They ate in silence with Royce tearing the loaf in half and handing Hadrian the larger piece. This act kept Hadrian’s mind occupied throughout the meal. Is he being kind? Is this some subtle peace offering? Or is it some sort of logic on his part that because I’m bigger I should have the larger piece? The half he handed Hadrian wasn’t that much larger and he finally settled on the conclusion that Royce never noticed the difference in size.
They made their journey downstairs without incident, and Hadrian was certain no one had seen them. By the time they reached the professor’s office, the sun had set and Arcadius’s room was illuminated only by candlelight. He had dozens melting about the chamber with the same haphazard pattern as everything else.
“All rested and fed I trust?” the professor asked.
They both nodded.
This appeared to amuse Arcadius somehow as he started to smile, then wished it away. “I’ve finished with the book. Fascinating tale, although most was in very poor penmanship. Quite choppy and disconnected near the end. Be that as it may, it is ready for you to take back. Which I strongly suggest you do immediately, as your presence here is precarious.” The professor walked around his desk, stuck his finger into a cage, and petted the head of a sleeping chipmunk. “You picked a bad time to cause trouble. Councilor Sextant of the Ervanon Delegation visited the morning after you left. He makes a habit of dropping by in the hopes of catching us doing something unseemly. I suspect the entire delegation believes all we ever do here is corrupt the nation’s youth, indoctrinating them into heresy with the allure of witchcraft, which most believe is what I teach.”
“What do you teach?” Hadrian asked.
Arcadius looked surprised and glanced at Royce.
“He doesn’t tell me anything,” Hadrian said.
“Apparently not, but I am just as guilty, aren’t I? I am the headmaster of lore at this university.”
“Lore?”
“History, fable, myth, and mysteries. All things that came before their order and secrets.”
“And Hall’s notebook was a book of lore?”
“Absolutely—but as I was saying, Sextant and his men arrived the morning after you left. With him came his usual entourage of a dozen knights and footmen and, unfortunately, Baron Lerwick, Angdon’s father. He was obviously distressed to discover his son was attacked in—as Angdon framed it—an attempted assassination.”
This brought a smirk and puff of air from Royce.
“Angdon identified the two of you as the culprits. His friends confirmed his story. They asked me, of course, and I explained I knew nothing of the incident and that you both left the night before without a word. Lerwick was incensed that his son had been mistreated by two common ruffians and demanded Sextant send the knights to deal with you.”
“How did they know which way we went?”
The professor shrugged. “I think he sent a party in both directions.”
“So those were the knights who came to the tavern in Iberton?” Hadrian asked.
“Yes, and they will likely be back soon.”
“And if they see us here—” Royce said.
“Exactly. So I think it’d be best if you were gone before first light. You also might want to delay returning, as I suspect this will take some time to work out.”
“How long?”
“Until Angdon is no longer present to identify you. Perhaps a year.”
“I don’t see a reason to return at all,” Royce said. “He puts this book back, and we’re done, right? My debt to you is cleared?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s no reason for me to ever return, correct?”
Arcadius nodded. “True, but you might still wish to. How many places in the world can you go right now where you will be welcome? It might be nice just to visit on occasion. And I would appreciate eventually learning how the two of you fared on this adventure. Perhaps you will shock me by returning together. As I said before, I think you would make a fine team.”
“He and I, a team?” Royce smirked.
“Yes, a team, partners, as in two people working together, pooling their talents for a common goal. In elvish they have a word for it. They call it—”
“Riyria,” Royce finished for him.
“You know elvish?” Hadrian asked.
Royce glanced as if annoyed that Hadrian was still there.
“The point is,” the professor went on, “if over the course of this job you discover a mutual benefit in each other’s skills, you might consider continuing together.”
“Is that what this is all about, then?” Royce asked. “Because that’s not going to happen.”
“Yeah,” Hadrian agreed. “I don’t see either of us willingly sticking around the other. I’m not sure we could live in the same country. We’re opposites.”
“That’s the point, really,” Arcadius said. “What good is it to have duplicates? Opposites extend your range, your knowledge, your capabilities. If the two of you could learn to get along, you could be quite formidable, because you are so different. You are both at crossroads, unsure where to go next. Learn to trust each other, and you might find your way.”
“Uh-huh.” Royce stood up. “May I go start packing now, Teacher?”
Arcadius frowned.
Royce took this as a yes and walked out.
“Well, Hadrian, I hope you at least take me seriously.”
“I don’t have any plans for the future, but…” He sighed. There was just no way. He couldn’t think of any possible means to salvage the situation. He realized he liked the old man and wanted to leave him with hope. The old professor had gone to great lengths, but what he wanted was impossible. “It’s like you’re asking me to trust a poisonous snake. He’s a wild animal. One minute he seems fine and then I discover he’s just setting me up. I can’t trust him. Once he pays back whatever he owes you, I think it would be dangerous to keep him around. Once that restraint is gone … well, I know I’d never get any sleep.”
“That would be exhausting, wouldn’t it? Living in fear, unable to trust that the person next to you isn’t about to cut your throat.”
“Absolutely.”
Arcadius took off his glasses and set them on the desk before stepping around it to face Hadrian squarely. His eyes softened, the white brows dropping. He laid his hands on Hadrian’s shoulders. “And that’s how Royce spends every day of his life. I believe there’s a human inside that cloak, Hadrian. You just have to find a way to break through to it.”
“I suppose I’d need a reason first,” Hadrian said. “Honestly, if it wasn’t for Pickles, I’m not sure I’d even be doing this tower thing.”
A troubled looked washed over the professor. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Why? They’re still letting him in the school, right? You got him enrolled?”
“I did arrange for his enrollment, but, Hadrian, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Did he do something wrong?”
Arcadius ran a hand over his mouth, letting his fingers drag into his beard. “Pickles … is dead.”
Hadrian didn’t understand. What does he mean dead? As in not breathing, dead?
“Did you say dead?”
The professor nodded.
“I’m talking about Pickles. You know. The boy from Vernes—the one with the big smile. That’s who I’m talking about.”
“Yes, that Pickles. He’s dead.”
Hadrian just stared, still incapable of making sense of it.
“Angdon accused Pickles of trying to kill him.”
“But—”
“Angdon’s friends supported the claim. I did what I could, but the evidence was on Angdon’s side. Five established and trustworthy students—the sons of nobles—against the story of an orphan boy no one knew and who had a strange way of speaking.”
“What happened?”
“Pickles was executed for conspiracy to murder a noble-man.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?
How could you let that happen? Pickles didn’t have anything to do with it. It was Royce who stabbed that kid!”
“I’m sorry. I did what I could.”
“What do you mean? You’re the master of lore. People call you a wizard! You’re telling me a wizard couldn’t stop them from killing a little innocent kid?!”
Hadrian’s hands were on his swords. He wanted to draw them on instinct. Usually when he felt this way his face was splattered with blood and he could swing at something. The only thing in front of him was an old man who looked near tears himself.
“I’m not a wizard,” Arcadius said. “There were wizards once. People who could perform real magic, but they all vanished with the fall of the empire. I’m just a teacher. My influence extends to students, not to the theocratic rule of Ghent. The church holds absolute authority here, and they brook no interference. They already see me as a borderline heretic. Twice I’ve been brought up on charges and barely escaped punishment. All I could do was tell them the truth, which believe me I did. But as I said, they don’t put much value on what I have to say.”
The professor lowered his head and turned away, walking slowly back to his desk.
Hadrian felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach—a wretched, empty sensation that made it hard to breathe. It wasn’t Arcadius’s fault. It wasn’t even Royce’s fault. Sometimes awful things just happened for no sensible reason. That didn’t stop him from being angry. He’d just have to keep being angry until he wasn’t anymore.
“What did they do with him?”
“I don’t know. He was taken out of the school. Surprisingly, he wasn’t made a spectacle. None of the students were even aware of it, I don’t think. He was executed on one of the nearby hills. I asked after his body. They refused to tell me even that much, maybe because they were taking it to show Angdon’s father.”
Arcadius sat down, bending over his desk and lowering his head into his arms. “I’m so very sorry, Hadrian.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when I first arrived?”
“I had planned to, but you were in such a state about Royce leaving you. I thought it best to let you have a decent night’s sleep.”
“Thanks for that,” Hadrian said. “And I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t your fault.”
The professor nodded. “I suppose this means you aren’t going to finish the job with Royce. Now that I’m no longer of any use to you.”
“Of course I’ll do it.” Hadrian let his palms glide over the sword pommels. “You held up your end of the bargain. You got Pickles enrolled. It wouldn’t be fair for me to back out now just because…”
Hadrian’s throat closed up unexpectedly. He swallowed several times, trying to clear it as tears welled up. He struggled to keep his breathing even, clenching his teeth.
“Thank you, Hadrian,” Arcadius said. “And for what it’s worth, I honestly believe that everything happens for a reason.”
“What possible reason could there be in Pickles’s death?”
“Perhaps that remains to be seen.”
CHAPTER 15
ASSESSING THE FUTURE
The old pile of decay was gone from the end of Wayward Street. In its place was a beautiful new building with windows, dormers, and a fresh coat of paint—mostly white with accents of powder blue along the trim. White came cheap; blue was expensive, but Gwen remembered the house in Gentry Square and wanted at least a splash of that spirit, and that made all the difference between being just another building and something special.
The porch was just framed out, visitors still had to climb up crates and walk across planks to enter, and the interior had a long way to go. Gwen focused all the early effort on the outside, confident that a good exterior would get customers in the door. After that, she figured the girls would keep them there. She was right. People came from as far away as the Merchant Quarter to see the oddity going up at the end of Wayward Street. Gwen hadn’t the money for a sign, and just about everyone simply called it the House.
Gwen was proud of what they had accomplished and stood smiling as she took Inspector Reginald from the Lower Quarter’s merchants’ guild on a tour. She tried to keep him to the finished rooms, but he insisted on exploring off the path, into the sections that were filled with excess lumber, sawdust, and tools. Normally the house was filled with the sounds of hammering, but Gwen had shooed the carpenters away for the duration of the inspection. However, she couldn’t do anything about Clarence the Roofer and Mae, who were conducting business in the “grand suite.” Mae knew to keep quiet, but she had no control over her client, and Clarence was a grunter.
“Two weeks…” the inspector repeated as they strolled through the parlor.
He had been saying that a lot, and to Gwen’s dismay, it was just about the only thing he had said. The man was hard to read. His expression remained flat, the tone of his voice so consistently dull as to make silence jealous.
“How did you pay for all this?”
As if on cue, overhead Clarence went into a staccato series of pig imitations. Gwen merely smiled and looked up.
“Yes, yes, I understand the nature of your business,” Reginald said. “But this is a lot of expense”—he peered at a doorframe—“and very good craftsmanship. And it has been only two weeks.”
“We attract customers from the Artisan and Merchant Quarters, so we can charge more.”
“This isn’t the only brothel in the city.”
“But the services we offer are of better quality.”
“I’ve seen your stock, and while I would exempt you personally, I’m afraid your girls are no better looking and, in most cases, not as attractive as those found at other establishments.”
Stock. The word shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. To him this was an enterprise like pig farming, and Clarence wasn’t doing anything to dispel that idea. Overhead the bed had shifted and the headboard was starting to bang against the wall. She made a mental note to have the frames secured to the floor and the joints oiled.
“Appearances matter to a point,” she told him. “A pretty girl turns heads and attracts visitors. I imagine those other businesses get a lot of first-time traffic, but we benefit from repeat business and word of mouth.”
“So what’s your secret?”
“We aren’t slaves, and we get to keep all that is made. For many of us, this is the first time we’ve ever been in control of our lives, in control of ourselves. You’d be surprised how motivating that can be. I guess you could say that these women try harder to please than at other brothels. Customers must like that, because they keep coming back.”
She led him back out to the parlor.
“As soon as I can afford a stove, we’ll offer food and perhaps drinks. I hope this is just a stepping stone. We’re all working here for a chance to improve. Maybe one day this won’t be a brothel anymore. It’ll be a lavish inn like it once was.” She sighed, knowing that sounded naïve.
Gwen followed the inspector out and down to the street, where he turned and looked back at the place. “You’ve done an amazing job here,” he said, standing with his thumbs in his belt and nodding.
“So you’ll approve the certificate?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What!” Gwen was certain she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Why?”
“Because you’re smart and I believe you could make a success of this place. What kind of message does that send? What if women started demanding apprenticeships in guilds? You are a foreigner, and that’s not the way things are done here. It’s my job to protect this city from dangerous ideas like yours.”
He turned to walk away.
“No, wait!” She couldn’t let him go, not after everything they had accomplished. She grabbed the inspector by the hand. “Please, no. You have to change your mind. You can’t just shut us down.”
“It’s not my decision. I only give my recommendation to the assessor. Of course, in twenty years he’s never overridden any of my recommendations, but
maybe this will be the first.”
She refused to let go of his hand. She turned it, opening his palm, pulling it into the light. He twisted and pulled free, but not before she had seen what she was looking for. He glared at her and wiped his hand as if she carried disease, then mounted his horse. “I have three other surveys to make, one all the way out in Cold Hollow, so I expect you have until tomorrow before the assessor orders you out.”
“Grue put you up to this.”
She saw a reaction on his face that looked like shock. “As I said, you’re smart—too smart.”
He wheeled his horse and trotted up Wayward Street, leaving her alone between The Hideous Head and the House.
Gwen watched a carriage roll by the office of the city assessor. White with gold trim, the coach was spotless, as if the owner’s servants polished it daily. Along the streets of the Gentry Quarter, men in capes and doublets escorted ladies dressed in stunning gowns whose ground-sweeping hems remained pristine. The colors were shocking: reds, golds, yellows, greens. The spectrum was not limited to the clothing. Banners, flags, streamers, even the awnings of street vendors whipped in the breeze, adding brilliance and spectacle. And of course there were the buildings. As she and Rose waited once more for their chance to enter the little administrative office, the two faced the beautiful house across the street. Powder blue. What had been a beautiful building to her the last time was now a marvel. With her newfound experience, she understood the price of each balustrade and windowpane. Medford House was but a shadow, and yet it was theirs—their home, their dream. She couldn’t let Grue take it away.
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 24
