Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“What about Pickles?”

“Excuse me?”

“If I do this, I want him to stay here and get an education-a chance at a real life. I imagine you could arrange such a thing.”

Arcadius licked his lips and stroked his beard in thought, then began to nod. “I could speak to the headmaster. I think I can arrange something.”

“And it would be for just this one job, right?”

Arcadius hesitated, then smiled. “Absolutely.”

The claw slipped again. It came off the edge of the stone and Hadrian felt his stomach rise as he fell. He dropped less than two stories and landed in a thick pile of straw, but it still hurt. With the wind knocked from him, he lay staring up at the sky and the wall.

Royce’s shadow crossed his face. “That was pathetic.”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much for me to think you’re honestly trying to help.”

“Trust me. I want you to improve. I want you to fall from much higher up.”

Hadrian reached out a hand, but Royce turned his back and walked away. “Try again.”

“You know, I’m bigger than you are.”

“I’m not surprised nature chose to curse you.”

While glaring at Royce, Hadrian rolled to his feet and dusted the straw off.

Hadrian had learned to read body movements as a second language. It was an important part of combat and a form of foresight. Seeing where the weight rested, how the shoulders turned, and the direction of the eyes allowed him to read a person’s next move and determine their level of threat. Even when not in combat, the way a man carried himself revealed his confidence and the degree of balance he possessed. How he placed his feet when walking communicated athletic ability and training. Hadrian’s father had taught him that no one could completely hide who they were, and most never tried. Everyone was a stack of accumulated experience, and seeing how that pile wobbled when it moved could reveal secrets.

After watching Royce during the past few days, Hadrian had revised his opinion of the man. On the boat, he had remained wrapped in the folds of a long cloak, and he almost never moved, leaving Hadrian ignorant. All he could base his assessment on was the man’s size, which while not unusually small, was not imposing in the slightest. He also was careful not to display a weapon, which Hadrian also would have used as a window into his opponent’s abilities and weaknesses. These concealments he soon determined were not by chance. The man was a locked box and worked hard to remain sealed. He was not the sort to give away anything.

He was also amazing.

During their practices, Royce tossed aside the cloak, and at first Hadrian couldn’t believe what he was seeing. While the language of other men’s bodies talked in prose, Royce’s spoke poetry. He didn’t move like anyone Hadrian had ever seen. The closest comparison he settled on was the simple elegance and acrobatics of a squirrel. He could go from absolute stillness to blinding movement. His sense of balance and timing was such that Hadrian watched in awe and found himself wanting to applaud. Using the hand-claws, he could scale the full height of Glen Hall’s outer wall in less time than it would take Hadrian to run up the stairs. Such ability caused Hadrian to realize the man was far more dangerous than his wolfish eyes ever let on.

The more he saw, the more he missed his weapons.

Hadrian’s swords, like Royce’s cloak, were up in the little room on the attic level that Arcadius had arranged the two to share, along with Pickles, who spent most of his time guarding the gear and looking through picture books. Royce had protested, but the professor stood his ground. Hadrian had hoped Royce would win the battle, as sharing a room with him felt like sleeping beneath the blade of a guillotine. Pickles never commented about Royce but always kept a wary eye.

The arrangement wasn’t as bad as Hadrian had expected. Royce never entered the room until late. He would slip inside and sleep in his clothes. He never spoke and refused to even look at either of them. In the morning he would vanish without so much as a clearing of his throat or a yawning stretch. He didn’t seem human.

Hadrian made another attempt to climb the north wall and slipped after rising only a few feet off the ground. On the next try he managed to get as high as the third-floor window before a gust of wind distracted him. The hand-claw got caught in the ivy, and his foot slipped off its perch. He bruised his cheek and thought he might have broken his foot on that fall.

“You’re hopeless,” Royce said as Hadrian writhed on the straw, grabbing his leg. “The Crown Tower is sixty stories tall, and you can’t manage three. This will never work.”

Royce pulled the claws off him and was gone before he could get up.

By the time Hadrian reached Arcadius’s office, Royce was already there and shouting. “I just told you he can’t even get to the third-story window. It’s been three days and he’s not improving. We’re losing the season, and I don’t want to be scaling that thing with ice on it.”

“Ah, Hadrian, come in.” The professor waved. The old man had a sack under one arm and was working his way around the room feeding his animals. “Hurt your foot?”

“Landed badly.”

“Next time try breaking the fall with your neck,” Royce said with no sense of humor. “That would be less painful for both of us.”

“Royce,” Arcadius said, pausing over the chattering raccoon’s cage to peer out the window. “If Hadrian had broken his leg and you needed to get him up the Crown Tower, how would you do that?”

“I wouldn’t. I’d leave him-unless he was moaning or crying. Then I’d cut his throat and see about dragging him to-”

“Yes, yes, but if you had to get him up. How would you do it?”

Royce scowled a moment longer; then Hadrian watched as his expression changed. With as much ease as blowing out a candle’s flame, the frustration vanished and his eyes focused. He turned to the exterior wall of the office and let his fingers run over the stone. “I’d bring rope and some sort of harness. Then I’d nail thin spikes into the seams of the stone-something I could hook the rope to that he might pull himself up with.”

“Why don’t you try that, then?”

The frustration returned and he whirled. “It takes too long. I can get up in about an hour, two at the most, but if I have to build a rope hoist, we’re talking four, five, maybe six hours.”

“Lucky you,” Arcadius said with a smile. “Winter is coming-the nights are getting longer. You’ll have plenty of time.”

“Hanging on the side of a wall takes energy. I’ll be exhausted.”

“Bring your own harness-that way you can rest while he climbs.”

“This is ridiculous.” Royce’s voice was rising. “If you really want that stupid book, just let me go get it. I’ll be up and down.”

“That’s not the deal.”

“Why isn’t it the deal?” Royce snapped. “Why do I have to bring him? And if I do, why can’t he just stay with the horses? He’d serve an actual purpose then. Is this why you got me out of Manzant, to toy with me? Am I one of your many caged animals? Is it fun to tie my feet together and see if I can run? Are you keeping notes?”

Royce’s voice was more than a snarl this time, and Hadrian didn’t like how his muscles flexed. The dog was more than growling; his teeth were bared and his fur up.

Arcadius set the bag down and faced Royce without fear. “You’ll take him up the tower and get the book. That’s the deal.”

Royce took an aggressive step forward.

The professor didn’t flinch. Hadrian wasn’t certain the old man was even breathing.