The signboard on one of the buildings read WILLIAMS BROTHERS BUILDERS. Beneath the words were a hammer and saw.
“How’s this?” she asked Dixon.
“One’s as good as any other, I guess.”
She nodded and paused under a porch eave to twist the water out of her hair and skirt before entering. She drew looks. The rain had kept the men from working and a dozen stood, sat, or paced the interior, which was a bed of sawdust and woodworking tools. She marched to the counter, straightened up to make certain to look the man behind it in the eye, and said, “I want to hire you to build a house at the end of Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter.”
No one answered.
“Lady here is speaking to you,” Dixon said, his voice a low growl.
“Ain’t no lady here, friend,” a man who’d been seated on a stool said. He was blond, thin, wore a leather apron, and had a stick of graphite tucked behind his right ear.
“Ain’t no friend here neither,” Dixon replied.
Gwen pulled the little bag from between her breasts, fished out the last gold coin, and held it up. “How much will this buy me?”
The man on the stool got up and took the coin from her, scratching it with his thumbnail. An eyebrow rose as did the tone and volume of his voice. “Depends on the price of lumber. What were you looking for?”
“I want a house, like the one across the street from the office of the assessor in Gentry Square, to be built on the foundation of a mess presently at the end of Wayward Street. I want two stories and lots of bedrooms plus a spacious parlor, a drawing room, and … and a small office-yes, a main floor office as well. Oh, and I want a porch that wraps around the front and sides with fancy spindles holding up the handrail.”
The builder stared at her as dumbfounded as if she had been drinking paint.
“It’ll take a lot more than this.”
“I suspected as much. But I’ll settle for one room for now.”
“A room?”
“Build me one room inside that ruin-just four walls and a door. Oh, and fix the roof so it doesn’t leak. You can reuse whatever you salvage from what’s there. Can you do that in return for this coin?”
The man looked at the coin, thought a moment, and then nodded.
“Good. Do that first and we’ll be able to start earning more. As coins come in, I’ll have you do some more. Deal?”
“You’re that Calian whore. The one who works at the Head?”
“I was.”
“Was what? A Calian or a whore?”
Dixon took a step forward, but Gwen stopped him with a touch of her hand.
“Both. I’m from Medford now, and I’m a business owner.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “What business?”
“Medford House, the best damn brothel in the city.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Strange-you’re the one building the place.”
CHAPTER 9
Hadrian stayed five days in Colnora while the rain poured, sleeping most of the time. The rest he spent wandering the streets, visiting taverns and inns, looking for that familiar hooded head. He never found him but saw Vivian’s face everywhere. Just about everything from his journey since leaving Vernes had been erased. If not for the horse, he might have concluded it had all been a bad dream. When the rain finally relented, he was glad to get on his way. He needed to put distance between himself and the strangeness, to add miles to separate him from still more ghosts.
He had a new mount, thanks to trading the heavy tow horse for a pretty rouncey named Dancer, who sported two rear white socks and a white diamond on her forehead. He had new clothes too-wool and leather, sturdy and warm. In no time at all the rain made them feel like old friends. For two days he had traveled, hood up and head down, but never lost the haunted sensation.
With the city far behind, he entered farmlands of brightly painted barns that faded to gray the farther north he went. Soon the barns disappeared, as did the fields, and he found himself on the third morning in a thick wood. The tunnel of oak, thrashed by another storm, cast a leafy bed of red and gold over the road. Big leaves, bright and beautiful against the black mud. Something about the wet always brought out the best colors. Trunks and branches became ink-black, but the otherwise dull leaves were yellow as gold and red as blood.
Hadrian drew his horse to a stop and waited. He was alone, but it didn’t feel that way.
The air was still. He could hear the patter of water dripping from the trees, the deep breath of the rouncey, and the jangle of the bridle as she shook her head. She didn’t like stopping. Dancer felt uneasy too.
This was how bad things always started in stories told at campfires or around small tavern tables. The young man rode deep into a forest. He was alone in the gray stillness, and all he could hear was the sound of dripping water, the hush of leaves, and then … A hundred things could follow. The man would see a light in the trees and follow it to his doom, or he would hear the pursuit of some creature stalking him.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Hadrian asked Dancer. “Ask Sheriff Malet in Colnora and he’ll agree with you.”
He gave a gentle nudge and the rouncey started forward again. The moment she did, Hadrian caught sight of movement. Not a falling leaf-something big, something dark, moving somewhere behind the bright colors. He turned and stared. Only trees.
“Did you see that?” he whispered.
Dancer continued to plod forward.
Hadrian kept his eyes fixed on the spot but saw nothing. Soon he was carried too far down the road to matter, but he continued to cast nervous glances over his shoulder. In the stories the stalker would be half-man half-wolf, a troll, or a ghost. And if it were one of Packer’s tales, it would have been a goblin wearing a waistcoat and a tall hat. While his imagination could conjure many possibilities, at least he knew it wasn’t a goblin. Perhaps a highwayman? A lone rider like himself, with new clothes and tack, would prove a tempting target. He continued to travel, keeping an eye to the wood and an ear to the breeze, but nothing ever revealed itself.
What little geographical information Hadrian retained from his nights before the hearth with Packer ended mostly with Colnora, as did his personal travels as a soldier. He was still in Warric, still in the kingdom of Ethelred, though near the north end. Sheridan was north of Warric-he knew that much. Somewhere along the road, but exactly how far he didn’t have a clear idea, and he wasn’t certain if there would be a sign or indication of the school along the way. He had passed several trails, which he ignored, guessing a university would be along the path most heavily traveled. The only thing north of Sheridan that Packer had ever mentioned was a land called Trent. The old tinker had described that place as a mountainous realm settled by violent people. Hadrian didn’t think he’d overshot, but he’d done stupider things.
By midmorning he entered a small village of simple thatch-roofed homes, zigzagging fences, and stone-cleared fields. No inhabitants were visible in the drizzle. He considered tapping on the door of a house that had smoke rising from the chimney when he spotted a man wheeling a manure cart.
“What village is this?”
The cart driver looked up slowly, as if his head weighed more than most. Hadrian recognized the body language. He’d encountered it often, usually in the company of a well-armed troop. Fear. The reaction was no less irrational than a deer’s flight, and Hadrian was certain that if this man and his cart could bolt with the speed of a whitetail, he would have already been gone. Hadrian had been in the employ of many armies, and none had questioned the right to seize such a village. The commander would take the best home for his headquarters. He’d give the others to his lieutenants, driving the previous owners out into the elements, keeping even their blankets. Pretty daughters were allowed to stay. Should the father object, he might receive only a beating-if the commander was in a good mood. But commanders of war-faring men were rarely in good moods. Hadrian could not recall if he’d ever stayed in this particular village. They all appeared alike, just as all the battlefields blurred meaninglessly together in his mind. Fear was a taught lesson, though, and Hadrian guessed this man had seen or felt the pain of men on horseback before.