The Crown Tower trc-1

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Vivian had stopped shivering. Any chill that the cabin originally held had burned away. Her nimble fingers no longer trembled, and her eyes never left his. “I want to thank you for spending the night with me,” she said in a breathy whisper. “I know it’s a terrible hardship. I only hope I can make your sacrifice worthwhile.”

  “I don’t want to ruin the moment, but didn’t your husband just die? Murdered you said.”

  “What’s your point?” Her hands were back at work, this time on his sword belt.

  “I’m guessing you weren’t the faithful type.”

  “The man is dead. I’m alive, and I’d like to stay that way.” She arched her back, rose on her toes, and closed her eyes.

  “Then I’d get your hands off my belt.”

  Her eyes opened. “What?”

  “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I-that’s the problem. Your husband wasn’t killed, was he?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need a protector.”

  “From what?”

  That’s when the screams began.

  Hadrian reached the deck with sword in hand, but found no one.

  The cries had stopped long before he opened Vivian’s door. He had told her to lock it behind him, then raced to the deck. He listened for the scuffle of a fight, but the cries had ended decisively. There should have been the sound of boots on decking, the killer running away, but all Hadrian heard was the lap of water.

  He waited.

  Silence.

  No, not silence-the river still spoke. For days the voice of the river breaking against the bow had been a constant frothy rush. Now the tone was different. The lapping against the hull was a lower pitch, quieter. It didn’t feel right. And that wasn’t the only change. The barge was no longer moving.

  He scanned the open planking.

  Nothing moved.

  Hadrian walked slowly to the stern and found Samuel not far from the tiller. He was facedown in a spreading pool of blood.

  Where are Sebastian and Eugene?

  Hadrian had seen plenty of death. He’d killed more men than he wanted to remember but had convinced himself that each one was necessary. This was a lie-one he never actually believed, no matter how much he wanted it to be true. Still, all his fights had been on battlefields or in arenas. This was different-unprovoked butchery.

  The night, which had been so tranquil, wore a new expression. Quaint swinging lanterns offered poor light and the moon showed less than half a face, giving life to a thousand silhouettes. Hadrian wasn’t afraid for himself; what had happened was over. As far as he could tell, the deck was secure, leaving only the hold and the cabins. Taking a lantern, he crept to the bow where he found the other two merchants. Both dead. Throats cut. Lying in their own blood.

  A few feet from their bodies was the trapdoor leading to the hold, the padlock gone, hatch open. Hadrian peered in. Crates, sacks, bags, and boxes were tightly packed. No one waited in the shadows. Again he listened, again silence. His short sword ready, Hadrian moved through the narrow pathways that ran half the length of the barge. He found the huge trunks belonging to the merchants. They, too, were unlocked. Inside were more robes, silver plates, silverware, gold goblets, necklaces, candelabras, bowls, and crystal stemware. He also found a small chest and a strongbox. Both were open, two padlocks lying nearby. Inside, he found nothing.

  Leaving everything as he found it, Hadrian climbed back onto the deck.

  Everything was still quiet … and dead.

  At that moment, Hadrian remembered Andrew and the fact that the barge wasn’t moving. In the dim moonlight, all he saw was the outline of the horse team illuminated by Andrew’s lantern.

  Hadrian returned to the cabins.

  He found the hallway as he had left it, Vivian’s door intact. He knew she would be terrified, and this time for good reason. At least he could report they were safe. The hooded man was gone.

  “Unlock the door, Miss Vivian,” he said, knocking. “It’-s-”

  The door creaked inward. The shock of its movement halted his breathing and set his heart pounding. Pushing it revealed the little cabin still illuminated by the lantern. The door stopped short with a dull gut-wrenching thump. All he saw beyond its edge was a hand-her hand, fingers slightly curled. Vivian lay on her stomach in a lake of blood that spilled out across the floor, soaking into the dry wood.

  What if I never reach Colnora? What if he kills me right here on this barge?

  Hadrian felt sick. He shook his head as he backed out, knocking it against the lantern and setting the shadows dancing around the walls.

  He had promised to protect her. He had assured her she was safe.

  Walking backward out of the cabin, he noticed the crimson stains he was tracking on the corridor floor.

  What is it with me and death? Hundreds of miles and I’m still leaving bloody footprints.

  Hadrian returned to his cabin and gathered his belongings. His one bag, comprising the accumulated wealth of his life. Hoisting it made him think of Pickles. That officer on the dock might just have saved the boy’s life. Hadrian’s great sword still hung on the wall peg. He slipped the baldric over his shoulder, centered the spadone on his back, and climbed to the deck.

  Without the pull of the horses or proper steering, the barge had already closed the distance to the towpath like the pendulum of a clock. Hadrian made an easy jump from the barge and landed on solid ground. Reaching the horses, his fears were confirmed. Andrew was gone. There was no body, but the pool of blood and the trail leading to the river told the story.

  Standing on the towpath, Hadrian was at the base of the exposed stone cliff that blocked out most of the sky. Andrew’s lantern displayed his shadow against the stone wall as if he were a giant. Other than the blood and the missing postilion, the scene was as quiet as the boat. The lead line of the horses had been fastened to a tree, and Bessie and Gertrude waited for a signal to start again.

  Hadrian tied off the bow line to another tree, then unfastened the horses from their harnesses. Given the strong current, he wedged the bar of the tackle between two boulders just to make sure the boat remained secure. Then he returned to the horses. He tied Bessie-or was it Gertrude? — to the same tree as the boat’s line and leapt on the other’s back. “No sense leaving you here,” Hadrian told the animal, and gave it a light kick. The horse wasn’t trained for riding and refused to do more than plod. The animal’s pace was aggravatingly slow but better than walking.

  Hadrian couldn’t help wondering if he might stumble upon the hooded man in some inn or tavern. He imagined him drinking with his feet up and boasting about how he’d just slaughtered a boat full of people on the Bernum. Picturing the scene made Hadrian feel better.

  He was tired of killing, but for the hooded man he could make an exception.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE RUINS OF WAYWARD

  For two years Gwen had looked out of the windows of The Hideous Head Tavern at the dilapidated building, but until that day she had never gone into it. Many others had. When their strength ran out and the cold of winter came, the desperate always sought shelter in its ruins. Many died there. Every year Ethan dragged at least one frozen corpse from its fallen timbers. The Lower Quarter was the bottom of the city’s sink and the dead end of Wayward Street was the drain. As Gwen stood in the ramshackle remains of the old inn, she wondered how long she had before the drain’s whirlpool sucked them all down.

  Two walls were solid; one tilted inward, warped into a wave, and the last was mostly missing. Part of the second floor had collapsed, as had a good portion of the roof. Through the gaping holes she could see clouds drifting past. At least three small trees, one four feet tall with a trunk as thick as her thumb, grew up through the floor.

  “This isn’t too bad,” Rose said.

  Gwen looked around but couldn’t see her. Since crossing the street, the girls had wandered the ruins
like ghosts. “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know … the parlor?”

  The parlor? Gwen almost laughed. Not just because of the absurdity of the statement, but because of the way Rose had said it, her voice as carefree as a cloudless sky. Gwen spotted Jollin circling the shattered staircase, her arms folded tight, head bowed as she shuffled through the debris. Their eyes met, and the two shared a smile that conveyed the same thought. Only Rose would see a parlor in this dump.

  They all moved toward the sound of Rose’s voice and found the only room with four walls. Shattered remains of old furniture were scattered on the floor as well as a thick layer of dust, dirt, and animal droppings. A family of swallows nested in a pile of twigs set on the rafters and the floor beneath it was thick with white and gray splatter. What caught everyone’s attention, however, was the fireplace. Unlike the timber and plaster walls, the fieldstone chimney ignored the ravages of time and looked nearly perfect, even elegant.

  “Look!” Rose said, spinning around with a pair of iron tongs in her hand. “I found this under that stuff in the corner. We can have a fire.”

  Up until that point, Gwen was all but certain she had made the biggest mistake of her life, which just happened to be the same as her last biggest error-leaving Grue.

  On her first day after finally achieving her mother’s dream of reaching Medford, Gwen thought she was both blessed and outright lucky. Not only had she finally made it, but she had also landed a job that very afternoon-as a barmaid at The Hideous Head. Grue provided her room and board. The room was shared, of course, so she hid her coins in the floorboards in the little room across the hall-one of the rooms with just a single bed. She should have realized that Grue wasn’t extending kindness. No one had been kind to her in the north. She was different, and the farther she traveled the more looks she got-all of them loathsome. When she’d discovered that barmaid meant “whore,” she had tried to leave.

  Grue beat her.

  After that, he kept a close eye on Gwen, never letting her near an open door. Weeks later Grue became careless. She was alone at the bar, the door left open. She ran. Her coins were still under the floorboards, but she was free. At least she had thought so.

  Gwen wandered the city looking for work, for handouts, for help. She found indifference, and in some cases hatred. They called her things she only understood as insults-names for lowborn Calians. After more than a week-she never really knew how long-of surviving only on bits of food she found in piles of trash, she discovered she couldn’t walk straight or see clearly, and she even had trouble just standing up. Like Hilda, she went to other brothels and received the same refusal. This was how she knew the rumors about Hilda weren’t rumors at all. That’s when Gwen became terrified. That’s when she realized she was going to die.

  Wait until it’s absolutely necessary.

  She couldn’t think of a more dire circumstance. She had to use the coins … only she didn’t have them. Hunger drove her back. She had to chance it. There was no hope of sneaking in, and she expected Grue to beat her again. Maybe this time he’d kill her, but she had no choice. She would die anyway.

  To Gwen’s surprise, Grue didn’t kill her. He didn’t even beat her. He just stared and shook his head sadly. He sent Gwen to bed and ordered food brought up-soup at first, and then some bread. She told herself she’d get the coins when she was better. She ate and slept, and slept and ate. Days went by. The other girls visited, hugged her, kissed her, and cried about how happy they were she was all right. It had been the first time since her mother’s death that she’d felt a kind touch. She cried too.

  Eventually Grue came. “I didn’t have to take you back. You know that, right?” he had said, standing above her, arms folded. “You’re young and stupid, but maybe now you see what’s really out there. No one’s going to help you. No one gives a damn about you. Whatever terrible things you think about me or have heard, let me tell you this-most are true. I’m a bad man, but I don’t lie. Fancy people, people with good reputations, they lie. I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of me. I haven’t cared for a long time. So believe me when I tell you, I wouldn’t cry a tear if you died, and I didn’t lose a minute’s sleep when you ran. But the truth is I can make more money with you than without you, so that makes me the only person in the world who cares what happens to your sorry ass.

  “I’m not going to lock you up like before. I’m not going to watch you either. You want to leave, go ahead. You can crawl away and die like all the rest.” He turned and reached for the door latch. “Starting tomorrow, you go back to work.”

  That night Gwen didn’t sleep. She could have taken the coins and run. But a week on the streets had proved that all doors, except the Hideous Head’s, were closed to her in Medford. If she wanted to survive, she’d have to go back south. Four coins were more than enough to reach Vernes or even Calis. And while northerners would charge her with witchcraft for reading fortunes, she could make a small living among her own kind the way her mother had.

  All she needed to do was forget about her mother’s dying wish.

  Should have been a simple thing. What value were the demands of a dead woman in the face of slavery? Maybe if her mother had known … but that was the problem. To anyone else, prophesies were flimsy things, silly things, childish fantasies. Gwen and her mother knew better. Illia had abandoned everything. She’d given up her family, her home, her very life to get her daughter to Medford-and Gwen knew why.

  Her mother had known. She’d read Gwen’s palm and understood the price her daughter would pay. Illia had sent her just the same-made her promise. If she couldn’t trust her mother, who could she trust?

  Besides, Gwen had seen him herself. She’d looked into that man’s eyes, understood who he was, and seen the truth. No matter what, Gwen had to stay in Medford, to survive any way possible. Nothing else mattered, not her comfort, not her safety, dignity, or even her life. Those coins were meant for something more than just food.

  Wait until it’s absolutely necessary.

  This must have been what he had meant. But autumn was no time to declare independence. She should have started planning sooner, done some research, and lined up a place to go-a real place, not this pile of wood. Stane might have murdered Jollin if they hadn’t left, but Gwen could end up killing them all.

  Then Rose spoke, and the sound of her voice was music.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, pointing at the fireplace with the tongs, wielding them like a sword. Her tone was almost giddy. “This is going to be great.”

  Gwen looked at Rose’s cheery face and started to cry. She crossed the room, threw her arms around the smaller girl, and hugged her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Pulling back, she was met with Rose’s puzzled expression. “They’re just tongs.”

  “They’re a start. And yes, we can have a fire, so we won’t freeze.”

  “What are we going to eat?” Abby asked, staring down at the pile of bird droppings with a grimace.

  “I’ll go buy some food,” Gwen replied.

  “Grue won’t sell us any,” Jollin said. “And if he says so, no one in the Lower Quarter will either.”

  Gwen nodded. “We’ll do our shopping in the Merchant Quarter.” She looked around. “We’ll get blankets and some tools too.”

  “Tools?”

  “We’ll need to fix this place up.”

  “What kind of tools?” Etta asked, though with her missing teeth it sounded more like, what kind of thules, and she looked worried, as if Gwen planned to have them rebuild the foundation that afternoon.

  “A broom would be nice, don’t you think? We don’t want to sleep in this dirt.”

  “But we can’t just stay here,” Jollin said. Her hands had moved to her hips and the smile they had shared was already a distant memory.

  Gwen hadn’t determined anything yet. She hadn’t thought any further ahead than that they could camp there for at least one night, but the moment Jollin said i
t-maybe it was the way she said it-Gwen made a decision.

  “Why not?”

  “They won’t let us.”

  “Who are they?” Gwen asked.

  “The city. This isn’t ours.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “I don’t know-but I know they won’t let us just live here.”

  “I don’t intend to just live here.” Gwen was angry. She was tired of having all doors closed to her. Maybe Jollin was right, but she wasn’t about to give up, not now that it seemed like she was finally able to make her own way. What came out of her mouth next was more spite than sense. “Grue made a fortune off us. We’ll do the same thing on our own, right here, and we won’t have to walk around in rags.” She looked at her dirt-caked feet. “And we are going to get shoes, damn it!”

  Jollin rolled her eyes.

  “No one is using this place,” Gwen protested, as if Jollin had just laid out a careful argument. “No one has in years. Why would anyone care?”

  “That doesn’t matter. There are rules about businesses.”

  “What are they?”

  Jollin shrugged. “I’m a stupid whore. How should I know!”

  “Well I’m sick of rules!” Gwen shouted. “Do you want to go back? Then go! I’m sure Stane is still waiting. He wasn’t there for me, you know. Have you forgotten about that? Grue promised you to him. I could have sat downstairs and listened to the rhythm of your head bashing against the bedroom floor. You want to be another stain that Grue needs to hide from the customers? Is that what you want? Is it? Is it?”

  Jollin didn’t respond.

  “I’m the one risking four gold coins! And Grue promised to keep Stane away from me. But not you-oh no-not any of you. He was going to feed each of you to him. Why not? Look at the profit he made from Avon’s death. You’re just whores, just dirt, and there’s plenty more out there. I’m trying to make this work … I’m trying to save everyone, and all I’ve heard is complaining!”