Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“What are you going to do?” Rose asked. She had been asking that since before they left.

Gwen hadn’t replied, because she didn’t have an answer-not a complete one at least, but saying she was clueless wouldn’t help. While sometimes evasive, she refused to lie. The girls had been lied to enough. If she failed, they would have no choice but to return to Grue and he would punish them each for disloyalty, especially her. Waiting for the door to open, Gwen’s hands were shaking.

She had one hope, one desperate gamble-that the city assessor was just as greedy as any other man. “You’ll see.”

“Next!” called the footman, wearing a long coat and carrying a staff.

Once more, Gwen grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled her inside.

The same old man in a different doublet sat behind the same table. Looking up, he squinted. “You’re familiar.”

“My name is Gwen DeLancy. I opened a brothel in the Lower Quarter.”

“Oh yes.” The assessor leaned back and called out, “Lot four-sixty-eight.”

“How are things going?”

“Good and bad. You see-”

A clerk delivered the parchments and the assessor studied them for only a moment. “The inspector for the Lower Quarter has not yet delivered a report on your business.”

“I know that. I also know that when he does, the report will say that you shouldn’t grant us a certificate.”

The man offered a sad look. “I’m sorry. I must rely on the firsthand reports of the quarter guilds and ward administrators. If you’ve been declined, then there is nothing I can do for you.”

“Perhaps there is something I can do for you .”

This brought a curious look from the old man and he squinted at her. “I think you’ll find one of the reasons I have this position is that I am not so easily persuaded by a pretty face or the promise of nighttime adventures.”

“That’s not what I’m offering.”

“No?”

“In just two weeks I have turned an eyesore into the most attractive building on Wayward Street. In another two, it will be the nicest place in all of the Lower Quarter. Already I am drawing business from both the Artisan and Merchant Quarters-customers with heavy purses. Each of these men are looking for what they can’t find anywhere else in the city-a clean, respectable place where, for a few hours, they can feel like kings.

“I’ve done all this with nothing more than a few coins and six girls. Together we’ve created what could be the most successful business in the Lower Quarter. This is our chance to escape men like Raynor Grue, and we can only do it if you help us. You see, Inspector Reginald Lampwick is going to reject me not because I won’t be profitable, but because he has made a deal with Raynor Grue, who doesn’t want to see the women he once controlled succeed. As soon as you reject my bid, Raynor will put in one of his own. Lampwick will approve it, and Grue will inherit all the work I’ve done.”

“And why would Lampwick do such a thing?”

“Grue has agreed to make him a partner, providing him with a quarter of the profits.” Gwen had seen some of this in Lampwick’s palm. She had seen many things: that he had eaten a slice of lamb and squash for his midday meal; that he kept the key to his strongbox around his neck on a chain given to him by his mother, who had hung herself in his bedchambers; and that he would one day die by being run down by a wagon in the Merchant Quarter. She had no genuine clue as to how much Grue planned to give the inspector as his share, only that they had made-or would make-such an agreement. She merely guessed at the stated figure.

The assessor frowned. “There are guild inspectors who accept gifts from business owners. It’s not against the law. Perhaps if you had made such an arrangement with Mr. Lampwick, you could have secured your business interest.”

“That’s exactly what I am doing. Only I am offering to give you the deal that Lampwick wants with Grue. Lampwick told me that the decision isn’t up to him, that it’s up to you, and I will pay a quarter of all the profits of the brothel in return for securing the certificate.” She lifted up the purse and placed it on the desk. “We have only just started. We haven’t even officially opened yet, and most of the profits so far have all gone into the building with just a little spent on food, but this is what you can expect right away, and I promise you, there will be more … much more.”

The assessor looked into the purse and raised an eyebrow.

“You needn’t take my word for it. Reginald Lampwick has already seen the value in the property. What he doesn’t understand is that Grue will never make a success of the place the way I can. If he could, he would have by now. I’m the one who made this happen, and I’m the one who will make it grow. Why should Lampwick benefit from your decisions? Give me the certificate and I’ll be able to provide a good income for you and your family for years to come.”

He glared at her.

That was it. Her cards were out, and she had nothing left. She didn’t like his look. On their last visit, he had appeared so friendly, so kind. He was one of the few people in the city who didn’t treat her like a disease. She had felt such affection for him that she didn’t begrudge his sharing in their success, but now she knew she had underestimated the man. Looking at him, Gwen realized her mistake. His clothes were not like those of Dixon or Grue. He had money, perhaps more than he could spend. What would be the point in offering a few more coins each month?

Gwen felt the weight of defeat pressing down. She had failed, and now all of them would be-

“How often would I receive such a gift and be certain”-he raised a careful finger between them-“this would be a gift that you would bestow upon me and not a partnership?”

“Of course … ah, monthly would be best, but weekly if necessary.”

“Monthly,” he confirmed.

She nodded.

The old man took a quill and began to write. “See that such gifts are delivered each new moon.”

Gwen couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll do my best to make certain you won’t have the strength to lift it.”

He smiled back. “I’m afraid Mr. Lampwick will be very disappointed by my decision.” He looked to one of the clerks. “Bring the royal seal.”

The evening was milder than most as Gwen stepped out onto the planking of what would soon be Medford House’s front porch. Behind her in the parlor, the girls talked and laughed. Rose was repeating the story again for the benefit of Dixon and Mae, who missed the first three renditions. With each retelling, the number of times Rose used words like brilliant and marvelous increased.

Gwen moved to the edge of the would-be porch, a framed platform three feet above the dirt, and leaned against a rough beam that would one day support the porch’s roof. Across the street, The Hideous Head was quiet. Lamps were lit, but the door was closed and she saw no one moving about. She wondered if Grue had learned the news yet. Hard to imagine anyone in the Lower Quarter not having heard. The way Rose told the tale, Gwen had vanquished a fire-breathing dragon merely by spitting in its eye. She had done the impossible. She’d saved them all. Gwen was a hero.

She leaned against the beam feeling strangely melancholy.

I’ve won the battle, but have I lost the war?

A pair of dogs zigzagged the length of Wayward Street, sniffing for food. Besides them and a corner of canvas that flapped in the wind, nothing else moved. She had spent the gold coins. She had traded them for this. She had saved herself, and yes possibly a few others, but perhaps none of that was meant to happen. Her weakness had likely ruined everything. Those coins were entrusted to her for a reason. Since the death of her mother, she had awakened each day with a purpose greater than herself. Standing on the porch, Gwen understood she had cast away the only physical proof that the man with the gold coins had ever existed. She had sold her faith for security, and it felt as if she had lost the best part of herself.