The Crown Tower trc-1

by Michael J. Sullivan

  She looked up, puzzled.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “That’s never happened before.”

  “What?”

  “The story on your right hand is shorter than the story on your left. This is so odd.”

  “Are you messing with me?”

  “Huh? No, of course not.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to read.”

  His hand was so large, the lines so clear it was an easy read even in the dim light.

  A small boy in a little farmhouse between two pretty maple trees. His father is a strong man who works a plow like it’s part of his body. She can’t see his mother and guesses she died giving birth. So much of the skill was in the guessing, working from the clues available to complete the picture.

  The farm burns; there is cracked earth where crops should have been; there are floods and storms. Gwen had no idea of the order; scenes were often out of sequence. There is Dixon as a young man, standing in the rain outside of a pleasant house. It isn’t his; it belongs to a girl with red hair. He’s in love, but her father is giving her to another, a richer, older man. Dixon stands in the downpour watching the wedding from the far side of the stone wall. No one can tell he’s crying. Heavy rain always reminds him of that day. Gwen is sitting next to Dixon, next to the cart in the downpour on Wayward Street-the day she hires him. He’s thinking of the redheaded girl.

  Dixon’s horse goes lame, and he has to kill her. He cries that day too. He pulls the cart himself then. He trudges along country roads. Then the cart gets away from him on a hill, smashes against a rock, and the axle breaks. He doesn’t have the money to repair it. In another rainstorm, he stands on the edge of the Gateway Bridge above the Galewyr, staring into the current. He comes very close to jumping. She couldn’t tell if it was because of the cart, the redheaded girl, or something else. She couldn’t even be sure if it was in his past or future.

  A great battle, a war. Dixon is dressed in makeshift armor fighting in the Gentry Quarter near the front gates of the city. He charges a man and-

  This was where the stories in the hands diverged.

  “Your right hand stops in a battle here in Medford. Your left says you’ll die in a different fight, at a fortress years later.”

  “But either way I die fighting?”

  “Looks that way, but not for many years.”

  “That’s good … I guess. Anything in there about you?” he asked hopefully.

  She nodded. “We’ll remain good friends our whole lives.”

  “Friends?”

  “Friends.”

  He sighed.

  “Not what you were hoping for?”

  “It’s still a good fortune. A damn good one, actually. Better than…”

  She was still looking at his palm and stopped hearing him as she saw something new.

  Dixon and his cart, a horse pulling it this time, but a different horse. They aren’t in the city-someplace else, maybe a farm. Sheep are bleating and it’s raining, a storm, a terrible storm. Men lying on the ground, facedown in large puddles. “More will be coming. Leave us or they’ll know you helped.”

  The voice. It reached out of Dixon’s future. It spoke to her.

  “Over here!” An old man waving. “Help them-please. You have to get them out of here. Just dump the wood and hide them in the cart. Take them away.”

  Lightning flashes. No longer raining, but dark. The cart is on Wayward Street. One of the men climbs out. Small, weak, he staggers and beats on the door of the livery, calling for help. He is covered in blood.

  Dressed in his own blood.

  “What’s going on? Gwen, what are you seeing?”

  She was shaking. “Have you bought a new horse?”

  “No, I … ah…”

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about it. The money you paid me went to fixing the axle on my wagon, and I was saving up for … There’s this horse this guy up in the Art-Q is selling cheap. A bit on the old side, but-”

  “Is it black with one white ear?” she asked, and Dixon looked stunned. “What are you going to do if you get the horse?”

  “Well, I was thinking of talking to you about this later, but with this place being near finished, I thought I’d resume my hauling business. I’d still be here most of the time-in case you needed me, you know. But I already got an offer. One of the woodies, he needs a load of lumber taken north, and the guy says the farmer who ordered it has a load of wool for the weaver back here in Medford. In one trip I’d make more than I have since before my other horse died.”

  “When are you leaving?” She grabbed him by the shoulders, her voice rising.

  “I don’t know that I am.” Dixon looked flustered. “I don’t actually have the money for the horse yet. I was thinking about taking a loan against the money I’d make by delivering the lumber, but that’s dangerous, and I wasn’t sure-”

  “Do it.” She almost screamed the words but forced herself to keep in control.

  “You think it’s a good idea? What if something goes wrong? I’d be-”

  “I’ll cover the loan. I’ll buy the horse outright if necessary.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s very important that you deliver that lumber.”

  “It is?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why?”

  “It just is. Get the horse, get the lumber, and leave as soon as you can. Promise me.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.” She took his face in her hands and pushed up on her toes to kiss him. “And, Dixon, when you get there, if it’s raining and you find two men who are hurt, bring them back here, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you so very much.”

  She looked back out at the street where the rising wind of a coming storm was whipping the canvas.

  He’s coming!

  CHAPTER 16

  THE CROWN TOWER

  The Crown Tower loomed before them, casting a shadow across the land like a behemoth sundial with Iberton village marking bedtime. Hadrian had watched the dark arm sweep the plains and hillsides, the tower growing larger with each mile. They were closer than before, having passed the turnoff to Iberton, which was already no more than a small cluster of buildings behind and far below. Each step brought them higher on the mounded plain and closer to the giant they were to challenge, but all Hadrian could think about was Pickles.

  He could still see the boy’s face, his giant smile, and the happy tone in his voice. You are a great knight, yes? The swords were all he had seen. Pickles had watched everyone exit the ship in Vernes and figured anyone with three swords had to be a wealthy knight, but Hadrian had let him down.

  He was going to take me out of here. We were going to go north. We were going to go to a university.

  Hadrian would have been kinder to have left him in Vernes. He’d still be chasing bags in the streets along the docks, still dodging the press-gangs, and maybe one day he would have found a real knight-someone who wouldn’t leave him to die.

  Hadrian was making a habit of leaving.

  He had wanted to see the boy’s body, to say goodbye. He couldn’t even do that. Hadrian also imagined they had disposed of Pickles in a ditch or unmarked common grave. No ceremony would have been wasted on the likes of a poor child from a faraway city.

  Hadrian squeezed the reins and glared up at the tower as if it were the source of everything evil. If he hadn’t been here … if he had been back at Sheridan, Pickles would still be alive. The thought was made all the more bitter, considering Hadrian hadn’t done anything on the last trip.

  This time the two had traveled mostly by night, keeping their sleep patterns aligned with the job, as well as avoiding the expected return of the Seret Knights, who they imagined would ride by day. Royce turned off the road and cut through brambles and brush to a low, wet area concealed by a briar patch. The center had been cleared, and the remains
of a campfire identified it as Royce’s base. The tower was only a few hundred yards away, up a steep slope within a maze of narrow stone streets. At this range it no longer looked like a tower. The base was too wide. Without tilting his head up, Hadrian might have thought it a slightly curved wall.

  Royce was the first to break the silence. “Can you cook?” he asked without looking up as he gathered leftover wood and began stacking it for a fire. “This is our last chance to eat. We’ll enter the city as soon as the sun is below the horizon and will begin the climb once the stars appear. After the job, we’ll move fast. No stopping. No eating.” He glanced up. “Well, I won’t be. You can do as you like. In fact, I’d prefer if you went a different way than I do. I’ll likely head east toward Dunmore, so you can pick any other direction.” He returned to his pack for tinder. “It will be a long exhausting climb, even with the harnesses, so a solid meal is important. I wouldn’t chance a fire otherwise. I’m no cook, so if there’s any truth to what Arcadius said about us being opposites, I’m hoping you’re a chef.”

  “Pickles is dead,” Hadrian said.

  Royce stared at him a second. “What?”

  “You heard me-you hear every stupid thing anyone ever says. That’s the most annoying thing about you. Well, not the most-it’s actually really hard to order them. The list is so ridiculously long.”

  “Are you talking about that kid at the school?”

  “Of course I am. What do you think I’m talking about?”

  Royce shrugged. “Since I was asking if you could cook, I thought you were actually talking about, well, pickles.”

  “I’m talking about Pickles! He was executed for the crime you committed.”

  “Uh-huh.” Royce nodded. “How does that answer my question about your ability to cook?”

  “Uh-huh?” Hadrian repeated, astonished. “That’s your response? They execute a kid because of what you did and your reply is uh-huh?”

  Royce dragged a dead log over to sit on as he worked at starting the fire. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “So you did know he was dead?”

  “Like you said, I hear every stupid thing anyone ever says.”

  “And you don’t feel any remorse?”

  “Nope. He was hung by the sort of people who live in this tower, at the request of Angdon and his daddy. I wasn’t even there.”

  “You committed the crime that Pickles was executed for.”

  Royce peered at him, puzzled. “I stopped them from battering you senseless, and you consider that a crime?”

  “I didn’t need your help.”

  “Really?” The tone dripped with sarcasm.

  “Yes, really.”

  Royce made a sound somewhere between a breath and a chuckle. “Five against one, each of them armed with clubs and you with just your hands? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

  “Why didn’t you just join me? Two against five would have given them a lot to consider, especially if you had brandished your dagger.”

  Again Royce looked at him confused, almost as if Hadrian were speaking in a different language. “What world do you live in?”

  “One in which you don’t stab boys and allow other boys to die for it.”

  “Boys? What does their age have to do with it? If someone comes at you with a stick, does it really matter how old they are?”

  “Yes. They’re just kids. They aren’t old enough to understand what they’re doing.”

  “And neither are you.”

  “Me? You’re not much older.”

  Royce, who had just coaxed a flame to life and was carefully feeding it twigs, paused. “It doesn’t matter. I imagine if you were Arcadius’s age you’d still be just as ignorant. Here’s something you really should have already learned: If someone intends you harm, and you have the opportunity, you kill them. Anything else leads to complications that you don’t need.”

  “But you didn’t kill him.”

  “Exactly. If I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I made a promise, so I’m on a leash, and Arcadius has rules-one is not to kill the students.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’re the type to care about promises. Why haven’t you just killed Arcadius? That’s how you solve everything, isn’t it?”

  “That was very much my plan, only the pledge I made wasn’t to the old professor, and the promise I made was not to kill Arcadius-at least not until I had repaid my debt to him.”

  “Who did you promise?” Hadrian wondered what sort of person could instill such conviction in a man without morals.

  “None of your business. Now, can you cook or not?” Royce left the fire and went to dig around in his pack. He pulled out a pot and a spoon and held them up. “Well?”

  “You don’t care at all that Pickles died?”

  Royce scowled and stuffed the pot and spoon back into his satchel. “Not in the slightest. I also don’t see how this conversation benefits us.”

  “It benefits me because I want to know how you can be so goddamn cruel.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

  “Being an orphan, I have no idea, but you might be right. Now, can we eat?”

  “I’m not going to eat with you. And I’m sure not going to cook for you.”

  “Fine.” Royce stomped out the fire. “Your loss. Truth is I was just being nice. Thought you’d like a last meal. You realize you’re going to die in a few hours, right? Look up there.” He pointed at the tower. “Does that look like Glen Hall to you? Do you think we’ve got a rope that long?”

  This hadn’t occurred to Hadrian, but he was right. They had long ropes, but nothing that would reach the top.

  “Because you can’t climb, we’ll have to carry extra coils up and do the height in sections. That means you’ll need to disengage from one rope, support yourself on these tiny anchors, and attach yourself to the next.” Royce raised his hand above his head. “Feel that breeze? Down here, it’s a nice gentle breath. Up there, you’ll swear Maribor himself was trying to blow you off the stone. Your arms will get tired. Your muscles will cramp. You’ll be dying of thirst but be too scared to drink. And it will be cold-real cold. That wind and the autumn night will numb your fingers until you won’t be sure how tight you’re holding the rope. You won’t be able to get enough air either-taking a deep breath will push your body out into the wind, and your muscles will be too tight, too tense to allow it. Then, I’m guessing about the three-quarter mark, that’s when you’ll slip. Stupid mistake. Fingers too numb to know better, muscles too tired to care. You’ll hit the street, bursting like a leather water-skin.

  “Since you have the book and they’ll find it on you, and because Arcadius already said that if you fall on your own it’s not my fault, my obligations will be fulfilled. I’ll drop down a second or two later, careful to avoid the mess. There’s no guardhouse or patrol that works the base of the tower, so even if an alarm is raised, I could take my time and walk back here before anyone could catch me. Of course I’d run, and since we’re leaving the horses saddled and packed, I’ll ride in that direction.” He pointed into the dark. “In just minutes I’ll be far enough away that no one will ever find me, and in all likelihood they will guess you were the only thief. Assuming you are recognizable as human.”

  He reached into his food sack and pulled out a piece of salt pork. “Then I’ll be able to find a nice comfy spot and celebrate with a veritable feast. I just thought you’d like to have yours now.”

  Hadrian glared at him. “I’m going to climb that tower. I’m going to put the book back, and then I’m going to show you what this big sword on my back can do. And we’ll see who hits the cobblestones first.”

  The city of Ervanon was a study of opposites. While not much larger than a quaint country hamlet, it contained more buildings per foot than Colnora. The streets were cobbled, narrow, and numerous. Instead of thatched cottages, every
building was made of stone-not haphazard fieldstone as in Windham, but large cut limestone, mini-cathedrals each. And while each of the homes and shops were never more than three stories, each gathered at the base of the Crown Tower that sprouted like some mythical beanstalk out of a central plaza of colorful mosaic tiles.

  The city also did not have a wall.

  Dressed in heavy coils of rope looped around their shoulders, Royce and Hadrian crossed the gully out of the scrub, through a narrow gap between two buildings, and into the constricted alleys that forced Hadrian sideways. The sun was down. Only a trace of light remained in the sky and few torches or lanterns had been lit. Pressed between the blocks of stone and anchored by the rope, he waited while Royce peered out at the streets.

  Hadrian could hear wheels and hooves that echoed off the stone. A distant voice called out followed by a whistle. A brief bit of laughter and the clap of a wooden door. Beneath it all, Hadrian heard music, a low vocal chorus chanting words he didn’t know. There was no telling its source. When it came to sounds, Ervanon was a house of mirrors.

  After pausing for several minutes, Royce sprinted into the street, and Hadrian chased after. Royce wasn’t likely to abandon him again, but having been fooled once, Hadrian wasn’t taking chances. The job was personal now, and he would see it through.

  The streets were not much wider than the alley. A single apple cart could block an entire thoroughfare, and wall-mounted cisterns, which acted as public basins, had to be recessed into niches. Otherwise anything with wheels and sides higher than two feet would become stuck. Royce led them into one such niche where the two stood to either side of an empty sink, allowing a carriage to pass. Built for Ervanon’s streets, the black coach was noticeably oblong, as if squished and stretched by the crush of stone. This city was a world of its own, and Hadrian began to wonder if the inhabitants might all be unusually tall and slender or flat like sliced bread.

  They squeezed through another alley. The walls were not precise and the space between the two adjacent buildings tapered narrower as they went. Royce wriggled through fine, but Hadrian needed to press his back flat and suck in his breath to squeeze through.