Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“Uh-huh.” Royce nodded. “How does that answer my question about your ability to cook?”

“ Uh-huh? ” Hadrian repeated, astonished. “That’s your response? They execute a kid because of what you did and your reply is uh-huh ?”

Royce dragged a dead log over to sit on as he worked at starting the fire. “I didn’t kill him.”

“So you did know he was dead?”

“Like you said, I hear every stupid thing anyone ever says.”

“And you don’t feel any remorse?”

“Nope. He was hung by the sort of people who live in this tower, at the request of Angdon and his daddy. I wasn’t even there.”

“You committed the crime that Pickles was executed for.”

Royce peered at him, puzzled. “I stopped them from battering you senseless, and you consider that a crime?”

“I didn’t need your help.”

“ Really? ” The tone dripped with sarcasm.

“Yes, really .”

Royce made a sound somewhere between a breath and a chuckle. “Five against one, each of them armed with clubs and you with just your hands? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“Why didn’t you just join me? Two against five would have given them a lot to consider, especially if you had brandished your dagger.”

Again Royce looked at him confused, almost as if Hadrian were speaking in a different language. “What world do you live in?”

“One in which you don’t stab boys and allow other boys to die for it.”

“Boys? What does their age have to do with it? If someone comes at you with a stick, does it really matter how old they are?”

“Yes. They’re just kids. They aren’t old enough to understand what they’re doing.”

“And neither are you.”

“Me? You’re not much older.”

Royce, who had just coaxed a flame to life and was carefully feeding it twigs, paused. “It doesn’t matter. I imagine if you were Arcadius’s age you’d still be just as ignorant. Here’s something you really should have already learned: If someone intends you harm, and you have the opportunity, you kill them. Anything else leads to complications that you don’t need.”

“But you didn’t kill him.”

“Exactly. If I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I made a promise, so I’m on a leash, and Arcadius has rules-one is not to kill the students.”

“I wouldn’t think you’re the type to care about promises. Why haven’t you just killed Arcadius? That’s how you solve everything, isn’t it?”

“That was very much my plan, only the pledge I made wasn’t to the old professor, and the promise I made was not to kill Arcadius-at least not until I had repaid my debt to him.”

“Who did you promise?” Hadrian wondered what sort of person could instill such conviction in a man without morals.

“None of your business. Now, can you cook or not?” Royce left the fire and went to dig around in his pack. He pulled out a pot and a spoon and held them up. “Well?”

“You don’t care at all that Pickles died?”

Royce scowled and stuffed the pot and spoon back into his satchel. “Not in the slightest. I also don’t see how this conversation benefits us.”

“It benefits me because I want to know how you can be so goddamn cruel.”

“It’s a gift.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Being an orphan, I have no idea, but you might be right. Now, can we eat?”

“I’m not going to eat with you. And I’m sure not going to cook for you.”

“Fine.” Royce stomped out the fire. “Your loss. Truth is I was just being nice. Thought you’d like a last meal. You realize you’re going to die in a few hours, right? Look up there.” He pointed at the tower. “Does that look like Glen Hall to you? Do you think we’ve got a rope that long?”

This hadn’t occurred to Hadrian, but he was right. They had long ropes, but nothing that would reach the top.

“Because you can’t climb, we’ll have to carry extra coils up and do the height in sections. That means you’ll need to disengage from one rope, support yourself on these tiny anchors, and attach yourself to the next.” Royce raised his hand above his head. “Feel that breeze? Down here, it’s a nice gentle breath. Up there, you’ll swear Maribor himself was trying to blow you off the stone. Your arms will get tired. Your muscles will cramp. You’ll be dying of thirst but be too scared to drink. And it will be cold-real cold. That wind and the autumn night will numb your fingers until you won’t be sure how tight you’re holding the rope. You won’t be able to get enough air either-taking a deep breath will push your body out into the wind, and your muscles will be too tight, too tense to allow it. Then, I’m guessing about the three-quarter mark, that’s when you’ll slip. Stupid mistake. Fingers too numb to know better, muscles too tired to care. You’ll hit the street, bursting like a leather water-skin.

“Since you have the book and they’ll find it on you, and because Arcadius already said that if you fall on your own it’s not my fault, my obligations will be fulfilled. I’ll drop down a second or two later, careful to avoid the mess. There’s no guardhouse or patrol that works the base of the tower, so even if an alarm is raised, I could take my time and walk back here before anyone could catch me. Of course I’d run, and since we’re leaving the horses saddled and packed, I’ll ride in that direction.” He pointed into the dark. “In just minutes I’ll be far enough away that no one will ever find me, and in all likelihood they will guess you were the only thief. Assuming you are recognizable as human.”

He reached into his food sack and pulled out a piece of salt pork. “Then I’ll be able to find a nice comfy spot and celebrate with a veritable feast. I just thought you’d like to have yours now.”

Hadrian glared at him. “I’m going to climb that tower. I’m going to put the book back, and then I’m going to show you what this big sword on my back can do. And we’ll see who hits the cobblestones first.”

The city of Ervanon was a study of opposites. While not much larger than a quaint country hamlet, it contained more buildings per foot than Colnora. The streets were cobbled, narrow, and numerous. Instead of thatched cottages, every building was made of stone-not haphazard fieldstone as in Windham, but large cut limestone, mini-cathedrals each. And while each of the homes and shops were never more than three stories, each gathered at the base of the Crown Tower that sprouted like some mythical beanstalk out of a central plaza of colorful mosaic tiles.

The city also did not have a wall.

Dressed in heavy coils of rope looped around their shoulders, Royce and Hadrian crossed the gully out of the scrub, through a narrow gap between two buildings, and into the constricted alleys that forced Hadrian sideways. The sun was down. Only a trace of light remained in the sky and few torches or lanterns had been lit. Pressed between the blocks of stone and anchored by the rope, he waited while Royce peered out at the streets.

Hadrian could hear wheels and hooves that echoed off the stone. A distant voice called out followed by a whistle. A brief bit of laughter and the clap of a wooden door. Beneath it all, Hadrian heard music, a low vocal chorus chanting words he didn’t know. There was no telling its source. When it came to sounds, Ervanon was a house of mirrors.

After pausing for several minutes, Royce sprinted into the street, and Hadrian chased after. Royce wasn’t likely to abandon him again, but having been fooled once, Hadrian wasn’t taking chances. The job was personal now, and he would see it through.