Gwen smiled at her sadly. That house was likely the home of a baron or sea captain. It had probably cost chests of gold bars and maybe even favors from the nobility. All they had left was a single gold coin and the combined life savings of each, which amounted to a handful of dins and ses. A lovely dream, but impossible. Rose suffered from the faith of innocence.
“Medford House,” Rose said.
“What?” Jollin asked.
“We’ll call it Medford House. Can we, Gwen? It will be the finest in the city.”
No one laughed. They should have. Jollin of all people should have guffawed until she was blue, but she didn’t.
“Medford House it is,” Gwen agreed. “But we’ve got to get this place cleaned up. We’ll need to open for business as soon as we can.”
“How long do you think we have?” Mae asked.
“I don’t know.” Gwen stared out at the gushing rain that made the puddles in the street look like they were boiling. “Everyone help Jollin. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Gwen left the skeletal shelter of the ruined inn and stepped back out into the deluge.
Unlike the Gentry Quarter, Wayward Street lacked fancy gutters and always became a brown pond on days like this. If the rain came down long enough, the water would reach the level of the bridge’s trench and the streets would be swimming in the stench of horse apples and drunkards’ piss.
Being completely soaked, Gwen made no pretense to cover her head or look for high ground. She walked through the pools, splashing as she went. As desperate and precarious as their situation was, she felt good. This was the first time she had walked down Wayward without feeling the suck of the drain. She was under no constraints except those she set for herself. She could go where she wished and stay as long as she liked. With an unexpected grin, Gwen aimed for the biggest puddle and stomped her way through it.
She passed the common well and walked over to the broken cart. Dixon sat next to it, elbows on knees, chin on hands, the water streaming off his face as if he were a fountain’s statue.
Gwen sat down beside him, planting herself in a pool of muddy water. She waited a minute while staring at the cart before them, then said, “Nice day for a cart-watching.”
Dixon rotated his head to look at her, and a waterfall ran off the brim of his hat. “I thought so.”
“Listen, I know you’re a busy man, but you see that old building?” She pointed. “Me and the rest of the girls who used to work at The Hideous Head are going to fix it up.”
“Oh yeah? Been watching—wondering what you all were up to. Thinking of doing something with it?”
“Going to start a brothel.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, well, we’re gonna be having a nice evening meal in a little while. Might even be hot if we can get the fireplace to suck smoke.” She shrugged. “Won’t be much, you understand, but if we can get a fire going—there’s that, you know?”
“Sounds nice.”
“We’d like you to join us.”
“Me?” he asked, surprised.
“Don’t get your hopes up. Even the bread is pretty soggy.”
“Oddly enough, that’s exactly the way I like my bread.”
“Then you’ll come?”
He hung his head, draining the gathered water from his hat. “I ain’t got no money, Gwen. At this point, if I had a coin, I’d flip it to see if I’d buy food or drink—with a bottle of hard liquor appearing the most sensible. Food would just extend my misery.”
“Don’t need your money. We’re not open for business yet. I’m just asking you to a meal, nothing else.” Gwen wiped the rain-slicked hair from her face. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I’d like to offer you a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“Hard labor.” She saw no reason to lie. “We have a few coins left for supplies, and if we can just straighten that place up a little—make a couple of rooms livable, get some beds—we should be able to make some money.” Gwen thought a moment and laughed. “Rose wants to make it into a palace. All fancy and pretty like the places on the Gentry Square. She wants to call it Medford House, expects it to be the best brothel in the city.”
“We are talking about the old inn, right? The one you just pointed to—the one that’s keeling over like it’s drunk and trying to lean on the tavern next to it?”
“That’s the one.”
“You know you’re gonna need a certificate, and they cost—”
“Already got it.”
He blinked. “You do?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” She clapped a hand to her chest where her copy of the document was hidden and stuck to her skin. “Signed just an hour ago over at the office of the city assessor.” Gwen nodded and allowed herself a smile. “It may be nothing right now, and it’ll probably never be as grand as Rose wants, but it’s something.”
“What do you want me for?”
“Have you ever seen Mae?”
“Little one, right?”
“Size of a songbird. Ever see a songbird lift a rough hewed oak beam over its shoulder?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“And you won’t.” She touched his arm. “You need an ox for that sort of work.”
“You want me to help you build a house?”
“I want you to help me build the House.”
He smiled at her. “The fact that I haven’t managed to fix this cart in a week doesn’t dissuade you none?”
“If you see a carpenter willing to work for soggy bread, please point him out. Otherwise, at the moment, I’m willing to settle for a strong back.”
“I got that.”
“Can I tell the ladies you’ll be visiting?”
Dixon looked back at the cart as if it were a dead body. “If you got some rope, I could clear that chimney for you.”
“I could get some rope.”
“Don’t buy it. Borrow some from Henry the Fisher at the south docks. He ain’t using it today. Tell him it’s for me. He’ll be…” He looked at her and chuckled. “How about I go get it.”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“Best not to send a woman who looks like you across town to a surly fisherman’s bar.” He stared at her a moment and shook his head.
“What?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Gwen.”
“Thank you, Dixon.”
“What I meant is that no one should ever mistake you for a man.”
“I don’t think anyone ever has.”
“You keep acting this way and they might. For a second there I did.”
“That’s not good news for a woman in my profession.”
“How do you think it makes me feel? Just got a new job and discovered I’m blind all in the same day.”
“Just so long as you’re not deaf and dumb.”
“No promises. You get me as I am.”
“I’ll take it.”
Gwen went with Dixon to find Henry the Fisher. Henry worked off his boat, running nets and traps along the Galewyr, then hauling back his catch to sell to the fisheries at the Riverside docks. That was also where he moored his boat during inclement weather because it was just a stone’s throw from The Three Sheets Alehouse. The tavern would have been a competitor to The Hideous Head if they were in the same quarter, or the same league. Three Sheets was a category better despite catering to the raucous sailors and fishermen of the docks. The walls, ceiling, and even floors were whitewashed and likely mopped out regularly, as Gwen could smell the lye as she entered.
“The owner is a retired ship captain,” Dixon mentioned as they stepped into a room decorated with ship’s wheels, rigging, and nets. “You might want to wait outside.”
“Are you trying to protect me from the depravity of tavern life?”
Dixon smiled. “No, but walking in with you would be like heading up to the bar with drinks already in hand. The Sheets has its own women.”
Gwen waited at the doorway, watching the crowd. The
Head never had such business, rainy day or not. All the faces were unfamiliar, not that she remembered everyone with whom she had done business. Outside of a few regulars, most were vague memories. Strangers in the night who she thought she might know better by feel. Few Hideous Head customers came from the docks—too far a walk when thirsty, too far for the return trip when drunk. She knew a few boatmen, though, not that they spent the night chatting about careers, but the smell of fish was a powerful hint. They also all dressed alike. Fishermen and dockworkers had the same woolly uniforms and calloused hands that felt like sandpaper.
If she was going to make Medford House a success, she would need to pull in clients from outside the Lower Quarter, from places like this. Gwen had a good idea how much Grue charged, although he tried to keep that hidden. No sense in admitting the small fortune he was making off their labors. He also didn’t charge the same rate for all the girls. If the girls knew there was a difference, it might cause trouble. She actually thought that was smart. Grue was many things, but stupid wasn’t among them—neither was successful businessman. He got by, maybe better than got by, but being the only tavern on Wayward, he should have been much better off. Where all his money went she had no idea. All she knew was none of it went back into the Head. Grue figured that the men drinking at his rail didn’t care if the floor was dirt or marble. He was right, but he never considered how cleaning the place up might bring in a new crowd—a patronage that did care about such things because they had enough money to afford better places.
She turned and studied the street. The riverside docks were reputed to be the sorriest places in the city, but Gwen didn’t think it looked any worse than Wayward Street. While the fish stink was arguably stronger than the bridges’ stench, the general appearance of the locals convinced Gwen the docks had nothing on the Lower Quarter for penury. She should be able to do just as well as Three Sheets.
A man walked by with a rack of fresh-cut boards. A girl passed with a bolt of cloth. A bricklayer set his empty hod near the door before going in. This was the Artisan Quarter. Everything Gwen could ever want was right here—the workers to build her house and the clientele to pay for it. She just needed to get the cart rolling downhill.
Dixon came out alone.
“Not there?”
“He’s there. Where else would he be? But he sees no reason to step out in the rain just to give me a length of rope. We can grab it off his lady.”
“He’s married?”
“His boat.”
She followed him around the wooden pier. The Three Sheets was just two buildings away from the river; only the fishery shed and the fleet office separated them. She imagined men docking and delivering their catch to the first, picking up their pay at the second, and spending it all at the third.
Gwen rarely had a chance to see the big river and she still couldn’t. Riverboats with single and double masts blocked much of the view; the rain hid the rest. Tied to bollards and cleats, boats bobbed in the swells. Most were covered in taut stretched tarps while a few others were upended on the dock; their buoys, nets, and oars tucked underneath. Each had names painted across the bows: Lady Luck, Sister Syn, Bobbing Beulah.
“Why are all boats named after women?” she asked.
Dixon shrugged. “I named my cart Dolly after the horse that used to pull it. I was used to shouting at her to get moving. Just kept doing it after the old girl died.”
Dixon found Henry’s boat, the Loralee, and searched under the tarp. As he did, Gwen stared off at the shipyard that lay upriver. She could see a big scaffold like a gallows with an arm that extended out over the boat slips, from which dangled a huge block and tackle. Even in the rain she could hear the beating of hammers.
“Do you know where there are carpentry shops?” she asked when Dixon returned with the rope looped over his body like a sash.
“Artisan Row would be a good place to look.”
Gwen smiled. She should have known.
They were coming back up the boardwalk when Gwen saw her first familiar face. Stane glared at her with the expression of a dog finding an intruder in its yard.
“Looking for me?” he asked, taking no notice of Dixon.
“No,” she said, and kept walking.
Stane grabbed her wrist. “You came all this way—you should at least say hello.”
“Let me go.” She pulled.
His fingers tightened. “It was very rude the way you walked out. Did you come to apologize?”
“I don’t think she likes the way you’re holding on to her,” Dixon said.
“Bugger off,” Stane said, his eyes never leaving Gwen.
“I don’t think you understand,” Dixon went on. “My horse died a year ago.”
Stane looked up at him for the first time, puzzled. “So what?”
“So because I don’t have a horse no more, I’ve spent the last year pushing and pulling a heavy cart around the streets of this city.”
“And I care, why?”
“Because you ain’t nearly as heavy, and I might accidentally break something when I throw you in the river.” Dixon took hold of the arm that was holding Gwen, and Stane winced as he let go.
Dixon shoved him hard against the wall of the fishery shed.
“I have a lot of friends who work around here,” Stane said. “I wouldn’t come back.”
“And if I were you, I’d stay out of the Lower Quarter, because I don’t like men who hurt women, and I don’t need a lot of friends.”
Dixon stayed between Stane and Gwen until they were back to the street.
“Thank you,” Gwen said. “But you should be careful. He was the one who killed Avon.”
Dixon stopped. His face reddened and he turned back.
“Don’t,” she said, putting a hand on his arm.
“Is that why you all left?”
“He was coming back for the rest of us, and Grue had no problem with that.”
“I would.”
Gwen smiled and took his hand. “Congratulations, you’re the first.” She started forward again, but Dixon hesitated, still looking back.
“Leave him. He’s not a threat anymore.”
“He bothers you again, and he won’t be anything anymore.”
They trudged on through the rain, back to Artisan Row. Each quarter had better and worse areas, and the block that backed up against the entrance to the Lower Quarter was the artisan’s version of Wayward Street. The Row they called it, a line of narrow two-story shops so tiny that much of the work was done on the street. Usually this jammed traffic, forcing people to maneuver around cutting tables, looms, and racks, but the rain was keeping everyone inside, where little appeared to be getting done.
The signboard on one of the buildings read WILLIAMS BROTHERS BUILDERS. Beneath the words were a hammer and saw.
“How’s this?” she asked Dixon.
“One’s as good as any other, I guess.”
She nodded and paused under a porch eave to twist the water out of her hair and skirt before entering. She drew looks. The rain had kept the men from working and a dozen stood, sat, or paced the interior, which was a bed of sawdust and woodworking tools. She marched to the counter, straightened up to make certain to look the man behind it in the eye, and said, “I want to hire you to build a house at the end of Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter.”
No one answered.
“Lady here is speaking to you,” Dixon said, his voice a low growl.
“Ain’t no lady here, friend,” a man who’d been seated on a stool said. He was blond, thin, wore a leather apron, and had a stick of graphite tucked behind his right ear.
“Ain’t no friend here neither,” Dixon replied.
Gwen pulled the little bag from between her breasts, fished out the last gold coin, and held it up. “How much will this buy me?”
The man on the stool got up and took the coin from her, scratching it with his thumbnail. An eyebrow rose as did the tone and volume of his voice. “Depends on the pr
ice of lumber. What were you looking for?”
“I want a house, like the one across the street from the office of the assessor in Gentry Square, to be built on the foundation of a mess presently at the end of Wayward Street. I want two stories and lots of bedrooms plus a spacious parlor, a drawing room, and … and a small office—yes, a main floor office as well. Oh, and I want a porch that wraps around the front and sides with fancy spindles holding up the handrail.”
The builder stared at her as dumbfounded as if she had been drinking paint.
“It’ll take a lot more than this.”
“I suspected as much. But I’ll settle for one room for now.”
“A room?”
“Build me one room inside that ruin—just four walls and a door. Oh, and fix the roof so it doesn’t leak. You can reuse whatever you salvage from what’s there. Can you do that in return for this coin?”
The man looked at the coin, thought a moment, and then nodded.
“Good. Do that first and we’ll be able to start earning more. As coins come in, I’ll have you do some more. Deal?”
“You’re that Calian whore. The one who works at the Head?”
“I was.”
“Was what? A Calian or a whore?”
Dixon took a step forward, but Gwen stopped him with a touch of her hand.
“Both. I’m from Medford now, and I’m a business owner.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “What business?”
“Medford House, the best damn brothel in the city.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Strange—you’re the one building the place.”
CHAPTER 9
THE PROFESSOR
Hadrian stayed five days in Colnora while the rain poured, sleeping most of the time. The rest he spent wandering the streets, visiting taverns and inns, looking for that familiar hooded head. He never found him but saw Vivian’s face everywhere. Just about everything from his journey since leaving Vernes had been erased. If not for the horse, he might have concluded it had all been a bad dream. When the rain finally relented, he was glad to get on his way. He needed to put distance between himself and the strangeness, to add miles to separate him from still more ghosts.
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 12
