Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“But I-”

“I said you didn’t hear anything.”

“Why?” Mae asked. “What didn’t she hear?”

Rose, who was nodding off to sleep between Mae and Etta, blinked and looked up.

“It’s just a rumor,” Jollin said.

“What is?” This time it was Rose who asked.

Jollin looked at Gwen apologetically. “Some people say the owner murdered his wife,” Jollin told them. “And then her ghost came back for revenge.”

Gwen watched as they all looked around at the moonlight-pierced darkness that left so many patches of impenetrable mystery. Upstairs they could hear a slapping that Gwen knew was a shutter but that sounded disturbingly like Avon’s head. There was also a faint scratching somewhere, maybe a mouse, maybe a squirrel, maybe a dead woman’s fingernails.

“Good for her!” Rose said so loudly it left each of them staring. “Maybe Avon will do the same to Grue and Stane.”

Jollin looked to Gwen and smiled.

Gwen smiled back. “Maybe she will.”

Alight rain began to fall by the time Hadrian reached the city. From the dock where the towpath ended, a wider and much steeper road climbed the canyon wall. Hadrian dismounted before the climb. The poor animal had hauled a barge all day and didn’t need his extra burden. By the time they reached the top, both were puffing. Their breath formed clouds more from the wet than the temperature, which didn’t seem so cold given the exertion of the climb.

At the top, the streets turned to cobblestone that was tricky to walk on. Still, it was better than the dirt, which the rain would have turned into a muddy mess. Hadrian figured it must be close to dawn. The city had pole lamps, but none were lit. Few people were on the streets, and those who were moved slow, yawning and sneering at the sky. Colnora fit its reputation for size with a maze of streets and hundreds of buildings comprised of homes and shops of every sort imaginable. One store just sold ladies’ hats. How a place could survive selling just hats baffled him, much less one catering only to ladies. Another sold slippers for men-not boots, not shoes, just slippers. Hadrian had never worn slippers in his life. The sign above the big window instructed LEAVE THE MUD ON THE STREET! Hadrian wondered if the store owner had ever seen the street, as the one in front of his shop lacked even a hint of dirt. He felt like a ghost in a graveyard or a thief in a mansion-all the buildings and thoroughfares dark and silent except for the patter and ping of the morning rain.

Hadrian was exhausted. Any reserves he once had were stolen by the climb. He considered looking for an inn or even a dry porch. Anyplace he could get out of the wet and close his eyes for a few hours. Only he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Vivian haunted him. So did the others, but he kept seeing her lying in that cabin, facedown in that dark pool. Her hand bent, her head turned away-that at least was a mercy.

He wandered up the street with his giant horse clopping beside him. Everything since the river had been uphill, as if they had built the city on a mountaintop. The higher he went the nicer the buildings became, and he remembered Pickles’s comment: Everything else runs downhill, but gold flows up . Homes here were made from crafted stone, three and four stories tall with numerous glass windows, gates of bronze-paneled reliefs, and even little towers as if every house was a tiny castle. He wasn’t sure what neighborhood he was in, but he didn’t feel comfortable. Hadrian had never seen such luxury. There were sidewalks and gutters with storm drains that kept the street clear. Street . Hadrian chuckled. Street was too small a word for the thoroughfares near the top. These were boulevards made of luxurious brick and three times the width of any normal avenue with rows of trees, gardens, and fountains lining islands in the center. Most surprising of all was the total lack of horse manure, and Hadrian wondered if they polished the bricks at night.

He wandered, making turns at random, looking to the signboards for clues. He reached a short wall and, peering over, realized how far he’d come. Far below was the river, a small line at the base of a canyon, and what looked like the roof of a boathouse appearing the size of a copper din held at arm’s length.

Certain he’d find nothing at the top, Hadrian descended by a different route. At last he spotted a signboard with a crown and sword. The building it was attached to looked like an errant castle turret made from large blocks of stone complete with a crenellated parapet two stories up. Hadrian tied his horse to the post and climbed up the porch steps. He beat on the door at its base. After the fourth clubbing, he debated drawing his big sword-the butt of it made a decent sledge-but the door opened. Behind it stood a beefy man with a day-old beard and an unfriendly look on a freshly bruised face. “What?”

“You the city watch?” Hadrian asked.

“Sheriff Malet,” he croaked, his eyes only half open.

“There’s been a murder-several in fact-down on the river.”

Malet looked up at the weather with a sneer. “Bugger me.”

He waved Hadrian into a small room with a stove, table, rumpled bed, and enough swords, shields, and other tools of war to outfit a small army.

“Mind your feet and keep your puddle at the door.” Malet was alone and holding a candle that illuminated his face from below, casting shadows that along with his puffed and bloodied face made him look as grotesque as a stone gargoyle. He set the candle on the table and stared at Hadrian.

“What’s your name?”

“Hadrian Blackwater.”

“Where’s Blackwater?”

“It’s not a place.”

Malet, who was wearing only a nightshirt, grabbed a pair of trousers off the floor. Sitting on the corner of a dark wood desk, he stuffed his legs in. “What kind of profession is it, then?”

“It’s just a surname. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Malet glared at him with weary eyes. “What good is it if it don’t tell me something about you?”

“Why don’t you just call me Hadrian.”

“I’ll do that.” He stood up and buckled his trousers. “Where are you from, Hadrian?”

“Hintindar originally-a little village south of here in Rhenydd.”

“Originally? What’s that supposed to mean? You got yourself born someplace else recently?”

“I just meant I haven’t been there in many years.”

“Many years? You don’t look old enough to have lived many years.” His eyes shifted to his swords. “That’s a lot of hardware you’re carrying, Hadrian. You a weaponsmith maybe?”

“Father was a blacksmith.”

“But you’re not?”

“Listen, I just came here to report the killings-you want to hear about those?”

Malet sucked on his teeth. “You know where the killer is right now?”

“No.”

“Bodies likely to get up and walk away soon?”

“No.”

“Then what’s your rush?”

“I’m a bit tired.”

Malet’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Really? I’m so sorry for you. Turns out I’m a little worn out myself. I spent all day stopping a bloody riot from breaking out over on the west side because some dumb bastard spit the wrong way. Two of my men are laid up with knife wounds as parting gifts. And just a few hours ago I got my nose mashed dragging two drunks out of The Gray Mouse Tavern who were busting up the place because they thought it would be funny. I only just collapsed into bed when some other bastard couldn’t wait until morning before hammering on my door. I know I wasn’t asleep long because I still have the same damn headache I went to bed with. Now, I didn’t bang on your door, did I, Hadrian? So don’t complain to me about being tired.” He turned to a small stove. “Care for coffee?”