Michael Sullivan - The Rose and the Thorn

“Have you been here before, Albert?” Hadrian asked the viscount, who still rode behind him.

“Oh yes, many times. I have a good friend, Lord Daref, who used to live down that street.” He pointed. “He invited me to his niece’s wedding just four years ago-when I still had clothes-and to a spring social the following year, which I had to skip because I was poor and growing poorer by the day. The nobility are always having parties, and it looks like another is approaching.” He pointed at banners out in front of the castle gates that proclaimed CHANCELLOR’S GALA. “Sometimes I think they publically announce these things just to remind those who aren’t invited how miserable their lives are.”

The wide brick boulevards with their flower boxes and fountains turned into simple streets as they passed under the Tradesmen’s Arch. The sound of cart wheels on cobblestone and the bang of hammers on wood or steel came from all directions. Doors to workshops stood open as people passed in and out, carrying lumber, heavy buckets, and sacks. Unlike the Merchant Quarter, which was on the other side of the castle, there were no shop signs. Most of the buildings in the artisan district were anonymous. They didn’t need to hang signboards, as each workshop spilled their wares out onto porches and into the street. Wagon wheels, five deep, listed against posts, and stacked barrels formed small forests. A cobbler enjoyed the autumn sun, having dragged his table outside where he pounded the heel of a boot. Nearby he displayed a rack of the finished product. Down at the docks, a river barge had arrived and pulleys were hoisting up crates while net-covered boats dodged their way to the fishery. People moved quickly here. Workers walked fast, some even jogged. Merchants breezed through the throng of laborers. They were usually big men in brightly colored clothes. They did not jog but rather sauntered, pausing to study a barrel or bend a boot.

“This is the way, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked as they turned right onto Artisan Row.

Royce looked around, unsure.

“I thought you knew the way?” Albert asked.

“We know the way out better,” Hadrian said. “On the way in we didn’t see much. In fact, I was unconscious.”

“I’m guessing the two of you were caught stealing something?”

“Not really-that is, we were never caught. Stabbed and shot with an arrow, but not caught. And the job wasn’t here. It’s just where we ended up. What we’re looking for is a section of town they call the Lower Quarter.”

Albert shrugged. “As you might guess, I spent most of my time in Gentry Square, with the occasional foray to the Merchant Quarter. I never had occasion to come down this way.”

“I remember that carpenter’s shop.” Royce pointed. “That’s the one she did most of her business with.”

Each of the quarters had its own entrance gate, but vines suggested they had never been closed. By process of elimination they finally found the Lower Quarter and the streets narrowed dramatically once they entered it. Buildings rose to either side like canyon walls. Three-story shops with living quarters on the top floors jutted out over the street, casting the dirt lane in shadow. The buildings were stained and cracked, and instead of workers plying their trade on the street, the poor clustered in makeshift hovels. There were no sewers here, so the streets sufficed, giving the neighborhood a pungent odor.

The farther they went, the worse the conditions became. When they finally turned onto Wayward Street, they knew they had reached the bottom. The buildings were poorly built and leaned to one side or the other. Four rats enjoyed a feast of apple rinds, bones, and waste dumped from a window above. Three stories up, clothes hung on lines to dry, none without a patch, tear, or permanent stain. At the end of the street were two businesses that couldn’t have been more different. On the right was The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse. Without the badly painted sign that misspelled the word hideous , it would easily be mistaken for an abandoned shack. Across from it stood a beautiful building-as nice as any in the Artisan Quarter and as well cared for as any in Gentry Square. It looked like a quaint home with a broad porch complete with a bench swing and flowerbeds. The sign above the door simply read MEDFORD HOUSE.

“You came all this way for a whore?” Albert asked, and Royce shot him a harsh look.

“Don’t call her that if you want to live a long and happy life,” Hadrian said as they dismounted.

“But this is a whorehouse-a brothel, right? And you’re here to see a woman, so-”

“So keep talking, Albert.” Hadrian tied his horse to the post. “Just let me get farther away.”

“Gwen saved our lives,” Royce said, looking up at the porch. “I beat on doors. I even yelled for help.” He looked at Albert, letting that image sink in. Yes, I yelled for help. “No one cared.” Royce gestured toward Hadrian. “He was dying in a pool of blood, and I was about to pass out. Broken leg, my side sliced open, the world spinning. Then she was there saying, ‘I’ve got you. You’ll be all right now.’ We would have died in the mud and the rain, but she took us in, nursed us back to health. People were after us- lots of people … lots of powerful people-but she kept us hidden for weeks, and she never asked for payment or explanation. She never asked for anything.” Royce turned back to Albert. “So if you call her a whore again, I’ll cut your tongue out and nail it to your chest.”

Albert nodded. “Point taken.”

Royce climbed the steps to the House and rapped once.

Albert leaned over to Hadrian and whispered, “He knocks at a-”

“Royce can still hear you.” Hadrian stopped him.

“Really?”

“Pretty sure. You have no idea how much trouble I got into before I learned that. Now I never say anything I don’t want him to know.”

The door opened and a young woman greeted them with a smile. Royce didn’t recognize her. Maybe she was new. “Welcome, please come in, gentlemen.”

“Wow, this is really nice and so genteel,” the viscount marveled as he entered the parlor. “It’s like I’m in the Duchess of Rochelle’s salon again. I’ve never seen a”-he paused and smiled at Royce-“a house of comfort that was so clean and … pretty.”

“Gwen’s wonderful,” Hadrian stated as he stood awkwardly, looking at the dirt on his boots.

A moment later, another girl joined them in the parlor. “Hello, gentlemen, I’m called Jasmine. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Gwen,” Royce told the girl, who he was certain had been called Jollin the last time they were there.

“Gwen?” she replied cautiously. “Ah … Gwen isn’t taking visitors.”

“I didn’t mean that . Ah … I’m Royce Melborn. You might remember us. She-well, all of you-helped my friend and I last year. I just wanted to thank her again, maybe buy her dinner.”

“Oh … ah … wait here just a minute.”

Jasmine scurried up the stairs.

“Jasmine?” Hadrian said, watching her leave. “Didn’t she used to call herself Julie?”

“I thought it was Jollin,” Royce corrected.

“It smells like apples and cinnamon in here.” Albert sat down on one of the elaborately embroidered couches. Hadrian had loaned Albert his thick woolen winter trousers and his cloak, which he had wrapped about him. Underneath he still wore his filthy nightshirt.

“The girls smell even better,” Hadrian said.

“I can only imagine. And it’s quiet. Usually you can hear the creaking of the bed frames overhead. This place is great. Must be expensive, and popular, and yet I never heard of it. Is it new?”