Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“Heard of him working for anyone, maybe even a free-boater?”

Again Bennett shook his head.

“How about your postilion? You have one named Andrew?”

“Never heard of him neither.”

Malet turned back to Hadrian. The sheriff didn’t look pleased.

“What about this horse?” Hadrian asked, slapping what he had concluded must have been Gertrude.

“What about it?”

“This horse was one of the pair used to drag the barge.”

“This your horse?” the sheriff asked Bennett.

The bald man stuck his head out the door, caught some runoff from the roof, then pulled it back in. He wiped off the rain with his sleeve, then said with a grimace, “Never saw that horse before in my life.”

“Well, what about the jewelers?” Hadrian turned to Malet with a bit more emotion than he had planned. This whole affair was making him out to look crazy. What was worse, he was starting to question his own sanity. “Have you heard of any new shops that are opening soon?”

Malet peered at him, rain running off his nose. “No, I haven’t. What about you, Bennett?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“All right, Billy, sorry to get you up. You can go back to bed.”

Without even a parting word, the door closed.

The sheriff’s look turned harsher. “You said you were heading to Sheridan, right?”

Hadrian nodded.

“Maybe you should get going before I start reflecting on how you woke me up before dawn and dragged me out into this piss. If I wasn’t so tired, and you didn’t look as miserable as I feel, I’d lock you up for being a nuisance.”

Hadrian watched the sheriff ride back up the hill, grumbling as he went. He tried making sense of it all, but there was none to be found.

The driving rain soaked Gwen and Rose as they stood in line on the street outside the office of the city assessor. Even in a downpour the Gentry Quarter looked beautiful. The water drained away, running along stone curbs until it vanished altogether through grated sewers. No mud here; the roads were all brick, the houses tall and lovely.

“Is it going to look like that?” Rose asked Gwen. The younger girl looked like an otter with her hair slicked back. She was pointing at the big house across the street. A handsome powder blue building stood behind a small neat fence, its facade dominated by a gable housing a huge decorative window. A square tower rose on one side and extended a full story above the house’s highest point, making it look castle-like. A covered porch wrapped the front and sides with white painted balustrades, which gave the place a frilly, feminine quality.

“If we make the old inn look like that,” Gwen said, “the constable will have us burned as witches.”

“We can do it. I just know we can.”

Gwen offered a little smile. “Well, we’ll see. We’re not dead yet.”

This was the best encouragement she could offer that morning. The rain didn’t help. After shivering all night, they were rewarded with a chilling downpour at dawn. The girls’ faces were pale, lips bluish, teeth chattering. Gwen got them up and working. Mae swept the floor with their new broom, but she might as well have been trying to clean a dirt field. Even in the rain, a few people trotting by to make deliveries to the Head paused to stare. Crazy as the work was, it kept the girls warm and prevented Gwen from screaming.

She left Jollin in charge and took Rose with her to Gentry Square. Without the magical permit, she was afraid Ethan would chase them out, so she planned to be the first in line that morning. The rain would actually help in one regard. Ethan wouldn’t be eager to make his rounds in the storm. Gwen didn’t know what would be required to get a certificate; she just prayed it wouldn’t cost too much.

“Next!” A man with a long coat beat on the wooden porch with his staff.

Gwen grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled her inside.

Instantly the world went quiet. The pour of rain reduced to a distant hum, the sounds of traffic were locked outside, and no one inside said a word. An old man in a doublet with a starched collar sat at a large table. Behind him, four much younger men scurried, shuffling stacks of parchments and leaf-books.

There was no chair on their side of the desk.

“Still raining I see,” the old man said.

“Yes, sir,” Gwen replied with an abrupt curtsy, the sort her mother had taught. She hadn’t performed it in years and felt awkward.

“What can I do for you?”

His question caught her off guard. She had expected to be rebuffed, insulted, or ignored the way the woolen merchant had treated her. Gwen had brought Rose along for that very reason, figuring no one could say no to Rose’s big round eyes, but he wasn’t even looking at Rose.

“Ah … there’s an unused building on Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter across from The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse. I-”

“Hold on.” The old man leaned back and looked over his shoulder. “LQ-quad fourteen,” he shouted, and one of the younger men trotted to a shelf and began flipping through parchments.

“I-” Gwen began again, but the assessor held up a hand.

“Wait until I see what we’re talking about. It’s a big city, and I can’t be expected to know every corner, much less one as small as quad fourteen in the LQ. Not a lot of activity down that way.”

Gwen nodded. Water ran down her forehead and into her eyes. She blinked rather than wipe her face, not certain if doing so would be considered proper. In the silence that followed, she was amazed how loud the sound of dripping clothes could be.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the assessor asked.

“I was born in Calis.”

“I can see that. What’s your name?”

“Gwen DeLancy.”

“Uh-huh. And who’s this with you? Not your sister.” He offered a wry smile.

“No. This is Rose.”

“Where are you from?”

Rose smiled sweetly, playing her part perfectly, because she wasn’t acting. “Near Cold Hollow, between the King’s Road and-”

“I know where it is.”

“We’re…”-Gwen hesitated-“business partners.”

“Really? Don’t see too many young girls running businesses.”

“We’re unusual that way.”

“You are indeed.”

The clerk laid a pile of parchments on the desk before the assessor, who carefully flipped through them. “You’re talking about lot four-sixty-eight, The Wayward Traveler Inn.”

“It’s not an inn anymore-just a pile of warped boards.”

The assessor nodded. “That would explain why no taxes have been paid on the lot in … eight years, seven months, and six days. What do you want with it?”

“I would like to buy it.”

“Buy it?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t buy it.”

Gwen’s shoulders drooped with the finality of the words. “But no one is using it.”

“That doesn’t matter. All the land in the kingdom of Melengar is owned by His Majesty. He doesn’t part with any of it-ever. So unless you have an army that can move in and hold”-he looked again at the parchment-“lot four-sixty-eight against Melengar’s military might, then the king will be keeping it.”

“But wait-what about The Hideous Head across the street? Raynor Grue owns that.”

The old man shook his head and sighed. “I just told you, the king owns everything in his kingdom. Raynor Grue doesn’t own”-once more he looked at the parchments-“lot four-sixty-seven. He merely has the privilege granted by His Majesty to operate a tavern and alehouse at that location.”

“ Privilege ? You mean a permit?”

“Certificate of Royal Permit.”