Burning Tower by Larry Niven

teeth. It was hard to talk as the chariot jolted over the rutted road. “Standard group if they didn’t send for more when they heard a caravan was coming.”
    â€œWould they?”
    â€œBeing it’s Feathersnake, probably not,” Chalker shouted.
    Sandry nodded to himself. That made sense. The border post collected taxes, but it was a welcoming committee too, now that there was actually traffic on the old forest road. Before Yangin-Atep went mythical, the forest fought back against traffic, and the Toronexti who’d held the border station were Lordkin. Lordkin had been no more willing to work at keeping the road open than to work at anything else. There hadn’t been real traffic for generations. But the Toronexti were gone, and Master Peacevoice Waterman had become Bordermaster Waterman and would be learning his duties as he went along. Keep the roads open, keep the streams clean and fresh, store plenty of fodder for the beasts. Serve good meals, dishes they wouldn’t have found out on the Hemp Road. Don’t drive the caravans away—we need the business. Don’t gouge on taxes, make this a safe place to stop, and have lots of kinless ready to do any services needed at reasonable prices. Welcome to Tep’s Town and Lordshills.
    Beyond the tollhouse was a long, narrow road winding north and west through the forest and out to the main north–south trade route. Sandry remembered that Burning Tower called it the Hemp Road. He could still hear her voice. But that wasn’t quite it. The section here was called the Hemp Road, but that was part of a greater road stretching far to the north and south, farther than Tower or any of the Bison clan had ever traveled.
    The road connecting Tep’s Town to the Hemp Road was already known as the Greenway. Between the creepers and the muddy stream crossings nothing traveled fast on the Greenway. Nothing could sneak up on the border post, so there wasn’t any reason to keep a lot of expensive troopers out there. The whole Lordsmen army could come to the tollhouse at need. Otherwise, it was sufficient to have enough troops to keep order, a Younglord messenger, kinless stable hands, and some kinless foresters to keep the road clear of vines.
    It had all made sense when his uncle explained it to him. But nobody expected monsters! Sandry’s whole heart wanted to ride like the wind. But racing ahead would mean getting there with tired horses, and those birds were fast. Sandry took a deep breath and tried to look calm, but he couldn’t get rid of the metallic taste of fear in his throat.
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    They rounded a bend in the road, and there was the border station, a brick two-story building with a rail fence corral and brick-walled courtyard, paved road for a couple of hundred feet on each side of the gate. It looked neat and clean, as it was supposed to, but there were signs of a fight: torn bloody clothing near the main entrance, a green-and-orange heap in the center of the courtyard. Dead bird, Sandry thought. Waterman got one.
    Someone shouted, and a moment later Waterman came to the upper window opening. His head was bandaged and his left arm was in a sling. Bordermaster Waterman was a decade younger than Chalker, but just now he looked older. “Careful, my Lord Sandry,” Waterman shouted. “There’s a whole bunch of them things left!”
    â€œHow many did you kill?”
    â€œOne, sir, and the Feathersnake guards got one.”
    â€œThree left, then,” Sandry said. “Assuming there were a dozen to start.”
    â€œHoo!” Waterman sounded impressed for the first time that Sandry could remember. “You killed seven of them things? Hoo-haw!”
    â€œNot just me,” Sandry said. “The Lordkin got a couple, and I had Fullerman’s troops to help. Where are the monsters now?”
    Waterman shrugged. “They was here a few minutes ago. They smell those horses, they’ll be