The Crown Tower trc-1

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Grue set one foot on the cart and was in the process of climbing up when a rough hand grabbed him around the throat and threw him backward. He landed on the dirt, banging his hungover head against a wheel rut.

  “That’s my cart, Raynor. Touch it again and I’ll break your bloody neck.”

  Walter was in his eyes again, but Grue could just make out Dixon the Carter standing over him.

  “And that goes for the cargo as well.”

  Grue crawled to his feet and dusted himself off, feeling the wet from where his back had hit a puddle. “That was a mistake, carter.”

  Dixon took a step closer, and Grue took a step back.

  “I just want ya to know that I offered to settle this proper. I was willing to let it all be forgotten, and it was you who turned me down,” Grue said to Gwen. “I just want you to remember that.”

  All the construction had stopped and the woodies were staring. The rest of the whores were out too.

  “I want all of you to remember that … when the time comes.”

  Nine hours later Grue was still feeling the sting of his fall and finding more places where the mud stubbornly stuck to his skin. He was back in his tavern, the bear returned to his cave to lick his wounds and sharpen his teeth. He’d been there all day and much of the night, sitting, waiting, and thinking.

  He sat at the table near the bar, trying not to look at the front door, thinking it must be like watched pots. It hurt to move. Grue wasn’t a young man and falls were chancy things. Nothing was broken, though perhaps his reputation had been bruised.

  The story would have run like urine down a drainpipe. Grue has lost control of Wayward. Women push him around. His own whores shove him in the mud and laugh. He didn’t recall anyone laughing; no one had so much as smiled. If anything, Gwen had looked terrified when he hit the street, but that didn’t matter. They likely laughed afterward, and even if they didn’t, the stories would say they did, which made it so. He could have rallied his troops. Willard knew a couple of dockworkers he called Gritty and Brock-big fellas with big fists. The three of them would make a mess of Dixon. And if he was really serious, he’d call Stane-that man was crazy and would do anything for a bottle, a girl, and a blind eye. Dixon would pay, that was a promise he had already made to himself, but that was a present he could wait on.

  Grue had other plans.

  The candle on the table flickered and he noticed the tin candle plate-the only one left. He had it set out special.

  Remembering not to glance at the door, he turned toward the bar and focused on the painting there. He had been looking at it a lot that day; it helped to calm him. The whole of The Hideous Head had been built from the scavenged wood and cannibalized parts of other nearby buildings. In that sense the Head was a genuine product of the Lower Quarter-a child of all that had come before-the bastard son of a dozen parents, disowned by all. The front door, which he refused to look at for fear it would never open, originally came from the Wayward and was still the best door on the street. The windows-the two larger ones that faced the front-came from a failed tailor shop. The smaller window, legend held, was ripped from the hull of a ship that ran aground off the Riverside docks. In these artifacts the tavern was a storehouse that preserved the history of the Lower Quarter.

  That’s how Raynor Grue liked to see it. He had a tendency to decide what the facts were-made life easier that way. He could be a miserable old rotter who lived in squalor, preying on people’s vices, or he could be a reputable businessman living in a treasure house of artifacts and providing amusement to hardworking men. Both were true in their own way. Grue preferred the latter. Partly because he really believed he provided a needed service and partly because he knew this was as good as his life would get.

  The Hideous Head predated Grue by more years than he knew, and much of it was a mystery like the picture of the lake above the bar. Painted on a panel of wood, it had darkened with the years so that now it appeared as a night scene. He had sat for hours staring at that painting, wondering how it got there, who painted it, but most often how he wished he could be there under that dark sky next to that lake. At times, usually after a minimum of six drinks, he could hear the lapping of the water and the honk of the geese that were so subtly suggested with two dabs of paint. The picture was only one of hundreds of the Head’s many curiosities, and over the years he added his own embellishments to mystify the next owner. The tin candle plate on the table was one of those. He’d bought ten from a visiting tinker on a night he was too drunk to be talking business. Nine had vanished over the years-stolen. The one in front of him was the last. He dug it out of hiding to help dress the place up.

  He heard the drum of hooves and the snort of a horse and knew his invited guest had finally arrived. Of the fifteen or so regulars who kept Grue in business and the twenty-odd walk-ins, none rode horses.

  “Willard,” he called across to the bar. “Bring that bottle I have inside the coin box and two glasses-the ones off the top shelf.”

  The front door to The Hideous Head opened, letting in a burst of brisk autumn air that flickered the candle on the tin. Reginald Lampwick entered, sweeping his cloak in an effort to not get it caught in the door. He had on his wide-brim, tied tight under his chin, and a set of gloves that he tugged off one finger at a time as he scanned the tables. Spotting Grue, he strode over, his big boots thumping.

  “Sir.” Grue stood up and dipped his head respectfully.

  “Raynor,” Reginald said, never offering his hand. Grue didn’t expect him to.

  Willard arrived with the bottle and glasses.

  “I can’t stay,” Reginald said.

  “It’s a cold night,” Grue told him. “Made colder by the ride from Gentry Quarter. It’s the least I can do.”

  Grue went ahead and filled the glasses. He would drink both if Reginald walked out. He would need to. No amount of staring at a painting would help him if Reginald didn’t at least listen. Reginald looked at the glass but made no move to touch it.

  “You have no idea what I’m about to say,” Grue told him. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t like me, and just coming here has you raw. You probably cursed me a dozen times already.”

  “You underestimate yourself, limiting the number to twelve.”

  Grue smiled. At least he had read the man correctly. “And over the course of your long journey you’ve decided whatever I say will be a waste of time.”

  “The odds are in favor of such.”

  “You can cause me a lot of trouble, sir. I don’t want to rankle you any more than I already have. Please, drink.” He indicated the bottle. “It’s the best I have. Got it off a trader up from Colnora twelve years ago. Had a fancy label with a picture of a naked woman on it that peeled off a few years back. It’s good and suitably expensive even for your tastes, I should think. If you drink and you like it, then your trip won’t be a total loss no matter what I say.”

  Reginald picked up the heavy glass with a dainty pinch of two fingers. He sniffed first and then sipped. He remained stone-faced, which irritated Grue. The liquor was good-his guest could have given him that much.

  Reginald said nothing, but he removed his hat and cloak and sat down. “So what’s so important that you insisted I visit your miserable excuse for a business?”

  Grue tapped the window with the lip of his glass. “Your boss granted a certificate for the place across the street.”

  Reginald looked, then nodded. “A woman named Gwen DeLancy applied for operation rights a week ago. A brothel, I believe.”

  “A whorehouse to be run by a whore. Does that seem right to you? A foreign one at that.”

  Reginald shrugged. “It’s unusual but not unheard of. I take it you’re not pleased with the prospect.”

  “You’re damn right I’m not. Those tarts over there used to work for me.” Grue swallowed his drink, letting the whiskey burn a path down his throat, and then refilled the glasses. “I make profit from three things: ale, gambling, and
women. Across the street is a third of my profit-more even, as the gambling hasn’t paid well lately.” This was a lie, but he wasn’t about to admit financial success to Reginald. Grue never cared for the Lower Quarter’s merchants’ guild and how they helped the city assessors determine taxes. Traitors, all of them. Being the ward’s inspector, Reginald was the worst of the turncoats and the less he knew the better.

  “Get to the point.”

  “You haven’t submitted a report on the site yet?”

  “No. I have a list and those already paying revenue supersede those just applying.”

  Good news. Grue took a sip, this time letting the liquor linger a bit. “That’s fine with me. In fact, I’d like you to pad that list, push this little operation down a few more names.”

  “Why?”

  “You must have seen it. The whores are putting up a bloody palace over there. Two stories, new wood, windows-I’ve even heard rumor they plan on painting it. The longer you wait, the more work will be done.”

  Reginald took a deep swig that pursed his lips again and squinted his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “What does this have to do with you?”

  Grue held up his glass so that the candlelight showed through the murky liquid, revealing the copper color. “I want you to wait until the place is nearly done, then disapprove the application. The next day I will apply for the same application and you’ll approve that one.”

  “And why in the name of Novron would I do that?”

  “Because I will give you half of everything I make … before taxes.”

  For Grue, the next few heartbeats determined everything. He studied every line on the inspector’s face. Nothing. Reginald would make a great gambler but Grue was better. Even nothing was something. He hadn’t said no.

  He could have thrown up his hands or turned over the table in outrage. The inspector didn’t move at all, not even a twitch of his eyebrows. He was either thinking it over or waiting to hear more-probably both-and that gave Grue his chance.

  “Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve lied about how much I’ve made off those girls?” Admitting this was equal to showing discards. If Reggie didn’t go for the deal, Grue wouldn’t be pulling any income from prostitution any longer, so it didn’t matter. If he went for the deal, they would be partners and he knew a tax inspector would be keen to watch the sales of a business’s interest he was part owner in. Best to admit it now and take advantage of the possible benefits of honesty and enticement. “I made more off them than from ale. Just look over there. You know how they’re paying for all that? They have one bed. One! And that single mattress is financing walls, windows, and doors. Getting a wider business from the Merchant Quarter is what they’re doing. All those woodies and trade folk who got money to throw around. Now, I don’t know if they’re taking it in trade or not, but that’s the kind of profit you can expect. And like I said, that’s just one bed. Once that place is finished, if they do a nice job, it will pull business from all over the city. We add a few more girls, a few more beds, and this sort of liquor we’re drinking now we’ll be using to rinse our mouths with later.”

  It was slight, but Grue saw the corners of Reggie’s lips rise a hair.

  “You’re an honest man and I know you’ve never considered this sort of an arrangement with anyone else you assess.” Grue wasn’t certain this was a lie, but he also wasn’t certain the sun would rise in the morning. “But you work hard riding all over the county, and for what? Not enough I’m sure. And what will you do when you get too old to make the rounds? Be nice to know you’ve got an income-your own little industry pumping money into your purse, wouldn’t it?”

  Reginald no longer sipped or swigged; he downed the remainder of his drink in a single swallow and tapped the glass for more.

  “No one needs to know,” Grue continued, pulling the cork again. “You don’t want this getting out, and neither do I. I have a reputation to maintain down here. People need to believe that I control things-on Wayward Street at least. Those whores are challenging me, and it would be best if it appeared I took them down on my own. So all you need to do is take your time getting to them-just a few more days I suspect will do fine-then break the bad news. I’ll have my application ready. You just check it off, push it through, and I’ll do the rest.”

  The inspector looked around the room with the nonchalance of a bear in a parlor.

  “What do you say?”

  Reginald met his stare and held up his glass, smiling. Grue clinked it with his own.

  CHAPTER 13

  IBERTON

  Hadrian followed behind Royce. There was enough room to ride alongside, as the road north was as wide as three oxcarts, but he hung back. Traveling next to him would feel too friendly, and Hadrian had no such feelings. It was possible that Royce had saved his life on the barge, but for all the wrong reasons. And while he had helped him in the stables, again he had not acted out of friendship or loyalty. Hadrian was nothing but a stone in a stream he needed to cross, useful only so long as his foot was on him.

  The two rode for hours. The sun had set and the moon had taken its place, but Royce hadn’t said a word since they left Arcadius’s office, hadn’t even looked at him. Hadrian could have fallen asleep, or off a cliff, and Royce would have neither known nor cared.

  They traveled through a bleak world, barren of trees. A windswept highland inhabited mostly by rocks and tall grasses, which grew in patches and all leaned the same way, bowing in submission to the prevailing wind. In the distance, he could see rocky mountains, jagged, dark, and grim. This was Ghent-at least that’s what Royce and Arcadius called it. Neither had felt it necessary for him to know the details of their mission. Arcadius appeared to care only that Hadrian go along, not that he be an informed member of the team. This was fine. Hadrian didn’t want to be there at all. Stealing was wrong. He believed that but was unable to muster much indignation, given he’d done far worse over his few short years. He was trying to be better, but so far all he’d managed to do was run away. Hadrian had fled his home, deserted one army for the next, abandoned Avryn for Calis, and finally with no place left to run, he’d returned home. Hadrian had even run away from Vernes when he might have stayed to help Pickles, and he left Colnora rather than attempt to solve the riddle of the barge. Now he was to be a thief, which didn’t sit well with him. But he was stealing only a dusty journal, not the food from a family’s mouth. And if it could change Pickles’s life from one of desperate poverty to one of almost limitless hope, then it might be the most virtuous thing he’d ever done.

  Hadrian tried not to think too much. He didn’t ask questions, which he imagined was the real reason why he knew so little, but it was impossible to spend three days in Sheridan and not learn something. First, he discovered that wool was the number one industry in the area and that there were far more sheep than people. Second, he discovered Ghent, or more precisely the city of Ervanon, was once the capital of three of the four nations of men, having been the home of a short-lived empire. Hadrian found neither of these facts particularly interesting or important. The third item, however, surprised him. Ghent, while being the northernmost region of the country of Avryn, was not a kingdom or principality. Ghent was an ecclesiastical dominion, ruled by the Nyphron Church, and Ervanon was the center of the church and home of the Patriarch. This last bit Hadrian remembered having heard before. His father never spoke of the church, and Hintindar had no priest, but everyone knew of the Patriarch just as everyone knew of the gods Novron and Maribor. This meant he would be thieving from the church. If he hadn’t already angered the gods, this ought to cinch the deal.

  So far Hadrian wasn’t terribly impressed with Ghent. The hillsides had the expressions of old war veterans, scarred and withered. The fields were empty, picked clean, trampled of life. The road had once been paved in stone. Hadrian saw them in patches, now mostly buried in dirt. The whole place seemed used up, sucked dry. Something that may have once been great remained a dust-co
vered memory.

  They came to a bend in the road where it turned more west than north, and there at the turn was a squat fir tree that for the last quarter mile Hadrian had suspected might be a bear.

  Coincidentally, at the same time as they passed the tree, Hadrian finally reached the conclusion that Arcadius was senile. The man was old to be sure. Older than anyone he’d ever met. Older even than his father, who at the time of his departure was the oldest man in Hintindar-though everyone said he carried his age well. The professor didn’t carry his age well at all, and old folks sometimes went batty. One didn’t even need to be that old. Hadrian knew a warlord in the Gur Em who spoke of himself as if he were another person in the room. Sometimes he got in arguments to the point of refusing to speak to himself anymore and insisted others relay messages “to that idiot.” And the warlord was nowhere near Arcadius’s age. The best that could be said for Arcadius was that he carried his insanity well. So well in fact that it took Hadrian all the way to the bear tree to conclude the professor was crazy.

  He had to be. There was just no sense in asking him to pair up with Royce.

  If Hadrian had an opposite in the world, it rode on the dark gray horse ahead of him, and this thought entertained Hadrian for several hours. Even the way he rode was different. Royce held the reins close while Hadrian gave Dancer plenty of slack. Royce crouched and leaned forward; Hadrian slouched back, rolling with the animal’s gait. Hadrian often stared at the road below or even at the saddle as he passed the time, tying and untying knots in the saddle straps. Royce was always turning and peering everywhere-except back, of course.

  Why would Arcadius insist that he go? Why say this was his father’s dying wish? It couldn’t be for the book they were after. As Royce had declared a dozen times, he would stand a better chance alone. As much as Hadrian wanted to prove him wrong, he had to agree. He was a soldier, not a thief. If they wanted to besiege this tower, at least then he could contribute, but as it was, Hadrian saw no purpose in his tagging along. He was dead weight being dragged by a person who resented his presence, and that always made for a fun outing.