“This big one didn’t.”
“No.”
“So why not make all the swords like that?”
“I didn’t make that one.”
“So in addition to being stupid, you’re also a crappy smith?”
“I could drop you.”
“But you are a damn fine swordsman. Arcadius was right about that—the bastard. I really hate that old man.”
Another changeup, another couple drops, and they touched down. They could hear shouts, but they were on the far side of the tower. Royce looked but didn’t see any sign of the golden guard’s body. Hadrian must have pushed him off farther away than he remembered.
“Dear Maribor, you’re heavy,” Hadrian growled as he untied the rope.
“No, I’m not. You’re wounded.” Royce moved his hand and felt the blood-soaked clothes. “God, we’re bleeding like a slit throat.”
“You’re bleeding more than me,” Hadrian said.
“Oh, does that make you feel better?”
“Actually it does.”
Free of the line but with Royce still strapped to his back, Hadrian began staggering up the street. They could hear the slamming of doors and more shouts but had yet to see anyone.
“Now what?” Royce asked.
“Why ask me? I’m the idiot, remember? You’re the genius. What should we do? Go back to the horses, right?”
“We’ll never make it.”
“But you said it was an easy walk.”
“That was when I could walk and when we weren’t leaving a trail of blood. We really don’t stand a chance.”
“So far I’m not impressed with your genius.”
“I’ll admit, I think better when I’m not bleeding to death.”
Hadrian ducked into a narrow gap between two stone houses. Somewhere a horn sounded, impossible to tell where as the alarm bounced between the buildings.
“What about the river? I saw it from the tower. It’s just over here, isn’t it?” Hadrian moved deeper into the densely packed section of shops and homes. Staying to the alley, they reached the low wall that ran along a curving cobblestone street. Twenty feet below was the river. “We could jump.”
“Are you crazy?” Royce said.
“We can float, right? No blood trail, and it will carry us out of town.”
“I’ll drown.”
“Can’t you swim?”
“Normally yes, but normally I can walk too. I’m just not confident I can do it and hold my guts in at the same time. And it’s a drop. When I hit the water, I’ll pass out.”
“You’re staying strapped on my back. I’ll keep your head above the surface.”
“Then we’ll both drown.”
“Maybe.”
Hadrian peered over the edge as more horns sounded and then a bell began ringing.
“Okay,” Royce said.
“Okay what?”
“Okay let’s jump in the river.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. As long as we go in together—that way I’ll know that if I die, you will too.”
He heard Hadrian laugh. “Deal.”
Hadrian took a step. As he did, Royce gained a clear view of the alley and saw the remains of a broken crate. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Grab that wooden box in the alley.”
Hadrian turned. “How did you see that?”
More bells chimed, and the horns continued to blare until it sounded like midnight on Wintertide. Then at last with box in hand, Hadrian climbed up on the wall. Royce felt the unsteady lurch as Hadrian pushed himself up and almost stumbled.
“Hold your nose,” Hadrian told him, “and try not to scream. This is going to hurt.”
“Probably only for a second.” Royce chuckled. He’d given up caring and discovered all that was left was the absurd.
“Always the optimist, aren’t you?”
“Jump already!”
“Okay, set?”
“Yes.”
“One … two…”
“Before I die, please.”
Hadrian grunted. Royce felt the lunge and the fall. Rushing air blew back his hair, then … nothing.
CHAPTER 18
ROSE
Rose stood behind Gwen, watching as she blocked the front door and shook her head, denying the customer entrance to Medford House. She did this while glaring at him, which required her to tilt her head back, as the man before her was huge. He was so tall he would have had to duck his head to enter, if she had let him.
“But I’ve got good coin!” the man bellowed at her, bending over so that their noses almost touched. Rose had never seen a bear, but that’s how she saw him—a giant monstrous bear who was trying to barge his way into their home. She imagined this was how one would act, roaring into the face of a fox that for some inexplicable reason stubbornly stood its ground.
“I don’t care if you’ve got the Crown Tower jewels in your purse,” Gwen replied. “There are rules.”
“I don’t give a rabid rat’s ass for your rules! I came here for a whore. I have money for one. I’m having one.”
“Not unless I say so, and I won’t allow it until you abide by the rules.”
“I won’t take no bath!” The bear puffed the words into her face so hard the air moved Gwen’s hair.
Gwen’s arms came up and folded in front of her. “Then you won’t take no lady.”
“I don’t want a lady. I want a whore, and you don’t need to bathe to get a whore.”
The bear’s real name was Hopper, and he was indeed filthy, dressed as Rose had always seen him, in a wool shirt with dark yellow stains under the arms. He had two visible leaves caught in the combined overgrown hedge that was his hair and beard. It was possible he had no idea his head was gathering material fit for a squirrel’s nest; it was also possible he knew and thought it made him more attractive in a rustic, manly sense.
“In this house you’ll refer to the women as ladies, and you will present yourself clean and polite, or you can take your money across the street.”
This confused Hopper the bear. Rose saw it on his face, but he soon worked it out and scowled. “Grue ain’t got no whores. They’re all here now.”
“I meant go to Grue’s place and drink.”
“I don’t wanna drink. I need a woman.”
“Then go to another place.”
“Other ones ain’t worth paying for.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They don’t smell so good.” The bear wasn’t one to talk. He had a scent that made Rose think he had firsthand experience with the sewers.
Rose didn’t know Hopper personally. He’d visited The Hideous Head enough times that she knew his face, but they never spent any private time together. He was a regular of Jollin’s, who had often remarked about his smell. To her, Hopper wasn’t a bear so much as a skunk. A lot of the men they entertained fit that description, which was why Gwen had made a new rule.
“And you’d prefer a clean, sweet-smelling girl, is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Because licking dirt and week-old sweat is disgusting, right?”
“Exactly.”
“The ladies here all agree with you, and that’s why you’ll wash before you visit us.”
“It don’t matter what they like. I’m the one paying. I call the tune.”
“Not anymore. Now you can either go across the street and drink that coin away, or head to the barber and get cleaned up and come back. And if you do, I’ll warn you to be polite and respectful.”
“Respectful of a whore?”
“Respectful of a lady of the house, or you can go roll around in the muck with a whore.”
He stood there breathing heavily, his lower lip pushed out. He let out puffs of air and looked down at the floor. “I won’t have enough money if I pay to get cleaned up.”
Gwen unfolded her arms. She reached out and touched the bear’s hand. “Get clean. Get shaved. Rin
se out those clothes and come back. We’ll work out something. I don’t just insist our customers are clean. I also require them to be happy too.”
Hopper faced her and his stony mouth softened. “Really?”
“Absolutely.”
He pulled his tunic at the shoulder and sniffed. “Maybe it could use a dunk or two.” He nodded and left. As soon as he was gone, Gwen walked to one of the new soft chairs and collapsed into it.
“You’re turning them away now.” Rose crept up and sat on the bench beside her. It was one of the last bits of the old furniture, a simple plank that Dixon had built into a seat from the wreckage of the inn. Rose wasn’t sure why it was still there among all the beautiful pieces that Gwen had handpicked from the craftsmen in Artisan Row, but it was one of the few relics, one of the few reminders of how it started, and Rose felt most comfortable on it.
“We can afford to,” Gwen replied. “But he’ll be back. You know … we should invest in a few more washtubs. We can bathe them right here—even charge them for the privilege.”
“That’s a great idea. You never cease to amaze me.”
Rose smiled at her, and Gwen smiled back. They were all grins lately. At first Gwen had encouraged the practice, saying it was good for business; she didn’t need to remind them any longer. And they all looked so pretty in their new dresses. Gwen snagged the material from the same place she got the curtains, getting a deal on both. They all looked so fine and respectable that Gwen took to calling them ladies—the Ladies of the House. She liked the sound so much she insisted everyone do so. “You won’t get respect unless you act like you deserve it,” Gwen had told them. She knew what she was talking about. Gwen had gained the respect of every craftsman on Artisan Row. Putting food on the tables of the carpenters, tar men, glass blowers, and masons, Gwen also treated them as kings when they visited. Men who had scoffed when she entered their shops were coming to her for advice. No one was inviting her over for supper or suggesting she run for ward administrator, but they smiled when she passed by and often opened doors for her. No longer a foreigner, she had become one of Medford’s own. At last, she belonged.
Gwen had a million ideas. She held dances twice a week. Fiddle, Pipe, and Drum Nights they were called. It was free to dance, and no business was conducted until afterward. For a few hours they were gentlewomen at a ball, and besides it drew a nice crowd. Of course, they weren’t really ladies. Ladies were nobles, and ladies didn’t wear their old rags as slips under their dresses.
As the weather turned colder, Gwen invited the destitute in for free turnip-and-onion soup, but it wasn’t a case of charity. “Everyone has a talent for something,” she told each one, and she was right. Most of the poor used to do something: tin smith, rug hooker, farmer, chimney sweep. She put everyone she could to work, and those who were too old or sick were put to teaching others what they knew. Gwen put the farmers to work tilling a patch of dirt behind the House. Come next year it would help supplement their pantry. One old man used to sell honey and promised he would provide them with a beehive.
She wasn’t like the rest of them. To some degree or other, they had all given up at one time, casting away their dreams and giving in to the demands of the world. Rose saw the differences in the way Gwen acted, even in the way she walked, and most notably by the way she spoke to men. While she called all of them ladies, Rose knew the only real lady in Medford House was Gwen DeLancy.
They heard steps on the porch, and then the front door opened. A cold gust of chilling wind flickered the lamps, and into the parlor walked Stane. Splashed with mud and reeking of fish, his oily hair stuck to his forehead, his face bristling with whiskers.
Gwen was out of her chair in a blink. “What do you want?”
“What do you think? This is a whorehouse, ain’t it?”
Gwen was shaking her head before he finished. “Not for you.”
“What’d you mean, not for me?”
“You’re not allowed here—ever.”
“You can’t do that,” he said, taking a step onto the new carpet with his muddy boots. “You stole all the good whores and locked them up here. You can’t deprive a man entirely.”
“Watch me.”
He took another step and a sick little smile came to his thin, uneven lips. “I know Dixon isn’t here. He left town two days ago and ain’t back yet. It’s just you and me now. You don’t even have Grue looking out for you.” He took another step. “You know, Grue would probably pay good money for someone to put this place to the torch.” He looked around. “Be a pity to see it all burn away. Surprised he hasn’t done it yet.”
“Grue isn’t as stupid as you are. I obtained the Certificate of Royal Permit on this place by partnering with the city assessor. Just like you, he knows how much Grue would like to see us fail. Any suspicious fire or deaths and who do you think the city assessor will blame? And burning any building in Medford is a crime against the king, because he owns this building—we only lease it. And if you hurt any of us—”
“I ain’t gonna hurt nobody, just here for a good time.”
“Go someplace else.”
His eyes lighted on Rose. “I’ll take this one.”
Rose let out a stifled squeal and retreated three steps toward the stairs.
“Get out, Stane,” Gwen ordered.
“Or maybe I’ll just have you.” He took another step.
Gwen didn’t move, didn’t blink. She stood toe-to-toe, staring back into his eyes, and as she did, her face grimaced. “Oh, dear Maribor,” she muttered, and brought a hand to her mouth. On her face was a look of revulsion. “Oh, blessed Lord.”
The sudden change surprised Stane, who looked confused. “What?” He glanced at Rose, then back at Gwen. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“Oh, Stane, I’m so sorry,” Gwen told him, her expression turning to sympathy.
Rose was stunned. At first she wondered if Gwen was pretending, playacting, trying to trick him, only Gwen wasn’t acting. There was a look of horror on her face like nothing Rose had ever seen.
Stane’s expression changed too. Menace surrendered to concern. “For what?”
“For what’s going to happen.”
“What the blazes you talking about?” Stane took a step back. He turned, looking around the parlor, searching for the threat.
“He’s going to kill you.” Gwen’s voice was eerie, gentle and shaken. She wasn’t making this up. Her hands were quivering as they started to reach out weakly toward him.
“Who is?”
“It will be slow … painfully slow. He’s going … he’s going to cut you apart and leave you to bleed. Hang you up in Merchant Square and decorate you in candles.”
“Who is? What are you talking about? Dixon ain’t got the—”
“Not Dixon.” She said this with weight, with power, with a sense of foreboding. “You won’t know him. You’ll keep asking why—he won’t answer. He’ll never say a word. He’ll just keep cutting, and cutting, and cutting … while you scream.”
“Shut up!”
“It will be late at night,” she went on, taking a step forward. Her hands still out before her, shaking.
“Shut up!” Stane moved back off the carpet as if she held vipers before her.
“No one helps you, and the blood … the blood is everywhere. The blood is horrible. Can there be that much blood in a person?” Gwen paused, looking at the floor and shaking her head in genuine dismay. Her hands came up to shelter her ears. “You keep screaming as he hoists you up and lights the candles.”
“I said shut your mouth!”
“After he leaves, as you die, people come out. They look up, but no one helps. They know what you are—they’ve always known, even though they never knew all the things you did. One person knows about Avon, but none of them know about Ruth, Irene, and Elsie. And no one ever found out about Callahan’s wife.”
“How do you know about them?” Stane looked terrified.
“And Oldham’s da
ughters—both of them. You’re an awful, awful man, Stane.”
Rose had never seen anyone’s face filled with as much fear as Stane’-s—his eyes wide and darting.
“They watch you die,” Gwen continued, though even Rose wished she would stop. “One man actually puts a bucket beneath your feet to catch the blood. He’s going to mix it with feed and give it to his pigs. Oh, Stane, what you did to Avon, what you did to all of them was so terrible, and you should die for that, but even I wouldn’t wish this on you … but, I suppose … you do deserve it.”
No matter what effect Gwen’s words had on Stane, they sent a chill deeper into Rose’s bones than any wind ever could, but it was the look on Gwen’s face, the genuine sympathy and revulsion that stopped her heart. Somehow Gwen could actually see Stane’s death. And through her, he and Rose saw it too.
“You’re a crazy bitch—that’s what you are!” Stane shouted at her. “And you can just leave me alone.” He retreated out the door, slamming it behind him.
Gwen wavered and reached out to steady herself.
“Are you all right?” Rose asked, racing to Gwen’s side.
She grabbed Rose, squeezed tight, and cried.
“Here,” Rose said, holding out the steaming cup of tea.
“A porcelain cup and saucer?” Gwen looked at her, stunned.
“We were planning on giving it to you for Wintertide, but you look like you could use it now, and by then we’ll be able to get you something better.”
“Better than a porcelain cup?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
The two were on the porch, which smelled of fresh paint and sawdust. They sat curled up on the wooden bench, their feet tucked, wrapped in a blanket that Rose had pulled off her bed. It was one of the original blankets they had wrapped in that first night they had spent in the dark parlor, sharing a loaf of bread and a brick of cheese.
That night seemed very long ago. So much had changed that it felt like another lifetime. The era they spent in servitude to Grue happened to a different set of women. It couldn’t have been them. It certainly could never have been Gwen. Resting against her on the porch of their house, after having seen her drive off Stane as if he were an opossum routing in their garbage, Rose couldn’t imagine Gwen ever having obeyed Raynor.
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 29