Michael Sullivan: The Crown Tower

The door to the tavern was still open, casting a long slant of light across the porch and into the rutted road. Maybe she had broken that one too; she hoped so. The drunks had left, likely chased out. Grue and Willard were bringing Avon down, wrapped in the blanket from the bed. One end was dripping a dark line down the steps.

“What ya doing here, Ethan?” The cords of Grue’s neck stood out from the strain. He wasn’t yelling, just angry, which meant he was back to normal.

“What do you mean? Your girl came and got me.”

“I didn’t send her.”

“Well, she woke me out of a dead sleep, so here I am. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Grue said.

“Don’t look like nothing. Is that Avon in the blanket?”

“What’s it to you?”

“It’s my job to make sure justice is done. Stane upstairs?”

“Yep.”

“Well, get him down here.”

Grue frowned, hesitated, then set his end of the burden down. “Go get him, Willard.”

As angry as Gwen was at Stane and Grue, she couldn’t help feeling she was also to blame. More than anyone, she had known what would happen. She should have done something-gotten Avon out of there-only she couldn’t even get herself out. But maybe she could have done something, anything. She didn’t. Now Avon was dead.

Gwen stared at the little puddle forming around the end of the blanket and wondered how she was still standing. Guilt tore at her insides, pulling her apart. How is it possible to remain upright after being gutted?

Stane came downstairs buttoning his pants, finger streaks of blood smeared across his sun-bleached shirt. There was more on his face where he’d wiped his nose.

“You kill this girl?” Ethan asked.

Stane didn’t speak. He just nodded and sniffled.

“That’s a serious crime. You understand that, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gwen spotted Grue glaring at her. She’d pay later, but it was worth a beating to see Stane suffer the same punishment as Avon. It wouldn’t be the same, of course. Ethan wouldn’t bash his head against the floor over and over. They would just hang him. It would be public, though. He’d suffer humiliation before he died. At least that would be something.

Ethan brushed the hair from his face, letting his hand rub the back of his neck. He chewed his lower lip while staring at the blanket-wrapped body. Finally, he took a breath and addressed Stane. “You’re gonna need to make restitution.”

“What’s that?” Stane asked nervously.

“You need to compensate Grue for damages. Pay him for his loss.”

“We done settled that already,” Grue said. “He’s gonna pay me eighty-five.”

“Silver … right?” Ethan asked, nodding. “Seems fair. Any other damages?”

“A busted door, mirror, and bed, but that was her doing.” Grue pointed at Gwen. “She’s gonna pay for them.”

“She bust up the place trying to get that one out?” Ethan gestured at the blanket.

“I suppose so.”

“Seems to me she wouldn’t have done all that if he wasn’t beating on Avon, so Stane is gonna take care of those too. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sheriff nodded. “Okay, then.”

Ethan took a step back, and Gwen saw him start to turn. “That’s all? That’s not right. He needs to pay.”

“He is. Eighty-five and-”

“A woman is dead! He killed her and needs to die.”

“A whore,” Grue corrected.

Gwen glared.

“A whore is dead, and that’s not the same thing. No one is gonna execute a working man for getting a little carried away.”

“She’s dead !”

“And I’m the injured party. If I say the settlement is fair, then that’s the end of it. This never was any of your concern. Now shut up.”

“You can’t do this,” Gwen said to Ethan.

“She got any family?” he asked.

Gwen shook her head. “If any of us had family, do you think we’d be here?”

“Then that makes him responsible for her. He’s satisfied, so this affair is done.” He turned back to Grue. “Make sure you get the body out of the city walls before noon, or the constable will have my ass, and I’ll be after yours to replace it. Understand?”

Grue nodded and Ethan left.

The two men hoisted the bundle again and headed for the front door. As they passed Gwen, Grue said, “Guess who’s getting a beating when I get back?”

Grue and Willard headed out, leaving Gwen staring across at Mae and Jollin. Between them stood Stane.

He gave her a smile and a wink. “I’m gonna enjoy having you.” Lowering his voice, he added, “As soon as I get me another eighty-five saved up.” He took a step toward her.

“He won’t ever let you in here again.”

“Grue?” He laughed. “Avon ain’t the first. There was another girl in Roe. If I can pay, they’ll wrap you in a bow.” He looked at Mae and then Jollin. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget you two neither.”

He gave another little laugh that turned Gwen’s stomach. Stane walked to the door, but instead of leaving, he stuck his head out and looked both ways before closing it. When he turned around, he was grinning and his eyes were fixed on Gwen.

“Run!” Jollin shouted.

As Gwen ran for the back door, she heard him curse. He fell hard, probably slipping in the puddle of Avon’s blood. It sounded like a chair or a table fell over, too, but by then Gwen was running in the dark, her skirt hiked. She sprinted up the alley past the tanner’s shop to the “bridges,” a couple of narrow wooden planks crossing the river of sewage that ran behind the buildings. She was too scared, going too fast. Her feet skipped off slick, unsteady boards, and she fell forward into the muck. Gwen’s arms sank to the elbows, but she saved her face.

She expected him to be on her, bloody hands closing around her throat and forcing her into the foul soup, which smelled of urine and dung. She spun, but he wasn’t there. No one was. Gwen was alone.

Pulling her arms out, she wiped them on any clean parts of her dress she could find. She found few, and in her frustration the tears finally came. Sitting next to the filthy trench, she sobbed so hard her stomach hurt, and each gasp of air was thick with sewage.

“I don’t know what to do!” she cried out loud. “Tell me what to do!” She scooped a fistful of manure and mud and flung it as hard as she could. Tilting her head back, she screamed at the sky. “Do you hear me? I’m not strong enough. I’m like my mother and I’ll break.” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “And if I don’t break first, he’ll kill me. Me, Jollin, Mae, and all the rest. I can’t … I can’t wait anymore. Do you hear me? I can’t. It’s been five years! I just can’t wait for him any longer.”

She shivered, panting for air and listening for a reply, but all she heard was the wind.

Hadrian crouched on the deck of the river barge as two large workhorses drew the boat up the Bernum River. Lifting his head, he peered through the morning mist, trying to catch a glimpse of something familiar. He could see farmland nestled in the hills beyond the bank and the faint outlines of small towns. Everything seemed strange. This was an alien land, filled with odd people, customs, and accents. He felt uncomfortable and out of place, never certain just how to act or what to say. Everyone, he imagined, saw him for the outsider he was, although at that moment he guessed he was less than a half day’s walk from home.

The plump man came out of the boat’s cabin, slapping his chest and taking deep breaths. “Crisp morning, eh?” he said, looking at the sky.

He might have been speaking to the god Maribor, but Hadrian replied just the same. “Chilly. I’m not used to the cold.” He had selected this spot to be sheltered from the wind. He wore everything he owned, including two pairs of pajama-loose pants, his traveling and dress thawb, a wide-wrap belt, his cloak, and a head wrap. Even so, he was still cold. He planned to buy wool when they reached Colnora, something heavy that weighed like armor. He felt naked without the extra pounds.