Hadrian hadn’t believed the stories. Even as a kid, he hadn’t been the type to accept what couldn’t be seen. His father had told him a great many such things.
“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” the steersman said with an inviting tone, earthy as well-turned soil. He possessed the engraved face of a life spent on water, his hands a pair of driftwood. “Didn’t see much of you last night. Sorta like that other one—the fella up on the bow. Name’s Farlan, by the way.”
“I’m Hadrian.”
“I know. I try to know all the passengers. Well, their names anyway. Don’t want to be too nosy. Some boatmen are. Comes with the territory. Riding the river up and down, all you ever see are the banks. It’s nice to have people to talk to, even if it’s only for the length of the trip. It’s good to meet you, sir. Hope your stay is a fine one. Not like I’m a captain of a ship or nothing, but I like my passengers to be happy with the service.”
Hadrian motioned toward the front of the ship. “And what is his name?”
“Oh, him. He didn’t offer, and I didn’t press. He’s the kind you best leave to himself and hope he does the same in return. Don’t want to be irritating a man like that.”
“And what kind of man is he?”
“A bit obvious, isn’t it, sir?”
“You think he’s the killer?”
“Well, I don’t know either way, but I can’t say I’m not concerned.”
“If you were suspicious, why didn’t you report him to the city guard?”
“I should have—would have if I wasn’t so stressed about setting out. All those crates had put us behind schedule, and I don’t like keeping the postilions and their teams waiting. Patrol came by earlier and searched the ship, but he wasn’t a passenger then. He came aboard just as we were shoving off. I was rushing to get under way and just wasn’t paying attention. After we were on the river, I realized how stupid I had been. I should have just let the postilion wait and made an excuse, like I forgot to get enough oil for the lamps or something. But I didn’t, so now I’ll have to wait until we reach Colnora.”
“What then?”
“I’ll tell the sheriff about the murders and my suspicions about that one. Sheriff Malet’s a good man … smart. He’ll conduct an investigation and get to the truth of the matter. If I were you, I wouldn’t count on getting on your way straight off. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to everyone.”
“Well, I’m not in any hurry. I just hope he’ll have better luck with that guy than I did.” Hadrian glanced once more toward the bow and the solitary man standing there.
They gathered for lunch on the deck, and just as Farlan had predicted, the mist and chill were burned away by a hot afternoon sun. The barge docked at a posthouse, where Farlan secured it by looping a rope around the bollard, and the postilion unhitched his team. A new boy brought over a fresh pair of horses and started attaching their harnesses.
Farlan set out the midday meal. Nothing warm was brought up, but the cold chicken, day-old bread, and fresh apples made for a better meal than the salted pork and sea biscuits Hadrian had become used to on the Eastern Star. The barge wasn’t soft travel, but it was efficient, operating both day and night. The passengers were little more than extra freight filling open space. The trip cost a copper a mile, which may be expensive to a man used to using his feet but was nothing to someone accustomed to a carriage. Pickles had made a good choice; the ride was gentler than the bounce and jiggle of a coach.
“So what is it you do, Sebastian?” Hadrian asked before sitting down with his wooden plate. He wasn’t actually interested, but he wanted to steer the conversation away from any plans for the hooded traveler.
“Are you familiar with Vernes, Hadrian?”
“Me? No. I pretty much came straight from the ship to the barge. Why? Are you famous?”
“In a way. I run the most prestigious jewelry shop in all of Vernes.”
Vivian had resumed the same place from earlier in the day but now balanced a plate on her lap. Her portions were small, the kind of meal a mother might serve to a child. She nodded in agreement. “Sebastian’s is the oldest jewelry store in the city.”
“Are all of you jewelry merchants?” Hadrian asked.
“Samuel is my cousin and Eugene is the son of my sister. They learned the business from me, and I loaned Samuel the money to start his own place.” Sebastian gave a wicked smile. “Customers who are angry with my prices or poor service or who just don’t like the cut of my clothing will stomp out of my shop declaring I’ve just lost an important sale. Out of spite they will walk down the street and pay more for a similar item at Samuel’s shop. They think they’re enacting their revenge, but as I am part owner in both, they still pay me after all.”
“And Eugene?” Hadrian asked.
“That’s why we’re traveling to Colnora, to get him a shop,” Samuel said.
Sebastian added, “It’s time the boy went out on his own.”
“I’m not a boy,” Eugene said.
“Until you’ve paid back the loan, you’re whatever I say you are.”
Eugene scowled, but when he opened his mouth, it was merely to fill it with chicken.
“And you, dear lady?” Hadrian turned to Vivian, who was biting most delicately into a slice of apple. “What puts you here with us?”
The woman’s smile vanished, her gaze fixated on her plate of food.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head but did not speak. Sebastian placed a hand on her shoulder and patted gently.
“Excuse me, please.” She stood and moved to the bow of the barge, left empty because the hooded man was stretching his legs on the towpath.
“I didn’t mean anything,” Hadrian told the rest, feeling terrible.
Sebastian said in a supportive tone, “It’s not your fault. I suspect that lady has been through something terrible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Few women travel unescorted. And did you see how little food she took? She is clearly distressed.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t eat much, and she could be on her way to meet, you know, someone.”
“Perhaps, but I think it’s likely she’s terrified, and the rumors, of course, have us all on edge.”
Vivian had abandoned her plate and sat on one of the crates staring at the river. Raising a hand, she wiped away tears.
Hadrian sighed. He had always been a bit awkward around women and often found himself saying the wrong things. He wanted to go to her and lend comfort, but he was sure to just make matters worse. Hadrian didn’t think he could feel lonelier than he already did, but then again, he hadn’t been correct about a lot of things lately.
After the meal they set off again. Farlan went below to sleep as the relief steersman took his shift. Hadrian failed to catch his name. He was younger and, despite his beard and brooding eyebrows, appeared baby-faced in contrast to Farlan. Taking his post without saying a word, he lacked the older steersman’s friendliness.
Vivian vanished into her cabin as soon as they set out. Perhaps she worried the hooded man would resume his station at the bow. But the front of the riverboat remained vacant.
Hadrian spent the day watching the landscape slip by and sharpening his short sword. Maintaining his weapons was as much a habit for him as biting nails might be for someone else. Doing so helped him think, relax, and work out troubles. And he had a need for all three.
Vivian reappeared shortly after sunset. She didn’t settle in with the merchants this time. Finding the bow empty, she returned there and sat near the swaying light of the lantern as the stars came out. The loss of the sun invited back the autumn chill, and after seeing her shiver, Hadrian walked to the bow.
“Here,” he said, pulling off his cloak and draping it over her shoulders. “It’s not much, but it ought to help a little.”
“Thank you.”
“I should have given it to you earlier. I’m an idiot. I’d like to apologize.”
Vivian looked up, surprised. “For not lending me your cloak?”
“For upsetting you earlier.”
She appeared puzzled, then realization dawned. “Has that been bothering you all this time?” She touched his hand. “Sit, won’t you?”
“Are you sure? I haven’t been particularly courteous.”
“Were I to guess, I would think you a gentleman—a knight in disguise.”
Hadrian chuckled. “Everyone wants me to be a knight.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. I’m not a knight. I’m just not experienced speaking in refined company.”
“Is that how you see me?”
“Compared to the folks I’m used to? Yes.”
Vivian looked down for a moment. “I’m not cultured or sophisticated. I was born poor. Any change in status came through marriage, but now…”
She let the statement hang for a moment while she stared at the deck.
“What is it?” Hadrian asked.
“The reason I’m here … the reason I’m alone … is that my husband is dead. He was killed two days ago, one of those murdered in Vernes. I was afraid for my life and I … and I … fled. Now I think I made a terrible mistake.”
“Why would anyone want to kill you or your husband?”
“Daniel was a wealthy man, and a rich man has many enemies. Our home was ransacked. Even the tapestries were pulled down. I was so terrified that I ran with nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn’t even take a cloak. I traded my wedding ring for fare, but I fear I brought my troubles with me. I don’t think the killer found whatever he was looking for, and he has followed me on board to obtain it.”
“What do you think he’s after?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have it, but he won’t believe me—won’t even ask. He’ll just kill me like he did my husband, then ransack my cabin.”
She made a slight motion with her head, and Hadrian noticed Vivian was looking over his shoulder. He turned and saw that the hooded man was also back on deck, standing at the rail near the stern. Hadrian prided himself on never judging a person by appearance, but he couldn’t deny the malevolence wrapping that man. His silence and the dark hood, which he hadn’t lowered since they had set out, were disconcerting. He was unsociable and hostile.
If Hadrian believed in such things, he might suspect him to be an evil spirit, a phantom, or a dark warlock of some sort. This, he was certain, was how such stories started. After the passengers disembarked in Colnora, they would tell their tales of the mysterious, faceless man, and the story would grow with each recitation. Before long, people would gather around hearths to hear about how Death himself haunted the Bernum River, wrapped in a dark hooded cloak.
“I don’t know what I will do when we reach Colnora.”
“Do you have relatives there? Do you know anyone who can help?”
She shook her head and Hadrian thought he saw her lip tremble. “This isn’t your problem, is it? I’m sure I’ll get by somehow.”
“Listen, Farlan is going to alert the sheriff in Colnora when we arrive and there will be an investigation. If the hooded man is guilty, he’ll be tried and convicted. Then you can go back home to Vernes. The thieves couldn’t have taken everything. Your house is still there and you can rent rooms out or something like that.”
She looked back toward the hooded man and lowered her voice. “What if I never reach Colnora? What if he kills me right here on this barge?”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“I wish I could believe that, but you won’t be able to stop him. He could slip into my cabin, and in the morning I would be dead and no one would care.”
“Here’s what you should do. Lock your door, and block it with whatever you can find. He won’t be able to reach you without making a racket, and I’ll come right away.”
She wiped her eyes. “I’ll do that, thank you. I just hope it will be enough.”
CHAPTER 4
THE HIDEOUS HEAD
After the beating, even the weight of the empty buckets hurt Gwen’s back and shoulders as they swung from the yoke. Grue had been hard on her for involving Ethan. He’d left no marks, though; damaged goods were sold at reduced rates.
Reaching Wayward Street’s common well, she dropped the pails and sat on the edge, looking back the way she had come. It was still early, the sun just peeking between the bent roof of the tavern and the lopsided one of the building across the street. Avon had told her it was once an inn, but that was long ago. She could almost picture it. No one stayed there now, except for the rats and the dogs that ate them. The state of the inn was indicative of the whole Lower Quarter, Wayward Street especially—a dead end in every sense.
For as long as Gwen could remember, her mother had spoken about Medford and how they would one day make it their home. Gwen imagined it must be a beautiful place, full of fine carriages and stone houses. She had dreamed they would live in one of those beautiful homes with a fountain outside for water and market sellers who would sing and chant like those in Calis. Even as she sat on the stone lip of the well, Gwen marveled at how different her reality turned out to be.
Did my mother have any real idea about where we were headed?
Her mother had been dedicated to a single purpose—reaching Medford. She had spoken of the city for years. Looking back, Gwen now saw things that a child missed. They had traveled alone. A woman with a child in tow would never set out to cross a continent on her own, without a good reason, even if they were headed for a paradise. Besides, Tenkin women never traveled unescorted.
Strange as well was the name Illia had picked for her only daughter: Gwendolyn. Her mother was born to the Owanda tribe, and custom dictated Gwen should have been named after an ancestor, but surely no one in their bloodline had ever been called Gwendolyn. A pretty name, but it wasn’t Tenkin.-Gwendolyn was a name given to pale, blond-haired girls with blue eyes. Gwen hadn’t even seen blond hair until they had reached Vernes, and even there it was rare. Not until years later, when Gwen finally reached the north, did she meet other girls with similar names. Still, even this concession had not been enough to find her acceptance in the foreign lands. All the light-skinned travelers and shopkeepers eyed her with contempt.
In Calis, people were equally suspicious of pale visitors. Most Calians thought the foreigners were ill, but that didn’t prevent Tenkins from doing business with them. The same could not be said in the north. Even in Vernes, Gwen and her mother were shunned.
They might have died of starvation if not for her mother’s gift. Vernes was rich with Calian immigrants. They had settlements in the hills outside the city, a large camp with colorful tents just like in Dagastan or Ardor, and the camp leaders understood the values of a seer. Illia was able to find work reading the palms of fellow Calians delighted to have such a fine fortune-teller among them.
The talent was always passed from mother to daughter, and Illia had taught Gwen everything she knew.
“You can’t read your own future,” Illia had told her, “any more than you can see your own face, but just as you can sometimes see your reflection in a darkened glass or calm pool, you can find your way in the stories of others.”
She had taught Gwen to read, to see, using customers’ hands. “What do you see?” she had asked while holding out a man’s weathered palm.
“A boat, a big ship with sails,” Gwen had answered.
“What color?”
“Blue.”
“That is likely the past.”
Gwen had looked at the man whose hand she held, and he nodded. “I arrived by ship yesterday.”
“Recent events are the easiest. They’re the strongest,” Illia had told them.
At first all she could see was the recent past, and her mother completed her readings so that the customers wouldn’t become annoyed. This was how all the lessons had gone, and Gwen wondered why her mother had never offered her own hands for practice. Initially, Gwen thought it was becau
se they were too closely related for it to work, but as Gwen’s skill increased, Illia took to wearing gloves.
Eventually they joined with a caravan headed north, but they had to leave it when Illia became sick. Gwen had brought her mother into a city where it had taken days to find a doctor who would see her, but nothing helped. Knowing her mother would die, Gwen finally asked all her pent-up questions. Why did we leave Calis? Why did you give me a northern name? And most importantly, Why does it mean so much to you for us to go to this mythical place called Medford?
Stubbornly her mother had refused to answer, except to say that God had told her to go. When Gwen asked which god, her mother had replied, “The one who walks as a man.”
Gwen had used nearly all their money paying for the cramped room where Illia ultimately died. For days Gwen had done little more than wipe her mother’s head with a damp rag while Illia lingered without opening her eyes or speaking a word. Then one morning she had stirred. “Promise me … promise you’ll go to Medford as we’ve always planned. Promise me you won’t stop until you reach it and that you’ll make a life there. You must do what I failed to do. You must be there for him.”
Gwen didn’t know who her mother was referring to and she never learned any more about him from her, but she had agreed just the same. She would have sworn to marry a goblin and live on a cloud if her mother had asked her to.
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 5