“Don’t you want to go see the bodies?”
Malet sighed and raised a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Are they in the street outside?”
“No, down on the river, about three miles I guess.”
“Then no, I don’t want to go see the bodies.”
“Why not?”
The sheriff glanced over his shoulder with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “It’s dark and it’s raining, and I’m not trekking down that ruddy mud slide until the sun comes up. In my experience the dead are a very patient lot. I don’t think they’ll mind waiting a few hours, do you? Now, you want coffee or not?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He began stuffing the stove with split wood stacked beside it. “Go ahead and tell me your story.”
Hadrian took a seat at the little table and explained the events of the last several days while Sheriff Malet made his coffee and continued to dress. By the time he was done with both, the previously black window revealed the soaked street in a growing hazy light.
“And this barge is about three miles down the river along the towpath?” the sheriff asked, sitting opposite him at the little table by the window, his hands hugging the metal cup under his nose.
“Yeah, I secured it well enough before coming here.” The coffee was bitter and far weaker than Hadrian was used to. In Calis, coffee was common in every house, but it was a rare, and he imagined expensive, luxury in Avryn.
“And you never met any of these people before?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve never been to Colnora before now?”
“No, sir.”
“And you insist that a guy in a dark cloak with a hood killed everyone on the boat as well as three others in Vernes, then just vanished.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me, Hadrian. How did you survive?”
“I suppose because I was the only one who was armed. I also didn’t sleep, which is why I’d like to get this taken care of sooner rather than later.”
“Uh-huh. And how did this fella manage to murder everyone on a tiny barge without you ever seeing him kill anyone? You didn’t, right? He butchered all those people, including the woman you were with-this Vivian-and then got away, and you never even saw him swim to shore?”
“I don’t know how he did it.”
“Uh-huh.” He took a loud sip from his cup. “So you’re not a blacksmith … What are you, Hadrian?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
“Looking for work, then?”
“I will be. Right now I’m on my way to Sheridan.”
“The university? Why?”
“A friend of the family sent me word that my father had passed and asked me to visit.”
“Thought you were from Hintindar.”
“I am.”
“But your father died in Sheridan?”
“No, he died in Hintindar-I’m guessing. But the friend lives in Sheridan. He has some things to give me.”
“And the swords?”
“I was a soldier.”
“Deserter?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because you come here with a story of being the only survivor of a slaughter, and that makes you the obvious suspect.”
“If I had killed them, why would I come to you? Why wouldn’t I just disappear?”
“Maybe that’s just the point. Maybe you think by pinning these deaths on Duster I’d never suspect you.”
“Who’s Duster?”
The sheriff smirked and took another sip.
“Am I supposed to know? Because I don’t.”
Malet stared at him a moment with a puzzled look. Then with a rise of his brows, he set his coffee back down, making a little clink. “A year ago last summer, this town was terrorized by a series of exceptionally gruesome murders perpetrated by someone called Duster, or the Duster. The magistrate, lawyers, merchants, some of my men, and a number of disreputable malcontents were butchered and hung up like decorations. Every morning there were new ornaments, gruesome bits of artwork. No one was safe. Even members of the Black Diamond were butchered. The killing spree went on all summer. The streets went empty, ’cause folks were too scared to go out. Commerce was crippled, and I had every bloody merchant calling me every name you can imagine.”
“And this was all because of one guy?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“You never caught him?”
“Nope. The killings just stopped one day. And every day since then the people of this city have given thanks to Novron and Maribor. So you can see why I’m not too pleased to hear your story.”
“What makes you think it’s the same guy?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Few people ever saw the killer, but the ones who did reported he wore a black cloak with a hood.”
Malet glanced out the window, drained his cup, and fetched his coat off a wall peg. “Let’s go see what you left on the river.”
Rain poured as they rode the slick towpath where rivulets etched the mud. Hadrian now understood Malet’s concern about hazarding the trip in the dark. The canyon gave birth to dozens of various-sized waterfalls that saturated the trail. Most of the bigger ones they managed to walk around; some even had wooden awnings built for the purpose that he hadn’t noticed on the way up in the dark. Others they carefully trudged through, and on one occasion they dismounted and led their horses across on foot. Hadrian couldn’t get any wetter, but soaked as he was and still dressed in his useless linen, the gusts that blew through the ravine drove him to shiver.
Hadrian led the way on the single-lane towpath and slowly came to a stop.
“Something wrong?” the sheriff asked.
“Yeah, this is the place. It was right here.”
“The boat?”
“Yes.”
Malet circled his horse, a tired spotted bay with a ratty black mane. “I thought you tied it.”
“I did. Right here.” Hadrian slid to the ground, his feet slapping the muck.
Peering downriver, he found no sign of the barge.
“Well … I guess the rising current might have loosened the rope.” He found the tree he had tied the barge to and saw a slight mark, yet nothing so certain as a rope burn.
Malet pursed his lips and nodded. “I suppose that’s possible.”
Hadrian searched the path for the wedged tow bar, but it, too, was gone. More disturbing was the lack of discarded tack, the horse collars, and the other half of the team. Nothing remained. He trotted farther down the path until he reached a slight bend that gave him a clear view of the open river-still no barge.
“Why don’t we head back up and talk to Bennett at the shipping dock,” Malet said as Hadrian returned. “I’d like to hear what he makes of his missing boat.”
Hadrian nodded.
Nestled in the crux of the canyon walls, just past the river dock, stood a wooden building. It possessed all the charm of a mining shack but sported the elongated frame of a boathouse. A sign mounted on the roof read COLNORA-VERNES SHIPPING amp; BARGE SERVICE.
“Closed! Go way!” they heard when Malet banged on the door.
“Open up, Billy,” Malet said. “Need to talk to you about your boat that was due in today.”
The door drew back a crack and a small bald man peered out. “Whose-whatsa?”
“The barge you’re expecting this morning, it’s not coming. According to this fella, everyone’s been murdered.”
The old man squinted at him. “What are you talking about? What barge?”
“What do you mean, what barge?”
“Ain’t no barge expected in today. Next barge is in three days.”
“That so?” Malet asked.
“Honest,” Bennett replied, rubbing his sleeves.
“You got a barge pilot named Farlan working for you?” the sheriff asked. “He a steersman a yours?”
Bennett shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Heard of him working for anyone,
maybe even a free-boater?”
Again Bennett shook his head.
“How about your postilion? You have one named Andrew?”
“Never heard of him neither.”
Malet turned back to Hadrian. The sheriff didn’t look pleased.
“What about this horse?” Hadrian asked, slapping what he had concluded must have been Gertrude.
“What about it?”
“This horse was one of the pair used to drag the barge.”
“This your horse?” the sheriff asked Bennett.
The bald man stuck his head out the door, caught some runoff from the roof, then pulled it back in. He wiped off the rain with his sleeve, then said with a grimace, “Never saw that horse before in my life.”
“Well, what about the jewelers?” Hadrian turned to Malet with a bit more emotion than he had planned. This whole affair was making him out to look crazy. What was worse, he was starting to question his own sanity. “Have you heard of any new shops that are opening soon?”
Malet peered at him, rain running off his nose. “No, I haven’t. What about you, Bennett?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“All right, Billy, sorry to get you up. You can go back to bed.”
Without even a parting word, the door closed.
The sheriff’s look turned harsher. “You said you were heading to Sheridan, right?”
Hadrian nodded.
“Maybe you should get going before I start reflecting on how you woke me up before dawn and dragged me out into this piss. If I wasn’t so tired, and you didn’t look as miserable as I feel, I’d lock you up for being a nuisance.”
Hadrian watched the sheriff ride back up the hill, grumbling as he went. He tried making sense of it all, but there was none to be found.
CHAPTER 8
MEDFORD HOUSE
The driving rain soaked Gwen and Rose as they stood in line on the street outside the office of the city assessor. Even in a downpour the Gentry Quarter looked beautiful. The water drained away, running along stone curbs until it vanished altogether through grated sewers. No mud here; the roads were all brick, the houses tall and lovely.
“Is it going to look like that?” Rose asked Gwen. The younger girl looked like an otter with her hair slicked back. She was pointing at the big house across the street. A handsome powder blue building stood behind a small neat fence, its facade dominated by a gable housing a huge decorative window. A square tower rose on one side and extended a full story above the house’s highest point, making it look castle-like. A covered porch wrapped the front and sides with white painted balustrades, which gave the place a frilly, feminine quality.
“If we make the old inn look like that,” Gwen said, “the constable will have us burned as witches.”
“We can do it. I just know we can.”
Gwen offered a little smile. “Well, we’ll see. We’re not dead yet.”
This was the best encouragement she could offer that morning. The rain didn’t help. After shivering all night, they were rewarded with a chilling downpour at dawn. The girls’ faces were pale, lips bluish, teeth chattering. Gwen got them up and working. Mae swept the floor with their new broom, but she might as well have been trying to clean a dirt field. Even in the rain, a few people trotting by to make deliveries to the Head paused to stare. Crazy as the work was, it kept the girls warm and prevented Gwen from screaming.
She left Jollin in charge and took Rose with her to Gentry Square. Without the magical permit, she was afraid Ethan would chase them out, so she planned to be the first in line that morning. The rain would actually help in one regard. Ethan wouldn’t be eager to make his rounds in the storm. Gwen didn’t know what would be required to get a certificate; she just prayed it wouldn’t cost too much.
“Next!” A man with a long coat beat on the wooden porch with his staff.
Gwen grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled her inside.
Instantly the world went quiet. The pour of rain reduced to a distant hum, the sounds of traffic were locked outside, and no one inside said a word. An old man in a doublet with a starched collar sat at a large table. Behind him, four much younger men scurried, shuffling stacks of parchments and leaf-books.
There was no chair on their side of the desk.
“Still raining I see,” the old man said.
“Yes, sir,” Gwen replied with an abrupt curtsy, the sort her mother had taught. She hadn’t performed it in years and felt awkward.
“What can I do for you?”
His question caught her off guard. She had expected to be rebuffed, insulted, or ignored the way the woolen merchant had treated her. Gwen had brought Rose along for that very reason, figuring no one could say no to Rose’s big round eyes, but he wasn’t even looking at Rose.
“Ah … there’s an unused building on Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter across from The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse. I-”
“Hold on.” The old man leaned back and looked over his shoulder. “LQ-quad fourteen,” he shouted, and one of the younger men trotted to a shelf and began flipping through parchments.
“I-” Gwen began again, but the assessor held up a hand.
“Wait until I see what we’re talking about. It’s a big city, and I can’t be expected to know every corner, much less one as small as quad fourteen in the LQ. Not a lot of activity down that way.”
Gwen nodded. Water ran down her forehead and into her eyes. She blinked rather than wipe her face, not certain if doing so would be considered proper. In the silence that followed, she was amazed how loud the sound of dripping clothes could be.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the assessor asked.
“I was born in Calis.”
“I can see that. What’s your name?”
“Gwen DeLancy.”
“Uh-huh. And who’s this with you? Not your sister.” He offered a wry smile.
“No. This is Rose.”
“Where are you from?”
Rose smiled sweetly, playing her part perfectly, because she wasn’t acting. “Near Cold Hollow, between the King’s Road and-”
“I know where it is.”
“We’re…”-Gwen hesitated-“business partners.”
“Really? Don’t see too many young girls running businesses.”
“We’re unusual that way.”
“You are indeed.”
The clerk laid a pile of parchments on the desk before the assessor, who carefully flipped through them. “You’re talking about lot four-sixty-eight, The Wayward Traveler Inn.”
“It’s not an inn anymore-just a pile of warped boards.”
The assessor nodded. “That would explain why no taxes have been paid on the lot in … eight years, seven months, and six days. What do you want with it?”
“I would like to buy it.”
“Buy it?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t buy it.”
Gwen’s shoulders drooped with the finality of the words. “But no one is using it.”
“That doesn’t matter. All the land in the kingdom of Melengar is owned by His Majesty. He doesn’t part with any of it-ever. So unless you have an army that can move in and hold”-he looked again at the parchment-“lot four-sixty-eight against Melengar’s military might, then the king will be keeping it.”
“But wait-what about The Hideous Head across the street? Raynor Grue owns that.”
The old man shook his head and sighed. “I just told you, the king owns everything in his kingdom. Raynor Grue doesn’t own”-once more he looked at the parchments-“lot four-sixty-seven. He merely has the privilege granted by His Majesty to operate a tavern and alehouse at that location.”
“Privilege? You mean a permit?”
“Certificate of Royal Permit.”
“Then I would like one of those.”
“What kind of business do you intend to operate?”
“A brothel.”
The assessor tilted his head down and peered first
at Gwen, then at Rose. “I see.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Do you have any family near Cold Hollow?” he asked Rose.
“Yes,” Rose replied. “My mother-I buried her there last year.”
“And your father?”
“If I had one of those, I’d probably still have a mother.”
The man nodded with a solemn expression.
“And you?”
“My parents are dead as well. That’s why we need to start a business.”
The old man pursed his lips and shook his head. “It will cost you two gold tenents for the certificate, plus eighteen copper din for the filing fee. Do you have that much?”
“Ah … yes. Yes, we do.” Only two!
The man appeared surprised and showed her a slight smile. He took a parchment and, dipping his quill, began to write. “You will hereafter be assessed taxes relative to the income you accrue. If you fail to accrue any income within the first six months after the issuing of your permit, or if you fail to pay the required taxes within one month after the last assessed period, to be conducted henceforth on a biannual basis, you will be evicted with no reimbursements of investment.” He spoke rapidly, reciting with a bored tone. “Do you have the two tenents and eighteen din with you now?”
“Oh-yes.” Gwen pulled the purse out from between her breasts.
“The certificate will stand valid for one year. After that, you will need to obtain a new one.”
“We can start living there right away-today, right?”
“You can do whatever you want so long as it is legal, doesn’t threaten the security of the city or kingdom, provides taxable income, and the king approves.”
“The king will visit?” Gwen asked, shocked.
The assessor looked up and chuckled. “No. His Majesty will not be paying a visit. But someone from the Lower Quarter’s merchants’ guild will.”
“And if he approves of what we’re doing, we get to keep it?” Gwen held out the coins.
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