Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

She turned and studied the street. The riverside docks were reputed to be the sorriest places in the city, but Gwen didn’t think it looked any worse than Wayward Street. While the fish stink was arguably stronger than the bridges’ stench, the general appearance of the locals convinced Gwen the docks had nothing on the Lower Quarter for penury. She should be able to do just as well as Three Sheets.

A man walked by with a rack of fresh-cut boards. A girl passed with a bolt of cloth. A bricklayer set his empty hod near the door before going in. This was the Artisan Quarter. Everything Gwen could ever want was right here-the workers to build her house and the clientele to pay for it. She just needed to get the cart rolling downhill.

Dixon came out alone.

“Not there?”

“He’s there. Where else would he be? But he sees no reason to step out in the rain just to give me a length of rope. We can grab it off his lady.”

“He’s married?”

“His boat.”

She followed him around the wooden pier. The Three Sheets was just two buildings away from the river; only the fishery shed and the fleet office separated them. She imagined men docking and delivering their catch to the first, picking up their pay at the second, and spending it all at the third.

Gwen rarely had a chance to see the big river and she still couldn’t. Riverboats with single and double masts blocked much of the view; the rain hid the rest. Tied to bollards and cleats, boats bobbed in the swells. Most were covered in taut stretched tarps while a few others were upended on the dock; their buoys, nets, and oars tucked underneath. Each had names painted across the bows: Lady Luck, Sister Syn, Bobbing Beulah .

“Why are all boats named after women?” she asked.

Dixon shrugged. “I named my cart Dolly after the horse that used to pull it. I was used to shouting at her to get moving. Just kept doing it after the old girl died.”

Dixon found Henry’s boat, the Loralee , and searched under the tarp. As he did, Gwen stared off at the shipyard that lay upriver. She could see a big scaffold like a gallows with an arm that extended out over the boat slips, from which dangled a huge block and tackle. Even in the rain she could hear the beating of hammers.

“Do you know where there are carpentry shops?” she asked when Dixon returned with the rope looped over his body like a sash.

“Artisan Row would be a good place to look.”

Gwen smiled. She should have known.

They were coming back up the boardwalk when Gwen saw her first familiar face. Stane glared at her with the expression of a dog finding an intruder in its yard.

“Looking for me?” he asked, taking no notice of Dixon.

“No,” she said, and kept walking.

Stane grabbed her wrist. “You came all this way-you should at least say hello.”

“Let me go.” She pulled.

His fingers tightened. “It was very rude the way you walked out. Did you come to apologize?”

“I don’t think she likes the way you’re holding on to her,” Dixon said.

“Bugger off,” Stane said, his eyes never leaving Gwen.

“I don’t think you understand,” Dixon went on. “My horse died a year ago.”

Stane looked up at him for the first time, puzzled. “So what?”

“So because I don’t have a horse no more, I’ve spent the last year pushing and pulling a heavy cart around the streets of this city.”

“And I care, why?”

“Because you ain’t nearly as heavy, and I might accidentally break something when I throw you in the river.” Dixon took hold of the arm that was holding Gwen, and Stane winced as he let go.

Dixon shoved him hard against the wall of the fishery shed.

“I have a lot of friends who work around here,” Stane said. “I wouldn’t come back.”

“And if I were you, I’d stay out of the Lower Quarter, because I don’t like men who hurt women, and I don’t need a lot of friends.”

Dixon stayed between Stane and Gwen until they were back to the street.

“Thank you,” Gwen said. “But you should be careful. He was the one who killed Avon.”

Dixon stopped. His face reddened and he turned back.

“Don’t,” she said, putting a hand on his arm.

“Is that why you all left?”

“He was coming back for the rest of us, and Grue had no problem with that.”

“I would.”

Gwen smiled and took his hand. “Congratulations, you’re the first.” She started forward again, but Dixon hesitated, still looking back.

“Leave him. He’s not a threat anymore.”

“He bothers you again, and he won’t be anything anymore.”

They trudged on through the rain, back to Artisan Row. Each quarter had better and worse areas, and the block that backed up against the entrance to the Lower Quarter was the artisan’s version of Wayward Street. The Row they called it, a line of narrow two-story shops so tiny that much of the work was done on the street. Usually this jammed traffic, forcing people to maneuver around cutting tables, looms, and racks, but the rain was keeping everyone inside, where little appeared to be getting done.

The signboard on one of the buildings read WILLIAMS BROTHERS BUILDERS. Beneath the words were a hammer and saw.

“How’s this?” she asked Dixon.

“One’s as good as any other, I guess.”

She nodded and paused under a porch eave to twist the water out of her hair and skirt before entering. She drew looks. The rain had kept the men from working and a dozen stood, sat, or paced the interior, which was a bed of sawdust and woodworking tools. She marched to the counter, straightened up to make certain to look the man behind it in the eye, and said, “I want to hire you to build a house at the end of Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter.”

No one answered.

“Lady here is speaking to you,” Dixon said, his voice a low growl.

“Ain’t no lady here, friend,” a man who’d been seated on a stool said. He was blond, thin, wore a leather apron, and had a stick of graphite tucked behind his right ear.

“Ain’t no friend here neither,” Dixon replied.

Gwen pulled the little bag from between her breasts, fished out the last gold coin, and held it up. “How much will this buy me?”

The man on the stool got up and took the coin from her, scratching it with his thumbnail. An eyebrow rose as did the tone and volume of his voice. “Depends on the price of lumber. What were you looking for?”

“I want a house, like the one across the street from the office of the assessor in Gentry Square, to be built on the foundation of a mess presently at the end of Wayward Street. I want two stories and lots of bedrooms plus a spacious parlor, a drawing room, and … and a small office-yes, a main floor office as well. Oh, and I want a porch that wraps around the front and sides with fancy spindles holding up the handrail.”

The builder stared at her as dumbfounded as if she had been drinking paint.

“It’ll take a lot more than this.”

“I suspected as much. But I’ll settle for one room for now.”

“A room?”

“Build me one room inside that ruin-just four walls and a door. Oh, and fix the roof so it doesn’t leak. You can reuse whatever you salvage from what’s there. Can you do that in return for this coin?”

The man looked at the coin, thought a moment, and then nodded.

“Good. Do that first and we’ll be able to start earning more. As coins come in, I’ll have you do some more. Deal?”

“You’re that Calian whore. The one who works at the Head?”

“I was.”

“Was what? A Calian or a whore?”

Dixon took a step forward, but Gwen stopped him with a touch of her hand.

“Both. I’m from Medford now, and I’m a business owner.”