Part Three: Towering Problems

3.1 Four-Star Stable

When Harris awoke in the stables, he was startled to find himself lying on a stone floor, wrapped in his own coat. It had not all been a dream; after all, they had crossed through an archway into another land.

He looked across the stable and saw that the pile of straw where Victor Kane had spent the night was empty. His employer was never a man for sleeping, judging by the early morning calls Harris received at ridiculous hours, questions, instructions, and mainly complaints that could easily have waited until daylight.

He saw that Katrina Kane was still asleep in her corner of the stable, where she had remained all night, as far away from her husband as possible.

Harris stood, stretched, and immediately regretted it. Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, he dusted himself down as best he could without a mirror and stepped into the sunlight.

Only to find that Victor Kane was already standing in the courtyard of the inn, lecturing the barman.

“I could make this the best inn. All my hotels have made millions of dollars. Millions.”

The barman stared at him with the expression of a man who regretted opening his business that morning.

The barman wore a loose linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a well-worn apron tied around his waist. He had the solid build of a man accustomed to lifting barrels and the resigned expression of someone currently regretting every decision that had led to Victor Kane standing in front of him.

Victor pointed dramatically at the inn sign hanging over the road. The inn sign hung from its iron bracket above the courtyard entrance. It was a plain wooden board, worn smooth with age. Painted in the centre was the tower, the same tower that stood on the hill above the village, looking down over everything.

“The sign? I’d have made it huge, in massive bright lights. Nobody could miss it. It’s all about promotion, promotion, promotion.”

The barman spent most of the conversation wiping down a table in the courtyard. Harris noticed he had been wiping the same table for several minutes.

“This place has great potential,” Kane continued.

“It’s an inn,” said the barman.

“Exactly,” Kane replied. “I’ve built hotels all over the world.”

“What is a hotel?” asked the barman.

Victor paused.

The barman continued looking at him.

“You know. A hotel.”

“No.”

Victor glanced at Harris.

“Harris.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Explain hotels.”

Harris considered this.

“An inn, but larger.”

The barman nodded.

“Ah.”

Victor appeared triumphant.

“There, you see? You already understand.”

 The barman blinked once, then resumed wiping the same table without replying.

Victor gestured towards the sea.

“This could be a four-star establishment.”

The barman frowned.

Victor Kane was still wearing yesterday’s white golf clothing and looked the worse for wear, as though he had spent the night arguing with the world and lost.

“And another thing. Uniforms. You need staff uniforms. Uniforms are everything. Sharp uniforms and suddenly the place will look like a billion dollars…”

The barman looked over at Harris as he approached, with an expression that suggested he needed rescuing.

Harris took the barman by the arm and led him away from Victor Kane.

“I need to ask you some questions.”

Behind them, the inn door opened quietly.

Katrina Kane emerged wearing the same dark glasses despite the weak morning light. She said nothing as she joined them, remaining several paces behind her husband.

 3.2 Dressed Like a Clown

The courtyard of the inn faded behind them as Harris’s attention narrowed. Above them, the stone tower loomed over the village. Harris judged the tower to be administrative. It lacked arrow slits; nothing about it suggested defence.

Harris noticed that Katrina never once looked at the tower as they walked towards it.

From his conversations with the barman, half joking, half warning, Harris had already begun to understand that everything in Ainran revolved around the tower, or, as the barman called it, the Goblin Tower. So, he guided Kane up the hill towards it.

Looking back towards the inn, Harris noticed a single figure hurrying after them.

The man reached the summit of the hill not long after they did, clearly out of breath. He was tall and painfully neat, dressed in a charcoal frock coat despite the warmth of the morning. A matching waistcoat sat beneath it, with knee breeches and white stockings that looked entirely out of place to the three New York residents.

Beneath one arm, he carried a dark leather clipboard.

Everything about him appeared measured and official.

He approached Victor Kane with rehearsed professionalism. Kane looked him up and down as though he were dressed like a clown. To Katrina’s surprise, however, her husband said nothing.

“Mr Johnson?” the man asked.

Kane looked at him suspiciously.

“No. I’m Kane. Victor Kane.”

The man blinked and consulted his clipboard.

For a moment, Harris thought he looked genuinely alarmed.

The guide extended his hand.

Kane recoiled slightly.

“I don’t shake hands.”

There was a pause as the guide stood there with his hand extended.

His eyes flicked down to his clipboard and back up again, as though unsure what to do. After all, this was not procedure, and procedure mattered.

Before anyone could respond, Kane added lazily,

“Harris will do it. He’s my designated contact point.”

Harris stepped forward immediately and shook the guide’s hand in a manner that suggested this had always been the plan.

“Nice to meet you,” Harris said.

No warmth. No enthusiasm. Merely administration.

Katrina stood behind her husband and watched the guide from behind her dark glasses. Something about the tower felt familiar, but she could not yet place it.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ambrose Wren, pronounced ‘When’. Acting Royal Guide to the Tower, Deputy Keeper of Access and Privileges, Assistant Registrar of Claimants to the Realm, and Temporary Custodian of Transitional Governance under the Act of Continuity.”

Kane looked at Harris.

“Typical Europeans and their long meaningless titles…”

“Sir,” Harris said, “I’m pretty sure we were not in Europe.”

Kane ignored him.

“What does that long title actually mean?” Kane demanded.

“I explain things,” Wren said.

“No, I mean, what does it mean for me?”

Wren considered this.

“I will explain things to you.”

Kane pointed at the tower.

“I paid millions for this. Open it.”

“It does not work like that,” Wren said.

“It absolutely works that way.”

“I am afraid it does not.”

Wren opened his clipboard and flicked through several pages. Then he looked up, apologetic.

“There are currently two recognised claimants.”

Silence fell.

“What?” Kane thundered.

“Two.”

“If I am one of them, then who is the other?”

Wren hesitated.

“That is… complicated.”

3.3 Principal Function

Victor Kane was not a man accustomed to hearing the word no. Harris knew that an entire industry of advisers, assistants, consultants, and lawyers existed solely to ensure that bad news never reached him unfiltered.

Over the years, Kane had surrounded himself with people whose principal function was to convert reality into something more acceptable before it reached his desk. As a result, his understanding of reality and reality itself had drifted apart.

Now he stared at Wren as though the man had personally invented disappointment.

“What do you mean, two claimants?”

“There are two recognised claimants,” Wren repeated.

“You already said that.”

“Yes.”

“Who is the other one?”

Wren shifted uncomfortably.

“I think it would be easier if I explained in order.”

“No.”

“The situation is rather complicated.”

“I do not like complicated things.”

“Most people do not.”

“I paid for the Kingdom, and the Tower is in the Kingdom that I own.” He emphasised the word own.

“Yes,” Wren said.

“So, I own the Tower.”

“That is one interpretation of events.”

Kane took a step forward.

“It is the only interpretation of events.”

Wren stepped back cautiously.

“I am required to inform you that the Goblin Tower recognises at least one alternative interpretation.”

For the first time, Katrina smiled.

Something clicked inside her mind. Not an idea, recognition.

The entrance to the Tower was not new. It was the Archway. The same Archway that had brought them to Ainran.

She had seen it before.

She was about to speak when Victor suddenly began walking towards the Tower.

Katrina realised the others were still arguing about ownership. They had not understood that the Tower had already made its decision.

Victor Kane did not stop.

He reached the door and pushed.

“I own this.”

There was a pause.

The Tower responded.

Not in voice, but in judgement.

ACCESS DENIED.

The words did not echo. They arrived fully formed in the air.

Victor Kane was thrown backwards into a nearby bush.

Silence followed.

Wren hurried forward and knelt beside him.

“Sir, I tried to tell you, “He said quietly. “Only the Tower itself can grant access.”

Kane struggled upright, leaves tangled in his collar.

“How do I get access?”

“There is one stipulation,” Wren said.

Kane narrowed his eyes.

“To gain access to the Tower,” Wren said, “you must petition God.”