The Crown Tower

CHAPTER 12

Grue sat at the rickety table near the only window in The Hideous Head clear enough to see out of. Someone had splashed a drink and wiped the glass, taking a circle of grit with it. Maybe they licked it off-he wouldn’t put it past some of the drunks who filled the Head each night. They wouldn’t be spending their evenings at that end of town if they had the sense Muriel gave a dog. Through the hand-sized circle of near-clarity, Grue stared across the street.

Once upon a time, the place had been known as The Wayward Traveler, a handsome establishment he had been told. The road was named after it, and the joint did a fine business for years, passing between various owners before failing. Some said it had been a gruesome murder that kept business away. Others claimed that the wife of the proprietor had run off with another man, leaving the owner too devastated to carry on. All Grue knew for certain was that the Wayward’s roof had collapsed during the winter he turned twelve. No one had touched it since then, except to steal clapboards for their hearth fires. Over the years, the Wayward had developed the perfect shade of despair gray, which, along with the other shops and homes, gave the Lower Quarter its atmosphere. Yet in no time at all the whores had made a bright eyesore of it.

The hammering had started a week ago. Intermittent drumming that came and went. A wall had gone up and then another. They had a bed in there too. He had seen the mattress carried in, just one as far as he knew. Occasionally someone walked by with a stack of planks and a satchel. Always faces Grue didn’t recognize, woodies from Artisan Row. Had to be. No one in the Lower Quarter would help them, not without his say-so.

After the rain, Grue had heard the hammering every day and didn’t like it. All that noise across the street and all that silence where he sat irritated him. He had never realized before, but he’d grown used to the pitter-patter of little bare feet and the musical rhythms of bed frames. Grue never cared for the quiet-never trusted it. Silence was the result of someone getting strangled.

The fresh-cut wood being nailed up, lacking the gray patina of time, looked naked-a pale ass grinning across the road at him. The woodies had started on the second floor that morning, and Grue had stabbed his eggs as they hoisted the lumber. He wasn’t the only one. Groups of fools had gathered to watch. Four over at the livery, two who stood in the muck of the street, and three on his own porch, as if it were a tournament viewing stand instead of the entrance to an alehouse. He had cut them some slack since it had been in the morning. Being a business owner, he never wanted to be accused of contributing to the delinquency of the Quarter. Grue himself never drank before the mist was off the fields. He was certain a priest of Novron had once told him doing otherwise was an affront to the gods, although it might just as easily have been the lyric to a song only partially remembered. Whatever the source, Grue took it to heart and refused to trust men who didn’t do likewise. Not that he would refuse to sell drinks to anyone. As Grue saw it, if Maribor didn’t prevent the sun from shining on the shoulders of the daft and the dubious, then who was he to deny them spirits? But he could never trust such vile sorts, and he respected the moral fortitude of those who lingered on his doorstep, but come midday they had better buy drinks or they could stand in the mud with the rest of the laggards.

“Putting glass in the windows.” The sound of Willard’s voice was like rocks rubbing together. It wasn’t so much Willard’s fault; he was born with gravel in his throat. The real problem was with Grue, who had drunk too much the night before. Third night in a row he had fallen asleep at that table. He glanced at the pane with the clean hole. Maybe he had been the one who splashed the drink on the glass. He seemed to recall an argument he’d had with the window the night before. Something about it being dirty.

He had expected the whores to be back by then.

He figured they’d wander around for a day or two, getting footsore and hungry. Then, as the sun set and the winds blew cold, the lot of them would knock on his door with bowed heads, sullen faces, and every one of them shivering on his porch. He had planned to make them spend a cold night on the stoop. Lessons had to be learned. A horse you broke once, and as long as you rode it regular, the training stuck, but harlots needed constant education. He especially wanted to break them of their habit of following her.

He watched Gwen from his filthy window. She was out on that broken cart pointing and shouting like some sea captain. He didn’t like it. With all this freedom, Gwen’s head was going to swell too big to fit through his door. She always had been too full of herself. The first day he laid eyes on her he knew he was looking at a headache. Even while she’d dressed in that patched and frayed skirt, there had been no doubt she was stunning. Dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and that long black hair like some she-demon from the south whose eyes spoke of wickedness-the sort men enjoyed. He offered her a job, and she had accepted. But then she tried to pretend she didn’t understand and acted as if all that was required was to just serve drinks. It took three rounds with the belt to set her straight.

“Them’s nice windows,” Willard said.

“Are all them kegs full?” The sound of Grue’s own voice hurt his head.

“Just about.”

“I don’t want no just about!” Willard was a big boy, with hands the size of barrel tops, but he was lazy as a fieldstone. Grue had found him asleep at the bar one night. The boy didn’t have any place to go. He’d been working as a road mender, drinking his pay and passing out at the tavern where his coworkers nudged him awake in the mornings. As it turned out, Willard had been drinking on credit, so Grue demanded he work his debt off. Two years later, Willard was still working on that debt.

Grue looked back across the street. Willard was right-they were nice windows, thin glass and big. Must have cost a bag of silver.

How’d she do it?

Had to be skimming, doing extras without him knowing and pocketing the coin. He wasn’t sure how that was possible. He kept close watch, and her customers knew better than to sidestep him. Everyone who entered the Head understood how things worked.

Raynor Grue ruled Wayward Street.

No great accomplishment, but he took pride in it just the same. Most of the buildings were just storage sheds filled with the junk of those who lived and worked in better places. Wayward-sometimes called the Last Street in Medford-divided the have-nothings from the are-nothings. Ironically the only other successful business on the street was that of Kenyon the Clean. He made soap, the stench of which had forced him to the Last Street in Medford, where his smell was no worse than the rest. The other inhabitants were part-time workers and full-time drinkers, like Mason Grumon and the intermittent blacksmith shop that he opened whenever he was sober.

Being the man with the choke hold on the neighborhood’s lifeblood made Raynor Grue the King of Wayward, the tyrant of the taps. Not only did he rule the only alehouse on the street, ale that he and Willard brewed in the cellar, but he also offered gambling and, until a week ago, women.

Somehow Gwen had put money aside and a lot of it. She would have needed at least a gold tenent or two to afford the paper on that building. Of course, it wasn’t hers yet, and Grue, like any monarch, was stingy about losing even a corner of his kingdom. He wasn’t an evil dictator, merely pragmatic, and as he watched her through the window, he decided to prove that.

“Make sure those kegs are set by the time I return, and don’t forget to get the wedges under them. I’m tired of pulling barrels that still have a gallon left. Wrenched my back last night on one.”

“Where you going?” Willard asked with a sudden interest that reminded Grue of a dog chasing him to the door.

“Nowhere. Get back to work.”

Outside, the sun was hotter than expected. The rain had suggested an early winter, but the gods were erratic. Grue wasn’t an ardent follower of the Nyphron Church, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t religious. On the contrary, he considered himself more pious than everyone else because he believed in ten times as many gods. He prayed to the god of ale daily and was perhaps the only one who knew him to be of a very different mind from his brother, the god of beer, and their wicked sister the goddess of wine. Recently he had the notion that the god of gambling, who he called Walter, was the very same deity that controlled the weather and was fickle to an extreme. Walter was in a warm sunny mood today, which just proved how out of step Grue and Walter often were.

Grue plodded through the mostly dried ruts of the thoroughfare, coming up on Gwen who was still on the cart, her back turned. The dress she wore looked clean, and he was wondering how she managed that when Gwen turned and started at the sight of him.

“Grue!” she gasped like she had never expected to see him ten feet from the front of his own home and business.

“Did you think I died?”

“Ah … no, of course not.” She settled back until her butt pressed against the far rail of the cart. She bought the place directly across from him, but now she couldn’t get far enough away.

“Whatcha building, girl?”

“A … brothel.” She said the word quietly, as if ashamed, like a child caught holding his father’s lucky silver piece in front of Braxton’s Gambling House and Spirits Emporium.

“Where’d you get all the money?”

“Making it as we go.”

“I see.” He nodded and walked halfway around her, pausing to look at the construction as if he were noticing it all for the first time. “Looks like it might be a real nice place.”

“Thank you.” The words sounded like they had to claw their way out of her throat.

“How come you never asked me if you could do this?”

“Didn’t think I had to.”

“No? Figured you could just build a whorehouse across the street from my establishment but didn’t think I would care, huh?”

“Thought maybe you might like it.” She was lying; he could hear it in the weak and hopeful tone she used. The same he had once used in front of Braxton’s just before his father removed his front tooth with a ceramic mug. “A nicer place will draw more customers, and we’ll make sure they’re thirsty. Your business will double.”

Staring up at her on that cart irritated him. He resented the very idea of having to look up at her, but more than that, Walter had put the blazing sun right behind her head, making him squint and hurting his eyes, which had grown accustomed to dark rooms with dirty windows. “You got big ideas. I can see that. But you’re still a whore-my whore-and this is my street. Nothing happens here without my say-so. And I didn’t say so. Now you and the others have had a nice vacation, a chance to see the world and breathe the air. Honestly, I think you were right to walk out. That unfortunate business with Avon … well, that was a stink that needed airing. Everyone benefited from a break, but now this foolishness is going to stop. I’m a patient man, but you girls are costing me money. You’re spending good coin on this foolishness and I won’t have it. Now, I want you to send these woodies back to their own quarter and herd the girls to the Head. I’m feeling tired today, so if you’re quick about it, I’ll likely forget the whole thing-might even let you keep whatever you made bouncing on that new bed. Keep me waiting, and I’ll introduce you to the new belt I bought.”

“We’re never coming back, Grue.” This she said louder and the tone was new. It didn’t even sound like her voice.

“Don’t test me, Gwen. I like you. I really do, but I can’t afford to have one of my whores acting all high and mighty. You’ll do as you’re told, or even Etta will be feeling sorry for you. Now, get down off that bleeding cart.”

Gwen stood firm, which just made him mad. He was trying to be nice-forgiving her for running out and being stupid. She ought to be grateful, but she was defying him right in the middle of the street-in front of the blasted woodies. She had her chance and Grue had had enough of being humiliated. Being nice never worked; it just dug a deeper hole to climb out of. He didn’t actually own a new belt, but after he was done with Gwen, he’d likely need one.

Grue set one foot on the cart and was in the process of climbing up when a rough hand grabbed him around the throat and threw him backward. He landed on the dirt, banging his hungover head against a wheel rut.

“That’s my cart, Raynor. Touch it again and I’ll break your bloody neck.”

Walter was in his eyes again, but Grue could just make out Dixon the Carter standing over him.

“And that goes for the cargo as well.”

Grue crawled to his feet and dusted himself off, feeling the wet from where his back had hit a puddle. “That was a mistake, carter.”

Dixon took a step closer, and Grue took a step back.

“I just want ya to know that I offered to settle this proper. I was willing to let it all be forgotten, and it was you who turned me down,” Grue said to Gwen. “I just want you to remember that.”

All the construction had stopped and the woodies were staring. The rest of the whores were out too.

“I want all of you to remember that … when the time comes.”

Nine hours later Grue was still feeling the sting of his fall and finding more places where the mud stubbornly stuck to his skin. He was back in his tavern, the bear returned to his cave to lick his wounds and sharpen his teeth. He’d been there all day and much of the night, sitting, waiting, and thinking.

He sat at the table near the bar, trying not to look at the front door, thinking it must be like watched pots. It hurt to move. Grue wasn’t a young man and falls were chancy things. Nothing was broken, though perhaps his reputation had been bruised.

The story would have run like urine down a drainpipe. Grue has lost control of Wayward. Women push him around. His own whores shove him in the mud and laugh. He didn’t recall anyone laughing; no one had so much as smiled. If anything, Gwen had looked terrified when he hit the street, but that didn’t matter. They likely laughed afterward, and even if they didn’t, the stories would say they did, which made it so. He could have rallied his troops. Willard knew a couple of dockworkers he called Gritty and Brock-big fellas with big fists. The three of them would make a mess of Dixon. And if he was really serious, he’d call Stane-that man was crazy and would do anything for a bottle, a girl, and a blind eye. Dixon would pay, that was a promise he had already made to himself, but that was a present he could wait on.

Grue had other plans.

The candle on the table flickered and he noticed the tin candle plate-the only one left. He had it set out special.

Remembering not to glance at the door, he turned toward the bar and focused on the painting there. He had been looking at it a lot that day; it helped to calm him. The whole of The Hideous Head had been built from the scavenged wood and cannibalized parts of other nearby buildings. In that sense the Head was a genuine product of the Lower Quarter-a child of all that had come before-the bastard son of a dozen parents, disowned by all. The front door, which he refused to look at for fear it would never open, originally came from the Wayward and was still the best door on the street. The windows-the two larger ones that faced the front-came from a failed tailor shop. The smaller window, legend held, was ripped from the hull of a ship that ran aground off the Riverside docks. In these artifacts the tavern was a storehouse that preserved the history of the Lower Quarter.

That’s how Raynor Grue liked to see it. He had a tendency to decide what the facts were-made life easier that way. He could be a miserable old rotter who lived in squalor, preying on people’s vices, or he could be a reputable businessman living in a treasure house of artifacts and providing amusement to hardworking men. Both were true in their own way. Grue preferred the latter. Partly because he really believed he provided a needed service and partly because he knew this was as good as his life would get.

The Hideous Head predated Grue by more years than he knew, and much of it was a mystery like the picture of the lake above the bar. Painted on a panel of wood, it had darkened with the years so that now it appeared as a night scene. He had sat for hours staring at that painting, wondering how it got there, who painted it, but most often how he wished he could be there under that dark sky next to that lake. At times, usually after a minimum of six drinks, he could hear the lapping of the water and the honk of the geese that were so subtly suggested with two dabs of paint. The picture was only one of hundreds of the Head’s many curiosities, and over the years he added his own embellishments to mystify the next owner. The tin candle plate on the table was one of those. He’d bought ten from a visiting tinker on a night he was too drunk to be talking business. Nine had vanished over the years-stolen. The one in front of him was the last. He dug it out of hiding to help dress the place up.

He heard the drum of hooves and the snort of a horse and knew his invited guest had finally arrived. Of the fifteen or so regulars who kept Grue in business and the twenty-odd walk-ins, none rode horses.

“Willard,” he called across to the bar. “Bring that bottle I have inside the coin box and two glasses-the ones off the top shelf.”

The front door to The Hideous Head opened, letting in a burst of brisk autumn air that flickered the candle on the tin. Reginald Lampwick entered, sweeping his cloak in an effort to not get it caught in the door. He had on his wide-brim, tied tight under his chin, and a set of gloves that he tugged off one finger at a time as he scanned the tables. Spotting Grue, he strode over, his big boots thumping.

“Sir.” Grue stood up and dipped his head respectfully.

“Raynor,” Reginald said, never offering his hand. Grue didn’t expect him to.

Willard arrived with the bottle and glasses.

“I can’t stay,” Reginald said.

“It’s a cold night,” Grue told him. “Made colder by the ride from Gentry Quarter. It’s the least I can do.”

Grue went ahead and filled the glasses. He would drink both if Reginald walked out. He would need to. No amount of staring at a painting would help him if Reginald didn’t at least listen. Reginald looked at the glass but made no move to touch it.

“You have no idea what I’m about to say,” Grue told him. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t like me, and just coming here has you raw. You probably cursed me a dozen times already.”

“You underestimate yourself, limiting the number to twelve.”

Grue smiled. At least he had read the man correctly. “And over the course of your long journey you’ve decided whatever I say will be a waste of time.”

“The odds are in favor of such.”

“You can cause me a lot of trouble, sir. I don’t want to rankle you any more than I already have. Please, drink.” He indicated the bottle. “It’s the best I have. Got it off a trader up from Colnora twelve years ago. Had a fancy label with a picture of a naked woman on it that peeled off a few years back. It’s good and suitably expensive even for your tastes, I should think. If you drink and you like it, then your trip won’t be a total loss no matter what I say.”

Reginald picked up the heavy glass with a dainty pinch of two fingers. He sniffed first and then sipped. He remained stone-faced, which irritated Grue. The liquor was good-his guest could have given him that much.

Reginald said nothing, but he removed his hat and cloak and sat down. “So what’s so important that you insisted I visit your miserable excuse for a business?”

Grue tapped the window with the lip of his glass. “Your boss granted a certificate for the place across the street.”

Reginald looked, then nodded. “A woman named Gwen DeLancy applied for operation rights a week ago. A brothel, I believe.”

“A whorehouse to be run by a whore. Does that seem right to you? A foreign one at that.”

Reginald shrugged. “It’s unusual but not unheard of. I take it you’re not pleased with the prospect.”

“You’re damn right I’m not. Those tarts over there used to work for me.” Grue swallowed his drink, letting the whiskey burn a path down his throat, and then refilled the glasses. “I make profit from three things: ale, gambling, and women. Across the street is a third of my profit-more even, as the gambling hasn’t paid well lately.” This was a lie, but he wasn’t about to admit financial success to Reginald. Grue never cared for the Lower Quarter’s merchants’ guild and how they helped the city assessors determine taxes. Traitors, all of them. Being the ward’s inspector, Reginald was the worst of the turncoats and the less he knew the better.

“Get to the point.”

“You haven’t submitted a report on the site yet?”

“No. I have a list and those already paying revenue supersede those just applying.”

Good news. Grue took a sip, this time letting the liquor linger a bit. “That’s fine with me. In fact, I’d like you to pad that list, push this little operation down a few more names.”

“Why?”

“You must have seen it. The whores are putting up a bloody palace over there. Two stories, new wood, windows-I’ve even heard rumor they plan on painting it. The longer you wait, the more work will be done.”

Reginald took a deep swig that pursed his lips again and squinted his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “What does this have to do with you?”

Grue held up his glass so that the candlelight showed through the murky liquid, revealing the copper color. “I want you to wait until the place is nearly done, then disapprove the application. The next day I will apply for the same application and you’ll approve that one.”

“And why in the name of Novron would I do that?”

“Because I will give you half of everything I make … before taxes.”

For Grue, the next few heartbeats determined everything. He studied every line on the inspector’s face. Nothing. Reginald would make a great gambler but Grue was better. Even nothing was something. He hadn’t said no.

He could have thrown up his hands or turned over the table in outrage. The inspector didn’t move at all, not even a twitch of his eyebrows. He was either thinking it over or waiting to hear more-probably both-and that gave Grue his chance.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve lied about how much I’ve made off those girls?” Admitting this was equal to showing discards. If Reggie didn’t go for the deal, Grue wouldn’t be pulling any income from prostitution any longer, so it didn’t matter. If he went for the deal, they would be partners and he knew a tax inspector would be keen to watch the sales of a business’s interest he was part owner in. Best to admit it now and take advantage of the possible benefits of honesty and enticement. “I made more off them than from ale. Just look over there. You know how they’re paying for all that? They have one bed. One! And that single mattress is financing walls, windows, and doors. Getting a wider business from the Merchant Quarter is what they’re doing. All those woodies and trade folk who got money to throw around. Now, I don’t know if they’re taking it in trade or not, but that’s the kind of profit you can expect. And like I said, that’s just one bed. Once that place is finished, if they do a nice job, it will pull business from all over the city. We add a few more girls, a few more beds, and this sort of liquor we’re drinking now we’ll be using to rinse our mouths with later.”

It was slight, but Grue saw the corners of Reggie’s lips rise a hair.

“You’re an honest man and I know you’ve never considered this sort of an arrangement with anyone else you assess.” Grue wasn’t certain this was a lie, but he also wasn’t certain the sun would rise in the morning. “But you work hard riding all over the county, and for what? Not enough I’m sure. And what will you do when you get too old to make the rounds? Be nice to know you’ve got an income-your own little industry pumping money into your purse, wouldn’t it?”

Reginald no longer sipped or swigged; he downed the remainder of his drink in a single swallow and tapped the glass for more.

“No one needs to know,” Grue continued, pulling the cork again. “You don’t want this getting out, and neither do I. I have a reputation to maintain down here. People need to believe that I control things-on Wayward Street at least. Those whores are challenging me, and it would be best if it appeared I took them down on my own. So all you need to do is take your time getting to them-just a few more days I suspect will do fine-then break the bad news. I’ll have my application ready. You just check it off, push it through, and I’ll do the rest.”

The inspector looked around the room with the nonchalance of a bear in a parlor.

“What do you say?”

Reginald met his stare and held up his glass, smiling. Grue clinked it with his own.