The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Read online

  Illia died two days later in that little room in an unfamiliar town far from both Calis and Medford. Gwen had been just fourteen.

  Allowing her mother the luxury of dying in a bed had left Gwen destitute. She didn’t have enough money for food, much less for a burial. She couldn’t stomach turning her mother’s body over to the city guard, who had always been so cruel. Alone in the tiny room, Gwen did the only thing she could; she sat and wept. She almost hadn’t heard the knocking over her own tears.

  The man at the door had been tall and thin and carried a leather satchel over one shoulder.

  “Excuse me, but I am here to see Illia,” he had said politely.

  “My mother has died.” Gwen wiped her face. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time to wonder how the man knew where to find them.

  He had nodded without surprise. “I’m sorry.” Lifting his eyes to the bed where Illia lay wrapped in her favorite shawl, he added, “Your mother used to read my palm, and the last time I had no money to pay her. I’ve come to settle my debt.” He had placed six coins in Gwen’s hand, making her gasp when she noticed the color.

  Gwen shook her head. “This is too much. Mother charged three copper dins. This is … this is…” She couldn’t bring herself to say what she had thought. Holding the metal coins was like cupping summer or sunshine. She recalled thinking, Such power should not be in such dirty hands.

  “It was a very good fortune she told.”

  The encounter had been so strange. This man hadn’t even been Calian, and as far as Gwen knew, Illia hadn’t told the fortunes of westerners.

  Gwen had seen the smile on the man’s face—a nice face, a friendly face.

  Over the years she had relived that moment a hundred times, asking herself how it happened. Part of it was his eyes, so inviting they drew her in. Another part was her desperation. Gwen was alone and frightened. She was looking for answers, not only about who he was but also who she was as well. What should she do now that the driving force in her life was gone? She had so many questions that when she looked, she took the questions with her.

  Illia had taught Gwen all about reading fortunes from the lines of a palm, but her mother had never mentioned anything about what happened when a Tenkin seer peered deep into a person’s eyes. The way her mother explained it, the lines on a person’s hand were the stories of an individual’s life written by the soul. They could be read as easily as a book, but Gwen discovered the eyes were windows. There was no reading possible; no such control existed. Looking through eyes was like jumping off a cliff into a lake with no idea what the water would be like or how deep it went, and as she learned that day … it was possible to drown.

  She would have too—if he hadn’t turned away. Looking into his eyes was to see eternity. Gwen had been spared madness only because he’d been quick, but she had caught a glimpse, and a glimpse was more than enough. All the strength had left her legs and she collapsed before him, sobbing.

  A gentle hand had touched her head, and she heard him say, “You’ll be all right. Use one coin to see that your mother is taken care of. Be generous—she deserves the best. Use a second to pay for your expenses to reach Medford, and be frugal. Save the remaining four. Hide them away. You mustn’t spend them, no matter how bad things get. Wait until it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Why?” She didn’t know whether she had said the word or if her memory had merely filled that hole. She couldn’t imagine having the power of speech, not after looking in his eyes—after seeing what she had seen.

  “A desperate man will come to you in Medford. He will come at night, dressed in his own blood and begging for help. You must be there. You must save him.”

  The man had walked to her mother’s side where he stood and lingered for a moment. When he turned, Gwen had seen tears on his cheeks. “Take care of her. She was a good woman.”

  That had been a lifetime ago and so very far away. The four hidden coins were holy relics to her now. She kept them beneath the knotted board in the little room at the end of the corridor, the same one with the loose bedpost. She had cherished them for five years, told no one of their existence, and prayed to them often.

  “Stupid, useless, bloody piece of crap!” The sound of Dixon the carter startled her. He kicked the wheel of his wagon, whose axle was still broken, propped outside Bennington’s Warehouse like a wounded animal. Dixon didn’t look much better. While the man was still big as an ox, his cheeks were growing hollow. Wayward Street was the end of the road for many people. He paused when he saw her notice him and tipped his hat.

  The gesture made her smile, and she nodded in return.

  The sun had cleared the crooked roofs, painting the street in gold. Clouds were moving in, and clouds in autumn meant a cold rain. She looked at Dixon sympathetically. At least she had a roof and food, such that it was. Gwen considered her life could be worse—and then it was. Marching down the street was Stane with a bundle of wood under one arm and a hammer in the other.

  “Lumber,” Gwen said to Grue after Stane carried his burden up the stairs of The Hideous Head. “Where did he get lumber?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care. He’s fixing the doorframe. ’Bout time too. Probably doin’ a lousy job. He’s a fisherman or a dockworker or some such thing, not a woodie.”

  Gwen found it odd that Grue didn’t know Stane was the net hauler for the Lady Banshee. Maybe he did know but was playing stupid to distance himself. Grue was like that—not the type of man to stand beside you when the weather changed. Of course, it was possible he really didn’t know. After all, Grue only served the bastard drinks. He didn’t sleep with him or have to listen to his chatter afterward.

  Grue was wiping slop from the surface of the pine-plank bar. She wondered why he bothered. No one cared. The men who came each night would hunker down along the sewer out back so long as Grue continued to serve the drinks. Still carrying the filthy rag, Grue crossed to the base of the steps and yelled, “That door better open and close without sticking!”

  The only reply was the sound of hammer on wood.

  “So he’s been paid?”

  “Seems that way.” Grue returned to the bar and rocked the kegs to determine how full they were. “Everyone working the docks gets their due on the new moon, and last night was pretty dark.”

  “How much? How much did he get paid?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “More than eighty-five?”

  Grue paused, turned to her, and shook the bar towel in her face. “He paid that already.”

  “I know. And now he has more.”

  “So? That’s good for us. He’s got the coin to fix the door and pay for drinks.”

  “And women?”

  “What are ya getting at, ya stupid tart?”

  “You can’t sell me to him, Grue. You just can’t.”

  “The man paid his debt.” Grue walked over to the slate and tapped it, his wet fingers leaving black dots among the list of names and the amount each owed. Stane’s entry was gone, leaving a blank space. “His slate is clean.”

  “If he has the money, he’ll kill me. He knows he can get away with it now. He even knows the cost—how much you charge for the pleasure.”

  Grue huffed. “That’s not true. What happened was an unfortunate accident. You make it sound like Stane is a monster and kills girls for fun.”

  “He does!”

  Grue frowned. “No, he doesn’t. He’s bought you several times, and you’re still alive. Why, he’s had every girl in here a dozen times. Stane’s always been a good customer. You just have to understand, men like him—fellas who spend day after day dealing with stinking fish and taking orders from boat handlers and dock foremen—they need a break. They need to feel like men, so they like to roughhouse a bit. Grabbing a girl by the hair, giving her a little shake, it gives him the sense he can control something—­anything. And that’s what he’s here for. That’s what they all come for, to see what it’s like to be in charge of th
eir own lives.”

  She folded her arms and shifted her weight.

  “It was an accident, Gwen. Besides, do you really think I’d put up with him—with anyone—killing my girls? That sort of thing’s not very good for business. Not only do I have to find a decent replacement, but also people don’t like the disturbance. I lose customers, and then there’s the need to scrub the bloody floor. Trust me, if I thought Avon’s death was anything more than an unfortunate accident, Stane wouldn’t be allowed in here.”

  “But he has done it before. He told me there was another girl in Roe.”

  Grue rolled his eyes. “And why would he tell you that? Next thing you’ll be accusing him of spreading the plague and drowning puppies. By Mar, Gwen! I know you’re still upset, but Stane’s not a killer. And I had a long talk with him. There won’t be any more trouble—understand?”

  Gwen certainly did not but didn’t see the point in saying so.

  “I told him that if he rented a horse and then broke the thing’s leg—”

  “A horse? You compared us to a horse?”

  Grue smirked. “It’s what he understands.”

  Gwen was pretty sure it was what Grue understood too.

  “Stane agreed to behave,” Grue said.

  “He’ll kill me, Raynor.” She hoped that by using his first name her plea would sound more personal, as if she were talking to an old friend instead of the man who had forced her into prostitution. “He wants me dead because I ran to the sheriff.”

  “Well, I guess ya shoulda thought about that before, don’t ya think?”

  She didn’t answer. How could she answer that? If she were a man, she’d give him the beating of his life, but if she were a man, she wouldn’t need to.

  Seeing her face, he softened slightly. “Look, I’m just saying ya bring things on yourself. Besides, if Stane really did want to kill you, he wouldn’t have to come here to see it done. But it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s getting Jollin.”

  “He asked? And you agreed? You’re actually going to sell another girl to him?”

  “Ale, gambling, and women is how I make my living. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Don’t you do it! Goddammit, Grue, you can’t. You just can’t!”

  “I already told ya, he didn’t ask for you.”

  “I don’t care. He’ll kill her. Don’t you see that?”

  “He’s got nothing against Jollin.”

  “He had nothing against Avon either. He just liked seeing her scared.”

  “Getting real tired of your mouth, Gwen. Drop it.” Grue shoved her roughly out of his way and returned to checking the kegs, giving the Ole Roundhouse Nut Brown a stronger rocking than necessary.

  “You don’t own us.”

  “Oh no?”

  “Ethan won’t let you keep us here against our will. The sheriffs have to report to the high constable, who reports to the king, and King Amrath cares about—”

  “What in Novron’s name do ya know about King Amrath and his thinking? Or the sheriff’s for that matter? You’re just an ignorant whore, Gwen, and that’s why I don’t have to keep ya at all. I told you that. You can leave any time you want.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her to the door, shoving her out to the porch. “There … go. Go on, get!” He stared at her. “Where ya gonna go? What ya gonna do? Winter is coming and nights are already getting chilly. Where ya gonna sleep? How ya gonna eat?”

  “I can do the same thing I’ve been doing.”

  “Like ya did last time? Like Hilda? Go ahead, try again. I told ya I wouldn’t stand in your way. I just won’t take ya back this time. But you go on. You might last longer than she did. She survived a couple weeks. Maybe you can do better. I actually think ya will. You’re smarter. I bet you’ll last a whole month. Well … maybe not. She wasn’t a foreigner.”

  Hilda and Avon had been at the Head before Gwen arrived. Neither one ever admitted how long they’d been there. Hilda had been bent on getting out. She’d saved her meager tips, and after a beating one night, she’d run away. Rumors said she tried to find legitimate work but couldn’t. She resorted to applying at another alehouse, but they all knew she was Grue’s girl and refused. With no other choice, she sold herself on the street, taking men into the alley behind the tannery. She survived all of two weeks. Ethan found her. She’d been robbed and strangled. They never bothered to look for the killer. It could have been anyone.

  Grue stepped back, clearing the doorway. “Ya want to live? Ya stay here, and to stay here, ya do as I say.” He rubbed his feebly thin beard, which was no more than tufts of hair that refused to grow together or to a length longer than three inches. “Listen,” he began in a softer tone, “I was trying not to scare ya, but even I know putting you and Stane together ain’t a good idea. So he’s getting Jollin.”

  Gwen’s eyes widened. “He did ask for me!”

  “Yeah, but he’s not getting ya. Not tonight. Not until I can tell he’s gotten over this whole thing.”

  “But it’s not something he’ll get over—it’s the way he is, Grue. And even if it wasn’t, he’d do it out of spite, out of revenge. He’ll kill Jollin because he knows it will hurt me. And if that’s the best he can do, then he’ll settle for that.”

  Grue ran a hand down his face and shook his fist at her. “Gwen, I’m tired of arguing with ya. It’s not for you to say. He’s getting Jollin, right after he finishes the door. I’ve already made up my mind.”

  “I’m warning you, Grue—”

  He slapped her hard, enough to make her stagger but not fall. Still, the crack echoed between The Hideous Head and the inn across the street. “First ya threaten to leave, then ya threaten me? That Calian blood of yours is gonna be the death of you. I shoulda never taken you in. You’re more trouble than you’re worth. I knew men would find you exotic, a novelty. But if I had known how much trouble you’d cause…”

  He took her by the shoulders, his long dirty fingers squeezing like bird’s claws. “Now I’m gonna tell ya what you’re gonna do, and you’re gonna do it. Understand?” He gave her a rough shake. “I want you to go wake Jollin up and get a room ready for them. Make up the little one, best not to have Stane in the one with the bloody spot. No sense giving him any ideas.”

  He pulled her back into the tavern and pushed her toward the stairs. She staggered into a table and chair. “And I don’t want to hear another word.” He raised a pointed finger. “Not … a … single … word.”

  Thud, thud, thud. Stane’s hammer pounded.

  When Gwen entered the girls’ room, they were all sleeping as close as puppies on the two mattresses lying on the floor. Work at the Head rarely started before sundown, so they napped during the day. Aside from Gwen, Jollin was the oldest. Rose was the youngest—fourteen, maybe, but Gwen never got a straight answer out of the girl, so she really didn’t know. Mae was the smallest, like a delicate bird, and Gwen always cringed when she saw the girl go upstairs with some of the big brutes who had to keep ducking even after entering the tavern. Etta, who had never been much of a looker, was now worse thanks to a smashed-in nose and two missing front teeth, the remains of a beating that had left her unconscious for a day and a half. She did most of the serving and cleaning chores around the Head. Christy and Abby could have been sisters, they looked so much alike, but Christy came from Cold Hollow and Abby was a native of Wayward Street. All of them had been born in Medford or one of the nearby villages or farms. None had traveled more than a couple of miles their whole lives—except Gwen—who had come from another world.

  Thud, thud, thud. “Almost done, Grue,” Stane shouted.

  Gwen had crossed a continent, traversing two nations and five kingdoms. She’d seen mountains, jungles, and great rivers. She’d stood in the capital of the east and the largest city in the west, but in all her travels, nothing had ever compared to the sight she’d seen in that tiny room where her dead mother had passed—what she had seen in the eyes of the man who had placed six gold coins in her
hand.

  Wait until it’s absolutely necessary.

  “Get up! Get up, all of you.” She shook each of them. “Gather your things and hurry!”

  They rose slowly, stretching—cats now instead of puppies.

  “What’s going on?” Jollin asked, wiping her face and squinting at the light outside the windows.

  “We need to leave.”

  “Leave? What do you mean?” Jollin asked.

  “We can’t stay here anymore.”

  Jollin rolled her eyes. “Not again. Gwen, if you want to try and leave again, go.”

  “I can’t go alone. None of us can make it on our own, but together we just might survive.”

  “Survive where? Survive how?”

  “I have some money,” Gwen said.

  “We all have some money,” Christy said. “But it won’t be enough.”

  “No, I have real money.”

  “How much?” Abby asked.

  Gwen took a breath. “I have four gold coins.”

  “Bull!” Abby challenged.

  “Four gold?” Mae muttered. “That’s not possible. You could never save up that much, not if you slept with every man in Medford.”

  “I didn’t make it. It was given to me. I just didn’t know how best to spend it … until now.”

  Jollin was nodding. “I knew you had stashed some money away, but I never thought it was that much. Still, that isn’t enough.”

  “Then we’ll just have to make more,” Gwen said.

  “So what are you planning?” Abby asked.

  Gwen wasn’t—that was the problem. She hadn’t a clue. All she knew for certain was that she wasn’t going to end up like Avon, and to have any chance at survival, she couldn’t manage on her own. Maybe together they would stand a better chance. She went to the window, looking out at the muddy streets of the Lower Quarter. “I’ve got it all worked out—just trust me.”

  “No one will hire us,” Jollin told her. “A home wealthy enough to afford a girl would never employ one who has no letter of reference, even to scrub floors and empty chamber pots. And the guilds don’t take girls as apprentices.”