Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

Being completely soaked, Gwen made no pretense to cover her head or look for high ground. She walked through the pools, splashing as she went. As desperate and precarious as their situation was, she felt good. This was the first time she had walked down Wayward without feeling the suck of the drain. She was under no constraints except those she set for herself. She could go where she wished and stay as long as she liked. With an unexpected grin, Gwen aimed for the biggest puddle and stomped her way through it.

She passed the common well and walked over to the broken cart. Dixon sat next to it, elbows on knees, chin on hands, the water streaming off his face as if he were a fountain’s statue.

Gwen sat down beside him, planting herself in a pool of muddy water. She waited a minute while staring at the cart before them, then said, “Nice day for a cart-watching.”

Dixon rotated his head to look at her, and a waterfall ran off the brim of his hat. “I thought so.”

“Listen, I know you’re a busy man, but you see that old building?” She pointed. “Me and the rest of the girls who used to work at The Hideous Head are going to fix it up.”

“Oh yeah? Been watching-wondering what you all were up to. Thinking of doing something with it?”

“Going to start a brothel.”

“Good for you.”

“Yeah, well, we’re gonna be having a nice evening meal in a little while. Might even be hot if we can get the fireplace to suck smoke.” She shrugged. “Won’t be much, you understand, but if we can get a fire going-there’s that, you know?”

“Sounds nice.”

“We’d like you to join us.”

“Me?” he asked, surprised.

“Don’t get your hopes up. Even the bread is pretty soggy.”

“Oddly enough, that’s exactly the way I like my bread.”

“Then you’ll come?”

He hung his head, draining the gathered water from his hat. “I ain’t got no money, Gwen. At this point, if I had a coin, I’d flip it to see if I’d buy food or drink-with a bottle of hard liquor appearing the most sensible. Food would just extend my misery.”

“Don’t need your money. We’re not open for business yet. I’m just asking you to a meal, nothing else.” Gwen wiped the rain-slicked hair from her face. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I’d like to offer you a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Hard labor.” She saw no reason to lie. “We have a few coins left for supplies, and if we can just straighten that place up a little-make a couple of rooms livable, get some beds-we should be able to make some money.” Gwen thought a moment and laughed. “Rose wants to make it into a palace. All fancy and pretty like the places on the Gentry Square. She wants to call it Medford House, expects it to be the best brothel in the city.”

“We are talking about the old inn, right? The one you just pointed to-the one that’s keeling over like it’s drunk and trying to lean on the tavern next to it?”

“That’s the one.”

“You know you’re gonna need a certificate, and they cost-”

“Already got it.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” She clapped a hand to her chest where her copy of the document was hidden and stuck to her skin. “Signed just an hour ago over at the office of the city assessor.” Gwen nodded and allowed herself a smile. “It may be nothing right now, and it’ll probably never be as grand as Rose wants, but it’s something.”

“What do you want me for?”

“Have you ever seen Mae?”

“Little one, right?”

“Size of a songbird. Ever see a songbird lift a rough hewed oak beam over its shoulder?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“And you won’t.” She touched his arm. “You need an ox for that sort of work.”

“You want me to help you build a house?”

“I want you to help me build the House .”

He smiled at her. “The fact that I haven’t managed to fix this cart in a week doesn’t dissuade you none?”

“If you see a carpenter willing to work for soggy bread, please point him out. Otherwise, at the moment, I’m willing to settle for a strong back.”

“I got that.”

“Can I tell the ladies you’ll be visiting?”

Dixon looked back at the cart as if it were a dead body. “If you got some rope, I could clear that chimney for you.”

“I could get some rope.”

“Don’t buy it. Borrow some from Henry the Fisher at the south docks. He ain’t using it today. Tell him it’s for me. He’ll be…” He looked at her and chuckled. “How about I go get it.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“Best not to send a woman who looks like you across town to a surly fisherman’s bar.” He stared at her a moment and shook his head.

“What?”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Gwen.”

“Thank you, Dixon.”

“What I meant is that no one should ever mistake you for a man.”

“I don’t think anyone ever has.”

“You keep acting this way and they might. For a second there I did.”

“That’s not good news for a woman in my profession.”

“How do you think it makes me feel? Just got a new job and discovered I’m blind all in the same day.”

“Just so long as you’re not deaf and dumb.”

“No promises. You get me as I am.”

“I’ll take it.”

Gwen went with Dixon to find Henry the Fisher. Henry worked off his boat, running nets and traps along the Galewyr, then hauling back his catch to sell to the fisheries at the Riverside docks. That was also where he moored his boat during inclement weather because it was just a stone’s throw from The Three Sheets Alehouse. The tavern would have been a competitor to The Hideous Head if they were in the same quarter, or the same league. Three Sheets was a category better despite catering to the raucous sailors and fishermen of the docks. The walls, ceiling, and even floors were whitewashed and likely mopped out regularly, as Gwen could smell the lye as she entered.

“The owner is a retired ship captain,” Dixon mentioned as they stepped into a room decorated with ship’s wheels, rigging, and nets. “You might want to wait outside.”

“Are you trying to protect me from the depravity of tavern life?”

Dixon smiled. “No, but walking in with you would be like heading up to the bar with drinks already in hand. The Sheets has its own women.”

Gwen waited at the doorway, watching the crowd. The Head never had such business, rainy day or not. All the faces were unfamiliar, not that she remembered everyone with whom she had done business. Outside of a few regulars, most were vague memories. Strangers in the night who she thought she might know better by feel. Few Hideous Head customers came from the docks-too far a walk when thirsty, too far for the return trip when drunk. She knew a few boatmen, though, not that they spent the night chatting about careers, but the smell of fish was a powerful hint. They also all dressed alike. Fishermen and dockworkers had the same woolly uniforms and calloused hands that felt like sandpaper.

If she was going to make Medford House a success, she would need to pull in clients from outside the Lower Quarter, from places like this. Gwen had a good idea how much Grue charged, although he tried to keep that hidden. No sense in admitting the small fortune he was making off their labors. He also didn’t charge the same rate for all the girls. If the girls knew there was a difference, it might cause trouble. She actually thought that was smart. Grue was many things, but stupid wasn’t among them-neither was successful businessman . He got by, maybe better than got by, but being the only tavern on Wayward, he should have been much better off. Where all his money went she had no idea. All she knew was none of it went back into the Head. Grue figured that the men drinking at his rail didn’t care if the floor was dirt or marble. He was right, but he never considered how cleaning the place up might bring in a new crowd-a patronage that did care about such things because they had enough money to afford better places.