“Jollin!” Gwen snapped.
“Ah, you see, my lady is anxious to leave your establishment and find somewhere she is more welcome.”
“But I’-m—” the shopkeeper started.
“—a bitch?” Jollin offered a sweet smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”
With that, Jollin left the shop.
Gwen and the other girls followed, all of them laughing and patting Jollin on the back. Afterward, Jollin and Abby were sent for food while Mae and Rose set off to get a broom. The rest waited with Gwen, standing in the shade of the pottery shop’s awning watching everyone. Mae and Rose returned first and were so proud of their purchase that they took turns sweeping the street. Gwen wondered if it was the first thing they’d ever bought. Jollin and Abby came back with cheese and bread.
“Is that all?” Gwen asked.
“I don’t know if we can afford anything else,” Jollin said.
“How expensive is food? We should have—”
“It’s not that. I talked to the baker and he says you need to purchase a royal writ.”
“What? For food?”
“No—to open a business. Called it a certificate of permit or something like that. You can’t open one without it or they’ll arrest you.”
“How do you get one?”
“You have to go to the city assessor’s office in Gentry Square. They’re expensive.”
“How much?”
“He didn’t know. The baker said it would be different based on the type of business. I think we might be in trouble.”
“Well let’s not declare failure before we even start. Let’s go back to the inn,” Gwen said. She added with disgust, “Unless there’s a law against seven girls eating bread and cheese in an abandoned rat farm?”
By the time they trekked to the Merchant Quarter, bought supplies, and returned to Wayward Street, the sun had set and the cold crept in. As awful as the dilapidated building looked in daylight, the dark brought a whole new level of dread. Unlike the Merchant Quarter, where business owners lit up their storefronts, the Lower Quarter was dark. On Wayward, only the firelight spilled out of The Hideous Head’s windows to illuminate the street in stretched rectangles. Gwen wanted to kick herself for not adding a lantern to their shopping list, but it would be the first thing during tomorrow’s trip.
Gwen could hear the clink of glasses and Dizzy the Piper playing at the tavern. The muffled sound of his whistle served as a musical reminder of their freedom, or was it banishment? In the dark such a thing was hard to determine. On the street, even in the ruins of the building, the gusting wind was louder as it creaked shutters and tortured dead leaves. The interior of the parlor was visible only by angles of moonlight that revealed the many holes and gaps through which the wind found reeds of its own to whistle with, the wind’s tune far more doleful than Dizzy’s.
Abby and Etta set to making the fire. The two crouched like conspirators in the dark before the stone hearth. Gwen wondered why Grue kept them on at all, especially Etta, who hadn’t made a copper in almost a year. Both had spent a good deal of time in the Head’s kitchen, Abby because she was big-boned and stocky and Etta because her looks never matched the person inside. Even Gwen had questioned the wisdom of bringing Etta. She couldn’t afford to tie their survival to so much dead weight. But excluding her could breed resentment and cause too much trouble in the long run. She’d just have to find some way for them to contribute.
In order to survive, she needed to be tougher, stronger. She looked back toward the lights of the tavern.
After the incident with the man with the gold coins, Gwen discovered he wasn’t the only one whose eyes she could see through. It took a bit of concentration, of focus, but she’d done it with others. Bits and pieces of lives were revealed—few ever pleasant—and the process was disturbing. She’d often had nightmares afterward. But in the two years she’d been at the Head, Gwen had never looked in Grue’s eyes. Not because she was afraid of the evils he had done, but because she might understand why he’d done them.
They had plenty of scrap wood, dry leaves, and twigs, and Gwen saw a flame for a while. It didn’t last, but they were all soon choking on smoke and for the first time Gwen was happy the parlor had so many holes.
“What’s wrong?” Mae asked from somewhere in the dark.
“Chimney’s blocked,” Etta said, her voice muted as if she’d climbed up inside. “All kinds of nests and leaves I think. There’s no draft.”
“Well, don’t try it again, or we’ll all have to sleep in the street,” Jollin said, then coughed to prove the point.
With no fire they ate in the dark.
Gwen had hoped for a cheery fire and a hot meal. The two might have been enough to transform the inn, at least for a while, into something familiar, something good. Instead, they clustered in the corner of the parlor away from most of the holes, huddling for warmth as they ate in silence, listening to the singing of a ghostly wind.
Jollin turned and asked her softly, “Do you think we can afford it?”
Gwen could hear it in her voice—she wanted to be reassured.
“We still have a lot of money.” Gwen tore off a small piece of the bread loaf they passed around.
“But we’ll need that to fix this place. How we going to do that?” Abby asked, her voice coming out of the darkness.
“Let’s just wait to see how much this permit thing costs.” Gwen felt cheese pass into her hands.
The smoke had cleared, but the smell lingered. The wind blew harder, and Gwen wondered if it heralded a storm. The air was cold and damp—rain maybe. Through the holes in the ceiling, she looked up at the sky. That was all they needed. They shuffled closer, each pulling their thin wool coverings tight.
“What was this place?” Mae asked. She was entirely wrapped in her blanket, with part of it over her head like a hood. She sat next to Rose and the two tiny girls looked like sisters, except Mae had blond hair and Rose brown.
“Used to be an inn,” Jollin explained.
“What happened to it?”
Jollin shrugged, a shaft of moonlight making her shoulders appear and disappear.
“The way I heard it—” Abby began.
“You didn’t hear anything,” Jollin said.
“But I—”
“I said you didn’t hear anything.”
“Why?” Mae asked. “What didn’t she hear?”
Rose, who was nodding off to sleep between Mae and Etta, blinked and looked up.
“It’s just a rumor,” Jollin said.
“What is?” This time it was Rose who asked.
Jollin looked at Gwen apologetically. “Some people say the owner murdered his wife,” Jollin told them. “And then her ghost came back for revenge.”
Gwen watched as they all looked around at the moonlight-pierced darkness that left so many patches of impenetrable mystery. Upstairs they could hear a slapping that Gwen knew was a shutter but that sounded disturbingly like Avon’s head. There was also a faint scratching somewhere, maybe a mouse, maybe a squirrel, maybe a dead woman’s fingernails.
“Good for her!” Rose said so loudly it left each of them staring. “Maybe Avon will do the same to Grue and Stane.”
Jollin looked to Gwen and smiled.
Gwen smiled back. “Maybe she will.”
CHAPTER 7
COLNORA
Alight rain began to fall by the time Hadrian reached the city. From the dock where the towpath ended, a wider and much steeper road climbed the canyon wall. Hadrian dismounted before the climb. The poor animal had hauled a barge all day and didn’t need his extra burden. By the time they reached the top, both were puffing. Their breath formed clouds more from the wet than the temperature, which didn’t seem so cold given the exertion of the climb.
At the top, the streets turned to cobblestone that was tricky to walk on. Still, it was better than the dirt, which the rain would have turned into a muddy mess. Hadrian figured it must be close to dawn. The city had
pole lamps, but none were lit. Few people were on the streets, and those who were moved slow, yawning and sneering at the sky. Colnora fit its reputation for size with a maze of streets and hundreds of buildings comprised of homes and shops of every sort imaginable. One store just sold ladies’ hats. How a place could survive selling just hats baffled him, much less one catering only to ladies. Another sold slippers for men—not boots, not shoes, just slippers. Hadrian had never worn slippers in his life. The sign above the big window instructed LEAVE THE MUD ON THE STREET! Hadrian wondered if the store owner had ever seen the street, as the one in front of his shop lacked even a hint of dirt. He felt like a ghost in a graveyard or a thief in a mansion—all the buildings and thoroughfares dark and silent except for the patter and ping of the morning rain.
Hadrian was exhausted. Any reserves he once had were stolen by the climb. He considered looking for an inn or even a dry porch. Anyplace he could get out of the wet and close his eyes for a few hours. Only he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Vivian haunted him. So did the others, but he kept seeing her lying in that cabin, facedown in that dark pool. Her hand bent, her head turned away—that at least was a mercy.
He wandered up the street with his giant horse clopping beside him. Everything since the river had been uphill, as if they had built the city on a mountaintop. The higher he went the nicer the buildings became, and he remembered Pickles’s comment: Everything else runs downhill, but gold flows up. Homes here were made from crafted stone, three and four stories tall with numerous glass windows, gates of bronze-paneled reliefs, and even little towers as if every house was a tiny castle. He wasn’t sure what neighborhood he was in, but he didn’t feel comfortable. Hadrian had never seen such luxury. There were sidewalks and gutters with storm drains that kept the street clear. Street. Hadrian chuckled. Street was too small a word for the thoroughfares near the top. These were boulevards made of luxurious brick and three times the width of any normal avenue with rows of trees, gardens, and fountains lining islands in the center. Most surprising of all was the total lack of horse manure, and Hadrian wondered if they polished the bricks at night.
He wandered, making turns at random, looking to the signboards for clues. He reached a short wall and, peering over, realized how far he’d come. Far below was the river, a small line at the base of a canyon, and what looked like the roof of a boathouse appearing the size of a copper din held at arm’s length.
Certain he’d find nothing at the top, Hadrian descended by a different route. At last he spotted a signboard with a crown and sword. The building it was attached to looked like an errant castle turret made from large blocks of stone complete with a crenellated parapet two stories up. Hadrian tied his horse to the post and climbed up the porch steps. He beat on the door at its base. After the fourth clubbing, he debated drawing his big sword—the butt of it made a decent sledge—but the door opened. Behind it stood a beefy man with a day-old beard and an unfriendly look on a freshly bruised face. “What?”
“You the city watch?” Hadrian asked.
“Sheriff Malet,” he croaked, his eyes only half open.
“There’s been a murder—several in fact—down on the river.”
Malet looked up at the weather with a sneer. “Bugger me.”
He waved Hadrian into a small room with a stove, table, rumpled bed, and enough swords, shields, and other tools of war to outfit a small army.
“Mind your feet and keep your puddle at the door.” Malet was alone and holding a candle that illuminated his face from below, casting shadows that along with his puffed and bloodied face made him look as grotesque as a stone gargoyle. He set the candle on the table and stared at Hadrian.
“What’s your name?”
“Hadrian Blackwater.”
“Where’s Blackwater?”
“It’s not a place.”
Malet, who was wearing only a nightshirt, grabbed a pair of trousers off the floor. Sitting on the corner of a dark wood desk, he stuffed his legs in. “What kind of profession is it, then?”
“It’s just a surname. Doesn’t mean anything.”
Malet glared at him with weary eyes. “What good is it if it don’t tell me something about you?”
“Why don’t you just call me Hadrian.”
“I’ll do that.” He stood up and buckled his trousers. “Where are you from, Hadrian?”
“Hintindar originally—a little village south of here in Rhenydd.”
“Originally? What’s that supposed to mean? You got yourself born someplace else recently?”
“I just meant I haven’t been there in many years.”
“Many years? You don’t look old enough to have lived many years.” His eyes shifted to his swords. “That’s a lot of hardware you’re carrying, Hadrian. You a weaponsmith maybe?”
“Father was a blacksmith.”
“But you’re not?”
“Listen, I just came here to report the killings—you want to hear about those?”
Malet sucked on his teeth. “You know where the killer is right now?”
“No.”
“Bodies likely to get up and walk away soon?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your rush?”
“I’m a bit tired.”
Malet’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Really? I’m so sorry for you. Turns out I’m a little worn out myself. I spent all day stopping a bloody riot from breaking out over on the west side because some dumb bastard spit the wrong way. Two of my men are laid up with knife wounds as parting gifts. And just a few hours ago I got my nose mashed dragging two drunks out of The Gray Mouse Tavern who were busting up the place because they thought it would be funny. I only just collapsed into bed when some other bastard couldn’t wait until morning before hammering on my door. I know I wasn’t asleep long because I still have the same damn headache I went to bed with. Now, I didn’t bang on your door, did I, Hadrian? So don’t complain to me about being tired.” He turned to a small stove. “Care for coffee?”
“Don’t you want to go see the bodies?”
Malet sighed and raised a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Are they in the street outside?”
“No, down on the river, about three miles I guess.”
“Then no, I don’t want to go see the bodies.”
“Why not?”
The sheriff glanced over his shoulder with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “It’s dark and it’s raining, and I’m not trekking down that ruddy mud slide until the sun comes up. In my experience the dead are a very patient lot. I don’t think they’ll mind waiting a few hours, do you? Now, you want coffee or not?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He began stuffing the stove with split wood stacked beside it. “Go ahead and tell me your story.”
Hadrian took a seat at the little table and explained the events of the last several days while Sheriff Malet made his coffee and continued to dress. By the time he was done with both, the previously black window revealed the soaked street in a growing hazy light.
“And this barge is about three miles down the river along the towpath?” the sheriff asked, sitting opposite him at the little table by the window, his hands hugging the metal cup under his nose.
“Yeah, I secured it well enough before coming here.” The coffee was bitter and far weaker than Hadrian was used to. In Calis, coffee was common in every house, but it was a rare, and he imagined expensive, luxury in Avryn.
“And you never met any of these people before?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve never been to Colnora before now?”
“No, sir.”
“And you insist that a guy in a dark cloak with a hood killed everyone on the boat as well as three others in Vernes, then just vanished.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me, Hadrian. How did you survive?”
“I suppose because I was the only one who was armed. I also didn’t sleep, which is why I’d like to get this taken care of sooner rather than lat
er.”
“Uh-huh. And how did this fella manage to murder everyone on a tiny barge without you ever seeing him kill anyone? You didn’t, right? He butchered all those people, including the woman you were with—this Vivian—and then got away, and you never even saw him swim to shore?”
“I don’t know how he did it.”
“Uh-huh.” He took a loud sip from his cup. “So you’re not a blacksmith … What are you, Hadrian?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
“Looking for work, then?”
“I will be. Right now I’m on my way to Sheridan.”
“The university? Why?”
“A friend of the family sent me word that my father had passed and asked me to visit.”
“Thought you were from Hintindar.”
“I am.”
“But your father died in Sheridan?”
“No, he died in Hintindar—I’m guessing. But the friend lives in Sheridan. He has some things to give me.”
“And the swords?”
“I was a soldier.”
“Deserter?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because you come here with a story of being the only survivor of a slaughter, and that makes you the obvious suspect.”
“If I had killed them, why would I come to you? Why wouldn’t I just disappear?”
“Maybe that’s just the point. Maybe you think by pinning these deaths on Duster I’d never suspect you.”
“Who’s Duster?”
The sheriff smirked and took another sip.
“Am I supposed to know? Because I don’t.”
Malet stared at him a moment with a puzzled look. Then with a rise of his brows, he set his coffee back down, making a little clink. “A year ago last summer, this town was terrorized by a series of exceptionally gruesome murders perpetrated by someone called Duster, or the Duster. The magistrate, lawyers, merchants, some of my men, and a number of disreputable malcontents were butchered and hung up like decorations. Every morning there were new ornaments, gruesome bits of artwork. No one was safe. Even members of the Black Diamond were butchered. The killing spree went on all summer. The streets went empty, ’cause folks were too scared to go out. Commerce was crippled, and I had every bloody merchant calling me every name you can imagine.”
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 10