincere. This made the man happy.
“Would it be alright if I drew some water for me and my horse? We’ve come a long way. We’re fairly parched.”
“Please, help yourself,” answered the young woman. She placed the bucket on the well’s curved wall. A rope ran from the bucket to a beam running horizontally overhead and across the well.
The bearded, wild-eyed man hiding behind the other side of the well popped his head above its short wall, then dropped again out of sight, muttering excitedly to himself.
The young woman took up the handle of her wagon. The stranger noticed her eyeing his horse as she began moving away, the water sloshing softly inside her clay jars.
“He’s a beautiful creature, ain’t he?” he said.
She halted, nodded once. “What’s his name?”
“Bounder.”
“Bounder,” the woman repeated. She turned her gaze from horse to stranger and looked him up and down. “You’re noble, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
He used the handle attached to the horizontal beam over the well to unspool the rope attached to the bucket. Then, he slowly lowered the bucket into the darkness of the well.
“We don’t see many nobles here,” she said. “They shun us.”
“Shun you? Why’s that?”
“Our religion is frowned upon by king and court.”
“Well, I never spent much time at court. I’m not Cape Noble, only Sword Noble.”
The woman’s dark eyes blinked at him.
Perhaps she does not know the difference, he thought.
He heard the bucket hit the water and began drawing it up, the rough rope taut with the bucket’s new heaviness.
The wild-eyed man peeked over the rock wall. The stranger glanced sideways at him but kept his attention mostly focused on the young woman.
“I’m a Justice,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”
She shook her head.
“A Justice goes from town to town, righting wrongs and settling disagreements.”
“Oh.” The girl’s eyes turned inward. “I don’t think you can help us here.”
“Why not?”
“Evil is too powerful in this village.”
“What evil?”
The girl noticed several villagers coming towards them and lowered her head and began pulling away her wagon.
The stranger watched the group approaching. They came forward sternly, like a posse on the march. He knew they were coming to get a better look at him. He had been expecting their arrival. Counting on it.
He brought the bucket over the edge of the wall and set it on the plank-bench, spinning the handle of the overhead beam backwards a turn to put some slack in the rope. He then took the ladle from the hook that had been nailed into one of the beam’s support posts and dipped it into the fresh water, all the while keeping an eye on the approaching villagers.
He brought the ladle to his lips and let the cool water pour soothingly down his throat, then poured the rest of the bucket’s contents into the trough sitting next to the well and placed the bucket on top of the wall and returned the ladle to its hook. He made a gesture toward his horse, and it moved forward to the trough and drank.
The wild-eyed man popped up from behind the well and pointed at the horse and began to jabber, hopping foot to foot.
The stranger pretended to watch the odd performance as the villagers gathered behind him.
“You have a Farggish family here?” he asked over his shoulder when he sensed they were close enough.
They remained silent.
He turned to them. “This man. He’s speaking Farggish.”
“You can understand him?” asked a stout, red-faced woman. “He’s been here three days, and we haven’t understood a word yet.”
“My mother was Farggish,” lied the stranger.
“So, what’s he saying?” asked the woman.
“Let’s talk to him.” The stranger began around the well toward the man. “It’s alright. I’m a friend,” he said, holding up his open hands. “Oompa kaloompa twilling bander kasnatch.”
The man’s face brightened over his long beard. “Yippee yieyay?”
The stranger nodded. “Yippee yieyo.”
The wild-eyed man ran his fingers through his hair and clapped his hands and unleashed a torrent of utterances. The stranger nodded several times as the man spoke.
“What’s he saying?” asked the tall man at the front of the crowd. He had small eyes and a large moustache and, beneath the moustache, thin protruding lips.
The stranger had already picked out the tall man as the one to watch.
“He says that it will rain. Here, tonight.”
“It took him that long to say that?” asked the tall man skeptically.
“He seems really excited about it,” replied the stranger. “Said you needed it.”
“We do!” said the red-faced woman. “Our crops are withering in the fields.”
The stranger turned and began toward his tall horse, leaping easily into the saddle. He leaned over the pommel and nodded toward the man at the well. “He seems to be some kind of prophet. The Farggish have people like that. Call them soothsayers. He should bring good luck to your town as long as he stays.”
“He can tell the future?” asked another member of the crowd, a short, fat man who kept his pants up with a strap running diagonally across his belly and over one shoulder.
“Some of it, yes,” answered the stranger. “Too bad none of you speak Farggish.” He straightened his back and lifted the reins of his horse in his right hand. “Well, if you people got no disputes needing settled, I guess I’ll be moving on.” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat.
He noticed some of the eyes in the crowd shifting left and right. A few villagers glanced toward the tall man and then quickly looked away or lowered their eyes.
“Much obliged for the water,” said the stranger, tugging lightly sideways on the reins.
“Now, hold on,” said the tall man, stepping forward and grabbing the horse’s bridle. “You say this man here, he’s a soothsayer?”
“That’s right.”
“And you can understand him?”
“I can.”
“Well now, I think you should come down off your fine horse and stay the night. Come morning, we’ll see if this crazy man’s prediction comes true—or if this is all just a bunch of prong manure.”
The stranger glanced at the wild-eyed man. He was trying to catch a fly buzzing around him. Whether the fly was real or imaginary, the stranger could not tell.
“And if it doesn’t rain?” the stranger asked.
Below his moustache, the man’s lips protruded into a smile. “Well now, around here… we stone false prophets.”
“I see.” The stranger looked down at his horse. “Bounder, what do you think about that?”
The horse whinnied and shook its long head vigorously, knocking the tall man’s hand away from its bridle.
The stranger patted his horse’s neck and stared hard into the tall man’s small eyes. “Bounder wonders if there might be a barn the two of us could stay in overnight. Be nice to have a roof over our heads when those rains come.”
The tall man rubbed his hand, the bridle having scraped it roughly. “You’ll stay in my barn for the night.”
“Very hospitable of you,” said the stranger, flicking the brim of his hat with a finger.
“We’ll see,” grumbled the tall man, abruptly walking away from the group.
“What’s your name, mister?” asked the red-faced woman.
“You can call me, Jet. Justice Jet.”
*****
Sometime past midnight, the village received its first rain in many weeks.
The rain awakened the red-faced woman, and she went outside her small house and spread her arms and spun round and round, grinning up at the starless sky.
*****
A thin, red band of light was beginning to glow at the horizon when Jet crossed over the wet ground and walked into the copse of trees growing atop a small knoll just outside the village.
Leaning against a tree in the middle of the copse, arms crossed, was the long-bearded man from the well.
“Morning, Jet,” he said.
“Good performance yesterday, Mar,” returned Jet. “I wish I could have applauded.”
“You think so? I was afraid maybe I wasn’t exuding enough crazy.”
“Oh, I think it was quite enough,” said Jet. “I was more worried that the rain I left behind yesterday might be slow in arriving.”
“A little worried? You did hear what Mister Welcoming Committee said, right? We stone false prophets in these here parts.“
“Well, it all worked out. That’s what matters.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Mar. “You weren’t the one risking a stoning. Oh, and speaking of things working out, I saw how you timed your entrance yesterday.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just happened to sidle into town when the village’s prettiest girl was drawing water.”
“I was thirsty.”
“Obviously. But what for?”
“Can we stick to the business at hand? You need to be back on your mark by the time the village is stirring.” Jet retrieved a packet of papers from inside his shirt and unfolded it. “We need to talk about the towers.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Mar. “But first we need to talk about the script.”
“The script?”
“Yeah. Can’t you invent something a little more exciting than rain for me to predict? My character is supposed to be a great prophet of his people. I should be predicting plagues of locusts or rivers of blood or something.”
“We have to work with what we got.”
“What about the sun going dark? That always impresses the salt out of people.”
“There’s no solar eclipse in these parts for twenty years,” responded Jet, not looking up from the papers he was thumbing through.
“What about an eclipse of the moon, then? It’d give the performance some real production value.”
Mar felt Jet’s eyes drilling through him.
“What?” he said.
“You’re doing that thing again,” said Jet.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you get too wrapped up in the role you’re playing.”
“It’s called acting, my friend. If you want me to be convincing, I have to inhabit the role. I have to feel it.”
“Can we be serious for a moment, Mar?”
“I am being serious.”
“This job is important to me. I’m not getting any younger. I have to start thinking about retirement. I need you to focus.”
“I’m focused, I’m focused! Geesh.”
“Good. See those two towers there?”
Mar peered in the direction Jet was indicating and saw two squat, six-sided towers on a short hill. He did not like the look of the sizeable population of vultures circling over them.
“Yeah?”
“Those are the Towers Of Death I told you about. That’s where the village lays its dead to rest.”
“Why don’t they just bury them?”
“What?”
“Why don’t they just bury their dead? Or burn them? Like everybody else.”
“They don’t bury their dead because the ground covers itself daily in urine and fecal matter and all sorts of dead, decaying things. It’s too unclean.”
“Now you tell me. I’ve been sleeping on the ground the last four nights.”
“And they don’t burn the bodies because they’re Fire Worshippers. Fire is too holy to be desecrated by corpses.”
“So, a grave’s not good enough, and a fire’s too good. Does leave them in a bit of quandary concerning the dead, don’t it?”
“They lay the bodies in those two, roofless towers and let the carrion birds pick the skeletons clean.”
“Interesting solution,” said Mar. “Macabre, but interesting.”
Jet glanced left and right. All would be lost if they were seen together.
“Listen,” he said, “these towers are guarded day and night by Holy Custodians. Holy Custodians are the only living people allowed inside the Towers Of Death. Anyone else caught entering a tower is executed immediately.”
“I’m afraid to ask, but… what’s that got to do with our plan to find the jewel?”
“Did you not understand even the basics of what I told you at the tavern?”
“I was drunk at the tavern!” said Mar. “Besides, I’m not all that excited about this job.”
“What’s not to be excited about making one thousand tops?”
“If we get the jewel for Count Rothko, that means he gets to marry Princess Shayla.”
“So?”
“Princess Shayla seems like a nice lady.”
“She is.”
“But Count Rothko’s a twice-used corncob! We’d be condemning her to a miserable marriage.”
“That’s… that’s not our problem.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” said Mar sullenly.
Jet stared toward the horizon. The sun was almost up. He folded his papers and put them back inside his shirt. “We should get back to the village. You need to be on stage by sun-up. I’ll fill you in on the rest later.”
“Fine. But aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
Mar pantomimed eating with a spoon.
“Oh! Yes. Sorry.” Jet pulled a loosely wrapped package from his pocket and handed it over. “Here you go.”
Mar tore through the wrapping and began devouring its contents.
“Why is your side of the con always so plush?” he asked around a mouthful of cheese. “Talking to pretty girls, eating dinner with the locals, getting a roof over your head.”
“I’m the brains, you’re the talent,” replied Jet, as if that answered the question.
“Meanwhile, I’m left starving and sleeping out in the rain. On nasty ground!”
“If you’re already so envious, then I probably shouldn’t tell you about the wife coming out to the barn in the rainstorm last night to make sure I was warm and comfortable.”
Mar held a roll toward Jet as if he were brandishing a knife. “Keep it to yourself! I don’t want to hear about it!”
Smiling, Jet turned and began down the knoll.
Mar swallowed a piece of dry bread. “What about a comet prediction? Just a little one? …Jet?”
*****
Later that morning, Jet announced to the villagers that he would be staying in the village a few more days to investigate an anonymous complaint he had received in the night.
In the afternoon, he pretended to be coincidentally strolling past the well as Mar was jabbering incomprehensibly to a group of onlookers.
“What’s he saying, Justice Jet?” asked an adolescent boy with an oily face and even oilier hair.
Jet listened for a moment to Mar’s ramblings.
“He says there will be soldiers on the horizon. Within the next few days.”
This frightened some of the villagers, although others appeared to give little credence to the crazy man’s utterances.
Two days later, a boy in the lookout tower on top of the Community Building saw soldiers straggling past the village near the horizon. Half the village stopped what they were doing to watch them pass, relieved to see none of them veering toward the village.
News of the soothsayer’s second successful prediction spread like wildfire among the villagers. They did not know that Jet had learned, before entering the village, that a truce had been signed in the war in nearby Etredria and the soldiers would be making their way back home.
The next afternoon, Jet claimed Mar had declared that the well’s water would turn dark and brackish for a day. This third prognostication came true soon after Jet surreptitiously dumped the appropriate amount of slow-dissolving blacksalt into the well.
After the black water prediction, Mar began to be treated differently. A fine chair was brought out for him to sit on. A canopy was placed over it for shade. People walking by began to lower their heads reverently as they passed. Twice a day he was brought warm plates of food.
One afternoon, while Jet was sitting on a bench in front of the Community Building pondering Mar’s next prediction, the sun came out brightly from behind a cloud, and he pulled his wide-brimmed hat down over his eyes.
This is a long con, he thought behind closed eyes, the longest we’ve run in a while. But we must be patient, wait for a few more prophecies to come true, get the people’s full faith. Then we can lay the big one on them. The one that will get us past the Holy Custodians and inside the Towers Of Death.
As he sat there, his head drifting back, his thoughts began to wander along the border between memory and dream…
“So, Sir Jet, they tell me you’re good at doing jobs best done in the shadows,” said Rothko, flicking his cape aside so as not to sit on it as he leaned back against his large, wooden desk.
Rothko was several years older than Jet. He had a narrow face, partially covered by a thin moustache and short chinbeard. His cunning, gray eyes flicked back and forth.
“They say a lot of things,” responded Jet. “Some of it true.”
“I assume you’ve heard about the king’s announcement concerning his daughter.”
“Yes. Whoever locates the royal scepter’s missing jewel and brings it back to the king will receive Princess Shayla’s hand in marriage.”
Rothko nodded slowly and fixed his gray eyes on Jet. “I want to hire you to find the jewel for me.”
Jet chuckled. “No offense, Count Rothko, but that’s a fool’s errand. The scepter jewel has been missing for a hundred years. No one’s actually going to find it.”
“Oh, I’m inclined to agree with you. But I’ll be using you as a sort of insurance policy. I want to make certain that if anyone does actually find the jewel—it’s me.”
“I don’t usually take on lost causes,” lied Jet, whose past was littered with lost causes.
“Not even for the possible reward of one thousand horntops?”
Jet whistled. “One thousand tops! That’s the equivalent of five hundred head of prong.”
“Small price to pay for a kingdom.”
“I’ll start tomorrow, Count Rothko.”
“Start tonight.”
“I guess I’ll start tonight,” said Jet. He moved to leave, hesitated, then turned around and added, “You know, it’s customary to provide a little retainer at the start of a job this big. A little, good faith offering.”
Rothko sighed, leaned up from his perch on the edge of his desk, and straightened his cape. “What is it that you want, Sir Jet?”
“The loan of a fine horse would do nicely.”
“Justice?”
Jet became vaguely aware of a feminine voice.
“Justice Jet!”
Jet threw back his hat and sat up. A dark figure loomed over him. When the figure shifted out of the sun, he saw that it was a middle-aged woman dressed in white and red garments so impractical in design that they could only be religious in nature.
“Yes?” he said, rubbing the crick in his neck.
“Do you know who I am?”
Jet glanced toward the village’s only stone building. “I suppose you’re from the Fire Temple.”
“That’s right. I’m the High Priestess.”
Jet decided he should probably stand and raised himself sleepily, stifling a yawn.
“I’ve been told that you’re something called a Justice.”
“Yes,” said Jet. The tone of her voice made him wonder if she doubted the veracity of his story.
“And you right wrongs in the places you pass through?”
“I try to.”
“Then you must right a wrong that has been done to one of my girls.”
“What wrong?”
“Zanner, the man whose barn you’ve been staying in. He assaulted one of my acolytes. Seriously assaulted. Because of what he did to her, she can no longer become a priestess. She can only do manual labor at the temple and will never be allowed to set foot beyond its entrance.”
“Manual labor?” Jet glanced toward the well and thought of the young woman he had met there his first day in the village. “You mean like… drawing water from the well?”
“Precisely like that.”
“Even though what happened was against her will?”
“Even though.”
“You can’t make an exception?” asked Jet. He switched to his most authoritative tone. “It’s been my experience that justice is sometimes best served by bending the rules a little.”
“The temple’s rules concerning Fire Virgins are not my rules to bend, Justice Jet.”
“Well… what exactly would make you feel that justice has been served in a case like this? Nothing can undo what’s been done.”
“If something were to happen to Zanner in retribution for what he did… that would send a strong signal to any other men in the village who may also be entertaining evil thoughts. They would know my girls are protected.”
Jet looked down at the hard dirt of the street and wished he had come up with a different backstory for himself for this job.
“It won’t be easy,” continued the Priestess. “Zanner is a powerful man here. They’re all too afraid of him to lift a finger against him. But you… You could do what must be done and then move on.”
“Give me some time, High Priestess,” said Jet. “Let me do some investigating. All I’ve heard so far is your version of events.”
“As you wish. But bear in mind… if you can’t give this girl justice, then I would naturally start to wonder just how legitimate of a Justice you are.”
Jet straightened himself to his full height. “Are you questioning my credentials as a king’s Justice?”
“I am reminding you that you have entered a village with a simple, but strictly enforced, moral code. We do not look kindly upon strangers entering our village under false pretenses.”
*****
“Mar!” exclaimed Jet that evening as he ran into the copse of trees atop the knoll. “We’ve got to speed up the timetable.”
“What? Why? I’m just beginning to understand my character’s motivations.”
“The Fire Temple’s High Priestess. She doesn’t believe I’m a Justice. She’s going to expose me if I don’t do what she wants.”
“Just do what she wants then. It’s not like it’d be the first time you’ve serviced a woman to get a job done.”
“No, it’s not like that. I’m pretty sure she wants me to kill the man whose barn I’m staying in.”
“Kill him? Why?”
“He abused a girl preparing to become a Fire Virgin at the temple. Now she can never be one.”
“That low-bellied sand-slider!” Mar slammed a fist into his palm. “I never liked the look of that tall strip of mustachioed leather. Shall we dispatch him now or after dinner?”
“He’s a village leader, Mar. We can’t just kill him.”
“But you’re a Justice.”
“But I’m not a Justice!”
“Who needs to be a Justice with pond scum like that? I’ll do it myself after we’re done with the job. It’ll be my encore performance.”
“I think we should just do the big prophecy and get out of here. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Do you think we’ve built up enough credibility?”
“It’ll have to do. The longer we stick around, the more we push our luck.”
*****
“Bippity boppoty booga booga!” shouted Mar the next day beside the village well.
Jet turned to the onlookers. “He says he has a prediction concerning the Towers Of Death!”
The crowd gasped.
“Zippadee doo dacalli fraja lishia!” said Mar.
“He says the gods are unhappy with how the Fire Virgins have been treated recently,” translated Jet.
Jet watched the villagers closely. Several sucked in a breath or lowered their gaze.
They know, he thought. They know what Zanner did to the temple girl. But they’re too afraid to do anything about it.
“What’s that have to do with the Towers Of Death?” asked the red-faced woman.
Jet turned to Mar. “Expee alla?”
“Doshus! Doshus!” returned Mar with great excitement, hopping up and down and pointing toward the towers. “Shanahnah doowop!”
Jet again faced the crowd. “He says that an invisible death cloud is going to surround the towers tomorrow and that all those who value their lives must stay away.”
“Invisible death cloud?” someone repeated.
“Even the Holy Custodians?” asked the man with the single suspender.
“Doh ray me fah!” said Mar. “So la tee doh!”
“Especially the Holy Custodians,” said Jet. “Everyone must stay away.”
“Dagnabbita criekeefrickin!” said Mar.
“Alright, powerful soothsayer, I think we get it,” Jet said under his breath.
“What did he say?” asked the red-faced woman.
“What did the Great Prophet say?” demanded the suspendered man.
“He, uhm, just wanted to reiterate,” began Jet, “that everyone should stay away from the Towers Of Death tomorrow. That no one should go anywhere near the invisible poisonous cloud which will be there. Tomorrow. Especially in the morning.”
Mar then collapsed onto his new throne and appeared to lose consciousness, except for an instant when he shooed a fly away from his nose.
While the villagers were arguing over the implications of the prophecy, Jet began sneaking away. He had preparations to attend to.
As soon as he emerged from the crowd, he saw the High Priestess glowering at him. He averted his eyes and headed toward his horse.
*****
At first light the next day, Jet and Mar met at the Towers Of Death.
“Are the Holy Custodians gone?” asked Mar, making his way through the thick fog and tripping slightly on a fallen branch as he searched the gray skies for the day’s first vultures.
“Yes. It’s just us. Listen… we have to hurry. Even in a place as religious as this, someone will start having doubts or getting curious and come check things out.”
“I still don’t understand why you think the jewel is inside one of the death towers,” said Mar.
“I’ll explain on the way. Here, take your torch.”
Mar examined the thin, crooked stick with brambles wrapped around one end. “This is a torch?”
“It’s the best I could do,” said Jet as they began toward the towers. “Are you focused?”
“I’m focused.”
“Alright then. Here’s the story… The theft of the scepter jewel is one of the most famous burglaries in the history of the kingdom, right?”
“Right.”
“Despite the theft having occurred a hundred years ago, many details of the crime have been preserved in the stories about it passed down through the generations.”
“That’s true,” said Mar. “Everybody knows those stories. Ghostcat, the master thief, robbing from the oppressors to give to the oppressed—taking no small cut for himself.”
“Exactly. According to the stories my grandfather told me, just before Ghostcat died, he declared that he would not leave the scepter jewel behind after his death. He claimed that he would be taking it with him.”
“Into the afterlife? I don’t think so.”
“I think he meant it literally,” said Jet.
“What do you mean, literally? Like to the grave with him?”
“I think Ghostcat swallowed the jewel on his deathbed.”
“Huh. For a guy that was supposed to be spiritually enlightened, that was pretty selfish thing to do.”
They walked the last few steps to the base of the towers in silence, then Jet dropped to a knee and lay his torch on the ground and began striking two pieces of flint over it. After several strikes, he succeeded in producing enough of a spark to create a tiny flame on the torch. He blew on it lightly, and it began to spread.
He stood and pocketed the two, flat rocks. “In Grandfather’s stories, Ghostcat was said to have been born in a fire-worshipping village, one located in this part of the kingdom.”
“You think he was born here?” asked Mar.
“I think he was born here and that he came back here to retire. I think this is where he died.”
“But if he died here…”
“That means his body was placed inside one of these towers,” finished Jet.
“And if he really did swallow the jewel just before he died…”
“Then the jewel is inside with his skeleton.” Jet held his torch against Mar’s long enough for it to also catch fire.
“But there’s got to be thousands of skeletons in there,” said Mar.
“It doesn’t matter. I know the year Ghostcat died, at least according to legend.”
“So?”
“Hold my torch a moment,” said Jet. He pulled out the folded papers he kept inside his shirt and leafed through them until he came to a drawing. “Look… According to this schematic of the inside of the towers, there are a series of ramps and terraces spiraling down from the open roof along the six walls. The Holy Custodians start at the top of these terraces and lay out the bodies of the deceased, working their way down, death by death, year by year.”
“Fine. But how’s that help us find the jewel?”
“We know that Ghostcat died fifty years ago.”
“Yeah?”
“Look…” Jet fumbled through his papers and pulled out another sheet, this one covered in columns of numbers. “According to this actuary chart, a village this size—in this climate, with this type of civilization—should experience about ten deaths a year.”
“So?”
“So… according to this plaque,” began Jet, pointing to a sign placed before the doorway of the tower on the left, “this tower was closed almost exactly ten years ago, at which point the village began using the other tower.”
“So?”
“That means that only forty years’ worth of corpses were laid in Ghostcat’s tower after he died. If the actuary data is correct, then about ten people a year died during those forty years. That makes it about four hundred bodies placed on the terraces beneath Ghostcat. That means all we have to do is work our way up the ramps through four hundred skeletons and then start looking for the jewel.”
“Only four hundred, eh?” said Mar weakly, glancing at the towers. Several vultures were beginning to circle the tower on the right. “Uhm, Jet?”
“Yeah?” said Jet, tucking his papers back into his shirt.
“What if the villagers see that the vultures aren’t dying from the invisible poisonous cloud?”
“Oh,” said Jet, frowning up at the birds. “Then, we better get moving.”
Jet easily picked the simple lock on the tower’s door and took back his torch, and he and Mar entered the eerily silent tower and began up the ramps between the terraces, Jet taking one side of the tower and Mar the other. They counted aloud the skeletons as they stepped over each one, keeping a running total between them. Their voices carried easily over the large space.
After passing over almost exactly four hundred remains, Jet spied the gleam of the gem a little further up on his side of the tower.
“Mar! I see it! Get the horses. I’ll meet you outside. Hurry!”
As Mar began back down the tower, Jet quickly worked his way to the jewel. Once there, he squeezed a hand under the rib cage covering it and seized it. It felt cool and smooth in his hand, and even in the dim light of the torch and the sparse morning light coming through the roofless tower, it sparkled beautifully.
His eyes moved to the skeleton at his feet.
“Thank you, Ghostcat,” he said softly. “I owe you one.”
He turned to begin down the ramp.
He thought he heard a whisper behind him.
He spun around, almost falling off the edge of the terrace toward the center of the tower far below.
“Must have been the wind,” he told himself.
The skeleton of Ghostcat shifted.
“I… I must have touched the skeleton when I grabbed the jewel,” he said. “Sorry, Ghostcat. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Ghostcat’s skull had shifted so that its two, hollow sockets stared straight at Jet.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Jet, backing away. “Stop it. Who am I hurting by stealing something from a dead man?” He continued retreating.”You stole it to begin with!” His boot landed on another skeleton’s finger bone, crushing it. “Sorry!” he said, glancing down.
He looked again to Ghostcat’s skull. It’s eyeless eyes seemed to be following him.
“What? Just because you used your thefts to help people doesn’t mean I have to. Sure, I know. Rothko’s a jerk. But I’ve worked for lots of jerks. We’ve all got our skeletons… No offense.”
He spun around, tucking the jewel securely into the pocket in his belt, and began toward the door below, stepping as swiftly over the skeletons as he could without crushing them or tripping over them.
A glimmer below caught his eye. It was moving closer.
A spirit?
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He wasn’t thinking straight. “Keep it together,” he told himself.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the glimmer was a sword. And holding the sword was…
“Zanner?”
“You and that false prophet you’ve been working with,” began the tall man, “you tried to turn the village against me with that talk about the Fire Virgins being mistreated.”
“Actually, Zanner, I think most of the village is already against you. They’re just too afraid to show it.”
“They’ll get over it,” snarled Zanner, kicking skeletons out of his way as he climbed up the terraces.
Jet began moving back up the ramp. “It’s lucky I showed up when I did,” he said. “This village stands in need of a Justice.”
“You and I both know that there are no such things as Justices,” growled Zanner.
Jet stepped carefully over Ghostcat’s bones. “No? Well, there should be.”
More bones tumbled over the edge of the terraces and crashed on the tower floor below as Zanner closed the distance between Jet and himself.
“At least I don’t have to worry about how to dispose of your body,” said Zanner. “You can join the rest of the skeletons here.”
Jet looked toward the roofless top of the tower. There was enough light to see by now. He threw his torch over the edge of the terrace, his sword drawn and ready before it hit the floor. “Let me pass, Zanner. No one has to die today.”
“Oh, you’re wrong, Jet—if that is your real name. Someone does have to die today. You’ve violated one of our holiest sites.”
“Oh, that!” said Jet, taking another few steps up the ramp. “I can explain.”
“I saw you talking to the High Priestess,” said Zanner. “She’s always had it out for me. You shouldn’t have gone sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
Zanner flung himself at Jet, his long legs covering the space between them so swiftly that Jet barely had time to block the first blow.
“I know you assaulted one of the temple acolytes, Zanner,” grunted Jet between sword clashes.
“Vahna? That girl was only joining the temple to get out of paying the money she owed me. I told her she had to pay up one way or the other. When she couldn’t come up with the coin, I generously agreed to accept payment via another method.”
A particularly hard blow nearly knocked the sword from Jet’s hands. He knew that, if his sword was not of such high quality, it would have broken beneath the force of Zanner’s heavier weapon.
“You won’t be trespassing much longer,” said Zanner. “Soon you’ll be quite at home here.”
They had arrived at the top of the ramp, so near the open roof that Jet could see the vultures circling the other tower.
Zanner lunged forward. The finger bones of the last skeleton on the ramp caught around his ankle, and he pitched forward, falling over the final terrace’s edge and plummeting to his death.
Jet paused to catch his breath and resheathe his sword.
A tiny silhouette appeared in the doorway far below.
“Jet? What’s taking you so long?” called Mar, his words echoing through the tower.
*****
The High Priestess came down to the entrance of the Fire Temple, a piece of paper in her hand. She saw Jet riding out of town on his tall, black stallion.
She turned to the temple assistant with the red ribbon in her hair standing just outside the doorway. “Where is Justice Jet off to in such a hurry, Vahna?”
Vahna finished placing the last empty jar into her wagon and leaned up. “He’s moving on, High Priestess. Said his work here is done.”
“Hmf!” scowled the Priestess. “As I suspected. Just another pretender.”
“He did help save the Holy Custodians from the invisible death cloud this morning.”
“Doubtfully,” said the Priestess. Her eyes searched the area around the well. “Where’s the soothsayer who predicted that supposed cloud?”
“No one’s seen him yet today.”
“How coincidental.” The Priestess held up the paper in her hand. “I think I shall add his description to my letter.”
“Letter, High Priestess?”
“Yes. I’m writing to the king’s counselors about that charlatan Justice. I don’t think either of those men are who they pretend to be.”
“Yes ma’am. But before you do that…”
“Yes?”
“You should walk down to the Community Building.”
Vahna gripped the handle of her wagon and began toward the well.
Curious, the High Priestess left the shadows of the temple’s entrance and walked toward the Community Building. A crowd had gathered there.
Nudging her way forward, she found Zanner’s corpse hanging by the neck from a rope. Placed below him was a sign hand-painted with a single word.
“Justice.”
The High Priestess tore up her letter.
*****
Jet rode Bounder up the road leading to the palace, the scepter jewel in his bag. Beside him, on a pale horse, rode Mar, wearing a nice, clean set of clothes, with his hair cut and combed and his long beard gone.
“You’re sure this is what you want to do?” he asked Jet.
“No.”
“We should celebrate when you’re done. I’ll trot on down to the tavern and pick us out a good table.”
Jet nodded, and Mar turned his horse toward town.
*****
“Princess Shayla,” Jet was saying later in the princess’s receiving room, “the rumor on the street is that you don’t want to marry your foremost suitor.”
“Count Rothko? No, I don’t. I don’t want to marry anyone, to tell the truth. Not right now. Someday, perhaps. But I most especially do not wish to marry that scoundrel, Rothko.”
“Is it true that if one of your suitors manages to bring back the missing scepter jewel that the king will force you to marry him?”
“Yes,” Shayla sighed. “That is true.”
Jet pulled out the jewel. “Then, I suggest you hide it very well, princess. At least until the day you’re ready for marriage.”
Shayla reached slowly for the sparkling green jewel. “Is it—is it really…?”
“It is.”
“How did you find it?”
“Long story. Involves a skeleton and a corncob.”
Shayla took the jewel and quickly secreted inside her bodice. “You’ve saved my life, Sir Jet! How can I ever repay you?”
“Well, I have grown rather fond of the horse I’m currently borrowing from Count Rothko.”
“Say no more. It is yours. I’ll speak to Rothko. He’s wooing me now and will give me anything I ask of him.”
“Thank you, your grace.”
“But that is not all I will grant you, Sir Jet. When I am queen, I will bestow upon you a high title—and the appropriate amount of land to go with it. I will raise you from a Sword to a Cape Noble.”
Jet had known a lot of Cape Nobles in his time. He rarely liked them.
“You can keep the cape, princess,” he said. “But the land… Well, I have always wanted to retire and become a gentleman farmer.”
“Then, you will, Sir Jet. You most certainly will.”
Jet knew what the promises of royalty were worth. Still, the princess seemed to mean it at the moment.
“That is most gracious of you, princess.”
Jet took his leave from Shayla and began toward the tavern to meet Mar. Perhaps he really would get the estate he had always dreamed of. If only he could keep away from the wrong end of the sword long enough to receive it.
©September 2023, Zephyr Dorsey
Zephyr Dorsey is the author of the novel Splendide Mendax and other books. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.