The Crown Tower trc-1

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Suit yourself. You’re the one who has to haul them up and down.” Royce walked back to the edge and stared down.

  He stood on the lip so casually that Hadrian felt his own stomach rise, and he felt a sudden urge to grab him. Why, he didn’t know. An hour ago he would have greeted news of Royce’s death with a sense of satisfaction, perhaps even relief.

  “The world always looks better like this,” Royce said so softly Hadrian almost didn’t hear. The wind pressed the thief’s cloak against his back, the edges flapping to either side like dark wings-a hawk watching for mice.

  “How’s that?” Hadrian asked.

  “Silent, still, dark, and distant. Far more manageable, less troublesome. People are small; they can be ignored.” He raised his head toward the invisible horizon. “The whole world is small at a height like this. Almost makes sense the way it lays out, like watching an ant hive. You never look at one of those and consider the politics, the petty prejudices, and all the vanities that drive them, but it’s the same everywhere. The queen has her favorites, her courtiers. The bigger ants lord over the smaller, the more productive over the weak, and the fortunate over the unlucky. We just can’t hear their squabbles. We’re too far above. Instead, they seem so pure of purpose, so simple, so happy. Maybe that’s how we all look to Maribor and the rest of the godly pantheon.” He peered up at the stars. “Perhaps that’s why they never think to help.”

  He took a breath and glanced over his shoulder as if surprised Hadrian was still there. He checked his own harness, then smiled. “Now comes the fun part. Just try not to burn your hands on the rope by going too fast.”

  With a wicked grin, Royce stepped over the side and dropped. Hadrian could hear the whiz of the rope passing through the rings on Royce’s harness as he flew down the side of the wall, pushing out with his feet, bounding his way until he was standing on the ground after only seconds.

  “Your turn,” he shouted, his voice echoing between the buildings.

  Hadrian shuffled to the edge, unwilling to even lift his feet. His muscles shaking with tension, he lay on his stomach and inched over the side. He hung from the lip, afraid to let go even though he felt the harness supporting most of his weight.

  “Sometime tonight, perhaps?” Royce called.

  Hadrian double-checked the tail rope to make sure it was clear of tangles and not twisted. He wasn’t certain if he was shaking because of fear, the cold, or the tension in his muscles.

  “Let me make this easier,” Royce said. “Imagine twenty tower guards with sharp swords running at you, and twenty more with crossbows shooting, their bolts pinging off the stone. The thing is, you don’t just have to get down before they stab, hack, or shoot you. You have to get down before they realize all they have to do is cut the rope.”

  Hadrian let go, catching his weight on the line and thinking how crazy it was to trust his life to a twisted bit of plant fiber. Dangling, he inched the line through the rings, creeping down the wall. He let a bit more of the line slip through, and he felt himself fall. Terror tore through him. He pulled the tail rope up at an angle against the ring and he slowed quickly to a stop. He paused for a moment, letting his heart slip back down his throat, but he also smiled. He saw how it worked. Royce had told him, but nothing could replace experience. With a push of his feet, he swung away from the wall and let the rope slide. The feeling was a rush of excitement and a sense of grace as he neatly let his toes touch the wall again, pushing off once more. He timed the rope release better and felt like a spider whirling from his web. He planned on really letting himself fly the next time he pushed off, only to discover his feet touching grass.

  He looked at Royce. “We should do that again.”

  Royce and Hadrian were confined to their room for the majority of the next day and told to keep the door locked. After the knifing of Angdon Lerwick, Arcadius preferred no one know they had returned. Hadrian was disappointed because he wouldn’t be able to see Pickles, who had been reassigned to the freshman dorm since being accepted as a student, but he also knew it was probably for the best. After four days on the road and staying up all night climbing the side of Glen Hall, Hadrian was tired. The two slept most of the next day, waking only when a boy delivered what he thought might be breakfast, or perhaps lunch, but turned out to be the evening meal. The steaming bowls of vegetable stew and round loaf of brown rye arrived along with a note from Arcadius asking them to visit his office after eating and to do so while being seen by as few students as possible. There was a postscript for Royce explaining it was all right if some students saw them. This was underlined twice.

  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. Perh
aps 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.”