“I haven’t done anything,” Pickles said.
“So you say, but even if you haven’t, maybe you know something about it. Either way you might feel the need to disappear, and latching on to someone above suspicion would be a good way to get clear of trouble, wouldn’t it?”
“But I don’t know anything about the killings.”
The officer turned to Hadrian. “You’re free to go your way, and you’d best be quick. They’ve already called for boarders.”
“What about Pickles?”
He shook his head. “I can’t let him go with you. Unlikely he’s guilty of murder, but he might know who is. Street orphans see a lot that they don’t like to talk about if they think they can avoid it.”
“But I’m telling you, I don’t know anything. I haven’t even been on the hill.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“But—” Pickles looked as if he might cry. “He was going to take me out of here. We were going to go north. We were going to go to a university.”
“Hoy! Hoy! Last call for passengers! Barge to Colnora! Last call!” a voice bellowed.
“Listen”—Hadrian opened his purse—“you did me a service, and that’s worth payment. Now, after you finish with their questions, if you still want to work for me, you can use this money to meet me in Sheridan. Catch the next barge or buckboard north, whatever. I’ll be there for a month maybe, a couple of weeks at least.” Hadrian pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. “If you come, ask for Professor Arcadius. He’s the one I’m meeting with, and he should be able to tell you how to find me. Okay?”
Pickles nodded and looked a bit better. Glancing down at the coin, his eyes widened, and the old giant smile of his returned. “Yes, sir! I will be there straightaway. You can most certainly count on me. Now you must run before the barge leaves.”
Hadrian gave him a nod, picked up his bag, and jogged to the dock where a man waited at the gangway of a long flat boat.
CHAPTER 2
GWEN
Gwen knew she would be too late the moment the screams began on the second floor. The ceiling shook, casting dirt into the drinks of those huddled at the bar. Overhead, the pounding sounded like he was taking a club to Avon’s head.
No, not a club. He’s hammering her head against the floor.
“Avon!” Gwen yelled, charging the stairs.
Unwilling to slow for the turn, she slammed her shoulder into the wall at the top of the flight, knocking loose a little mirror that fell and shattered. Gwen sprinted down the hall. The screams sounded inhuman, like something from a slaughterhouse—the futile cries of the doomed.
Stane is killing her.
Gwen clawed at the latch and pushed, but the inside bolt had been thrown. The door refused to budge. She threw herself against it, but the wood ignored her slight weight. Inside, the pounding softened, turning mushy. No longer a muffled thump, it had become a wet smack. The screams faded to whispered moans.
Gwen wrenched open the door across the hall where Mae had been entertaining a redheaded man from East March. Mae screamed in fear. Whatever business they had been engaged in had stopped with Avon’s shrieks. Gwen kicked at the loose post of the bed’s footboard. The carpenter had constructed the frame from solid stumps of maple, but he’d done a lousy job fitting the pieces together. Two more kicks and the leg toppled, collapsing the mattress to the floor along with Mae and the redhead from East March.
Running like a jousting knight, Gwen drove the post into Avon’s door. The impact threw the ram from her hands but left a sizable dent in its surface and splintered the frame. Scrambling, she grabbed it once more just as Raynor Grue appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Damn it, ya stupid bitch! Stop!”
With every ounce of her strength, Gwen rammed the door again, aiming for the same spot and hitting it, more or less. The frame shattered, and the door burst open. The momentum carried her through, and she landed on the floor in a pool of blood.
“Great Maribor’s beard!” Grue cursed, standing in the doorway.
Stane was on top of Avon, his hands still around her neck. “She wouldn’t stop screaming.”
Avon’s eyes were open but not seeing, her blond hair stained crimson.
“Get outta here!” Grue said, grabbing Gwen and dragging her into the corridor. “Go downstairs! Ya owe me for a new bloody door and a bed.”
“Is she dead?” Stane asked, still straddling her with his naked legs, his skin slick with sweat, his chest splattered with blood.
Grue nudged Avon’s head with his boot. “Yeah, ya killed her.”
“You bastard!” Gwen launched herself at Stane.
Grue caught her and shoved her backward, causing Gwen to stumble and fall. “Shut up!” he yelled.
“I’m sorry, Grue,” Stane offered.
Grue grimaced and shook his head, surveying the blood spreading across the wooden floor. Gwen could tell from the way he stood and the downward curl of his mouth that he wasn’t seeing Avon as a beautiful young girl gone before her time but merely as a mess to be cleaned up.
Grue sighed. “I don’t want no apology, Stane. You’re gonna have to pay for this. Avon was popular.”
“How much?”
Grue thought a moment the way he always did, chewing on a toothpick and sucking on his teeth. “Eighty-five silver tenents.”
“Silver? Eighty-five? She only cost six coppers!”
“Ya done killed her, ya stupid son of a bitch! I’m out everything she would have made in the future. I should charge ya gold!”
“I ain’t got that much.”
“You’ll have to get it.”
Stane nodded. “I’ll get it.”
“Tonight.”
Stane hesitated, then agreed. “Okay, tonight.”
“Gwen, get a bucket and clean this up. You, too, Mae. Red, you’re done for the night. Go on and get outta here, and send Willard up on your way out. I’ll need help getting her body down the stairs.”
“You can’t let him get away with this,” Gwen said through clenched teeth as she got to her feet. The tears hadn’t started yet, and she wondered why. Maybe she was still too angry. The smashing of the door had gotten her blood up, and she hadn’t calmed down yet.
“He’s paying for the damages, just like you will.”
“In that case, I’m not done damaging.” Gwen picked up the bedpost and charged at Stane’s head. She might have made it, but Grue caught her arm. He spun her, striking her cheek hard with the flat of his hand. She fell backward again. The bedpost hit what was left of the doorframe and rolled harmlessly down the hall.
“Get your ass downstairs! Mae, get in here with that bucket, and where’s Willard? Willard!”
Gwen sat, dazed. If he had used his fist, she would’ve been down awhile, maybe spitting teeth. But Grue knew how to handle his girls, and he avoided marking them if he could. With the heat still on her cheek and the jaw-rattling pain reaching around her face, Gwen got up and ran downstairs. Everyone in the bar got out of her way as she barreled through the front door of The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse, heading straight for the sheriff’s office.
The night was cold with the blow of an autumn wind, but she barely noticed as she ran through the cracked-mud streets of Medford. No one was out—all the decent folk were asleep.
She didn’t knock, just shoved the door open.
Ethan was asleep in a chair, his head nestled in his arms on the table. Gwen kicked the table’s leg, and he popped up like a flushed quail.
“What the—” He sounded angry.
Good.
She wanted him furious. She wanted him seething.
“Stane just murdered Avon at The Hideous Head,” she yelled, making Ethan flinch. “The bastard hammered her head against the floor until he split her skull. I told Grue he’d do it. I told him not to let Stane back in, but he didn’t listen. Now get over there!”
“All right, all right.” Ethan grabbed his sword belt off the cha
ir and buckled it as he followed her out.
“He blackened Jollin’s eye just three days back,” she told him as they walked down Wayward Street. Ethan wasn’t moving fast enough to suit her. Not that time was essential. Avon wouldn’t be getting any better, and Stane wouldn’t be getting any smarter. Still, she wanted to see justice done, done right and done fast. Stane didn’t deserve to live any longer than Avon, and every breath he took was a crime in Gwen’s eyes. “And he broke Abby’s arm a little more than a month ago. Grue was a fool to force Avon to go with him. She knew, and she was scared, but that’s how Stane likes us. Fear excites him, and the more excited he gets, the more damage he does. And Avon—Maribor love her—she was absolutely terrified. Grue should have known better.”
The door to the tavern was still open, casting a long slant of light across the porch and into the rutted road. Maybe she had broken that one too; she hoped so. The drunks had left, likely chased out. Grue and Willard were bringing Avon down, wrapped in the blanket from the bed. One end was dripping a dark line down the steps.
“What ya doing here, Ethan?” The cords of Grue’s neck stood out from the strain. He wasn’t yelling, just angry, which meant he was back to normal.
“What do you mean? Your girl came and got me.”
“I didn’t send her.”
“Well, she woke me out of a dead sleep, so here I am. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Grue said.
“Don’t look like nothing. Is that Avon in the blanket?”
“What’s it to you?”
“It’s my job to make sure justice is done. Stane upstairs?”
“Yep.”
“Well, get him down here.”
Grue frowned, hesitated, then set his end of the burden down. “Go get him, Willard.”
As angry as Gwen was at Stane and Grue, she couldn’t help feeling she was also to blame. More than anyone, she had known what would happen. She should have done something—gotten Avon out of there—only she couldn’t even get herself out. But maybe she could have done something, anything. She didn’t. Now Avon was dead.
Gwen stared at the little puddle forming around the end of the blanket and wondered how she was still standing. Guilt tore at her insides, pulling her apart. How is it possible to remain upright after being gutted?
Stane came downstairs buttoning his pants, finger streaks of blood smeared across his sun-bleached shirt. There was more on his face where he’d wiped his nose.
“You kill this girl?” Ethan asked.
Stane didn’t speak. He just nodded and sniffled.
“That’s a serious crime. You understand that, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gwen spotted Grue glaring at her. She’d pay later, but it was worth a beating to see Stane suffer the same punishment as Avon. It wouldn’t be the same, of course. Ethan wouldn’t bash his head against the floor over and over. They would just hang him. It would be public, though. He’d suffer humiliation before he died. At least that would be something.
Ethan brushed the hair from his face, letting his hand rub the back of his neck. He chewed his lower lip while staring at the blanket-wrapped body. Finally, he took a breath and addressed Stane. “You’re gonna need to make restitution.”
“What’s that?” Stane asked nervously.
“You need to compensate Grue for damages. Pay him for his loss.”
“We done settled that already,” Grue said. “He’s gonna pay me eighty-five.”
“Silver … right?” Ethan asked, nodding. “Seems fair. Any other damages?”
“A busted door, mirror, and bed, but that was her doing.” Grue pointed at Gwen. “She’s gonna pay for them.”
“She bust up the place trying to get that one out?” Ethan gestured at the blanket.
“I suppose so.”
“Seems to me she wouldn’t have done all that if he wasn’t beating on Avon, so Stane is gonna take care of those too. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sheriff nodded. “Okay, then.”
Ethan took a step back, and Gwen saw him start to turn. “That’s all? That’s not right. He needs to pay.”
“He is. Eighty-five and—”
“A woman is dead! He killed her and needs to die.”
“A whore,” Grue corrected.
Gwen glared.
“A whore is dead, and that’s not the same thing. No one is gonna execute a working man for getting a little carried away.”
“She’s dead!”
“And I’m the injured party. If I say the settlement is fair, then that’s the end of it. This never was any of your concern. Now shut up.”
“You can’t do this,” Gwen said to Ethan.
“She got any family?” he asked.
Gwen shook her head. “If any of us had family, do you think we’d be here?”
“Then that makes him responsible for her. He’s satisfied, so this affair is done.” He turned back to Grue. “Make sure you get the body out of the city walls before noon, or the constable will have my ass, and I’ll be after yours to replace it. Understand?”
Grue nodded and Ethan left.
The two men hoisted the bundle again and headed for the front door. As they passed Gwen, Grue said, “Guess who’s getting a beating when I get back?”
Grue and Willard headed out, leaving Gwen staring across at Mae and Jollin. Between them stood Stane.
He gave her a smile and a wink. “I’m gonna enjoy having you.” Lowering his voice, he added, “As soon as I get me another eighty-five saved up.” He took a step toward her.
“He won’t ever let you in here again.”
“Grue?” He laughed. “Avon ain’t the first. There was another girl in Roe. If I can pay, they’ll wrap you in a bow.” He looked at Mae and then Jollin. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget you two neither.”
He gave another little laugh that turned Gwen’s stomach. Stane walked to the door, but instead of leaving, he stuck his head out and looked both ways before closing it. When he turned around, he was grinning and his eyes were fixed on Gwen.
“Run!” Jollin shouted.
As Gwen ran for the back door, she heard him curse. He fell hard, probably slipping in the puddle of Avon’s blood. It sounded like a chair or a table fell over, too, but by then Gwen was running in the dark, her skirt hiked. She sprinted up the alley past the tanner’s shop to the “bridges,” a couple of narrow wooden planks crossing the river of sewage that ran behind the buildings. She was too scared, going too fast. Her feet skipped off slick, unsteady boards, and she fell forward into the muck. Gwen’s arms sank to the elbows, but she saved her face.
She expected him to be on her, bloody hands closing around her throat and forcing her into the foul soup, which smelled of urine and dung. She spun, but he wasn’t there. No one was. Gwen was alone.
Pulling her arms out, she wiped them on any clean parts of her dress she could find. She found few, and in her frustration the tears finally came. Sitting next to the filthy trench, she sobbed so hard her stomach hurt, and each gasp of air was thick with sewage.
“I don’t know what to do!” she cried out loud. “Tell me what to do!” She scooped a fistful of manure and mud and flung it as hard as she could. Tilting her head back, she screamed at the sky. “Do you hear me? I’m not strong enough. I’m like my mother and I’ll break.” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “And if I don’t break first, he’ll kill me. Me, Jollin, Mae, and all the rest. I can’t … I can’t wait anymore. Do you hear me? I can’t. It’s been five years! I just can’t wait for him any longer.”
She shivered, panting for air and listening for a reply, but all she heard was the wind.
CHAPTER 3
THE BERNUM RIVER BARGE
Hadrian crouched on the deck of the river barge as two large workhorses drew the boat up the Bernum River. Lifting his head, he peered through the morning mist, trying to catch a glimpse of something familiar. He could see farmland nestled in the hills bey
ond the bank and the faint outlines of small towns. Everything seemed strange. This was an alien land, filled with odd people, customs, and accents. He felt uncomfortable and out of place, never certain just how to act or what to say. Everyone, he imagined, saw him for the outsider he was, although at that moment he guessed he was less than a half day’s walk from home.
The plump man came out of the boat’s cabin, slapping his chest and taking deep breaths. “Crisp morning, eh?” he said, looking at the sky.
He might have been speaking to the god Maribor, but Hadrian replied just the same. “Chilly. I’m not used to the cold.” He had selected this spot to be sheltered from the wind. He wore everything he owned, including two pairs of pajama-loose pants, his traveling and dress thawb, a wide-wrap belt, his cloak, and a head wrap. Even so, he was still cold. He planned to buy wool when they reached Colnora, something heavy that weighed like armor. He felt naked without the extra pounds.
“You’re just up from Dagastan, right? Warm there, I imagine.”
Hadrian tightened his thawb. “Linen weather when I left.”
“I’m envious.” The man drew his robe tight. He glanced around the barge with a disappointed scowl, as if expecting some miraculous transformation to have occurred overnight. He shrugged and mimicked Hadrian by settling down out of the wind until they faced each other. “I’m Sebastian of Iber.” The man extended a hand.
“Hadrian,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “You’re with the other two?” Hadrian had seen them the night before, Sebastian and two companions, all dressed similarly in finely crafted robes. For all his rushing, the barge ended up being delayed as dockworkers strained to hoist numerous trunks on board. The three had shouted orders and reprimanded the workers for each bump or jostle.
The man nodded. “Samuel and Eugene. We’re in the same business.”
“Merchants?”
Sebastian smiled. “Something like that.” His sight drifted to the swords slung at Hadrian’s sides. “And you? Soldier?”
He grinned back. “Something like that.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Well said. But seriously, there’s no reason for arms. The rest of us don’t wear steel, so I don’t see why you’re bothering … Oh, right … I see!”
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 3
