“I don’t think anyone ever has.”
“You keep acting this way and they might. For a second there I did.”
“That’s not good news for a woman in my profession.”
“How do you think it makes me feel? Just got a new job and discovered I’m blind all in the same day.”
“Just so long as you’re not deaf and dumb.”
“No promises. You get me as I am.”
“I’ll take it.”
Gwen went with Dixon to find Henry the Fisher. Henry worked off his boat, running nets and traps along the Galewyr, then hauling back his catch to sell to the fisheries at the Riverside docks. That was also where he moored his boat during inclement weather because it was just a stone’s throw from The Three Sheets Alehouse. The tavern would have been a competitor to The Hideous Head if they were in the same quarter, or the same league. Three Sheets was a category better despite catering to the raucous sailors and fishermen of the docks. The walls, ceiling, and even floors were whitewashed and likely mopped out regularly, as Gwen could smell the lye as she entered.
“The owner is a retired ship captain,” Dixon mentioned as they stepped into a room decorated with ship’s wheels, rigging, and nets. “You might want to wait outside.”
“Are you trying to protect me from the depravity of tavern life?”
Dixon smiled. “No, but walking in with you would be like heading up to the bar with drinks already in hand. The Sheets has its own women.”
Gwen waited at the doorway, watching the crowd. The Head never had such business, rainy day or not. All the faces were unfamiliar, not that she remembered everyone with whom she had done business. Outside of a few regulars, most were vague memories. Strangers in the night who she thought she might know better by feel. Few Hideous Head customers came from the docks-too far a walk when thirsty, too far for the return trip when drunk. She knew a few boatmen, though, not that they spent the night chatting about careers, but the smell of fish was a powerful hint. They also all dressed alike. Fishermen and dockworkers had the same woolly uniforms and calloused hands that felt like sandpaper.
If she was going to make Medford House a success, she would need to pull in clients from outside the Lower Quarter, from places like this. Gwen had a good idea how much Grue charged, although he tried to keep that hidden. No sense in admitting the small fortune he was making off their labors. He also didn’t charge the same rate for all the girls. If the girls knew there was a difference, it might cause trouble. She actually thought that was smart. Grue was many things, but stupid wasn’t among them-neither was successful businessman. He got by, maybe better than got by, but being the only tavern on Wayward, he should have been much better off. Where all his money went she had no idea. All she knew was none of it went back into the Head. Grue figured that the men drinking at his rail didn’t care if the floor was dirt or marble. He was right, but he never considered how cleaning the place up might bring in a new crowd-a patronage that did care about such things because they had enough money to afford better places.
She turned and studied the street. The riverside docks were reputed to be the sorriest places in the city, but Gwen didn’t think it looked any worse than Wayward Street. While the fish stink was arguably stronger than the bridges’ stench, the general appearance of the locals convinced Gwen the docks had nothing on the Lower Quarter for penury. She should be able to do just as well as Three Sheets.
A man walked by with a rack of fresh-cut boards. A girl passed with a bolt of cloth. A bricklayer set his empty hod near the door before going in. This was the Artisan Quarter. Everything Gwen could ever want was right here-the workers to build her house and the clientele to pay for it. She just needed to get the cart rolling downhill.
Dixon came out alone.
“Not there?”
“He’s there. Where else would he be? But he sees no reason to step out in the rain just to give me a length of rope. We can grab it off his lady.”
“He’s married?”
“His boat.”
She followed him around the wooden pier. The Three Sheets was just two buildings away from the river; only the fishery shed and the fleet office separated them. She imagined men docking and delivering their catch to the first, picking up their pay at the second, and spending it all at the third.
Gwen rarely had a chance to see the big river and she still couldn’t. Riverboats with single and double masts blocked much of the view; the rain hid the rest. Tied to bollards and cleats, boats bobbed in the swells. Most were covered in taut stretched tarps while a few others were upended on the dock; their buoys, nets, and oars tucked underneath. Each had names painted across the bows: Lady Luck, Sister Syn, Bobbing Beulah.
“Why are all boats named after women?” she asked.
Dixon shrugged. “I named my cart Dolly after the horse that used to pull it. I was used to shouting at her to get moving. Just kept doing it after the old girl died.”
Dixon found Henry’s boat, the Loralee, and searched under the tarp. As he did, Gwen stared off at the shipyard that lay upriver. She could see a big scaffold like a gallows with an arm that extended out over the boat slips, from which dangled a huge block and tackle. Even in the rain she could hear the beating of hammers.
“Do you know where there are carpentry shops?” she asked when Dixon returned with the rope looped over his body like a sash.
“Artisan Row would be a good place to look.”
Gwen smiled. She should have known.
They were coming back up the boardwalk when Gwen saw her first familiar face. Stane glared at her with the expression of a dog finding an intruder in its yard.
“Looking for me?” he asked, taking no notice of Dixon.
“No,” she said, and kept walking.
Stane grabbed her wrist. “You came all this way-you should at least say hello.”
“Let me go.” She pulled.
His fingers tightened. “It was very rude the way you walked out. Did you come to apologize?”
“I don’t think she likes the way you’re holding on to her,” Dixon said.
“Bugger off,” Stane said, his eyes never leaving Gwen.
“I don’t think you understand,” Dixon went on. “My horse died a year ago.”
Stane looked up at him for the first time, puzzled. “So what?”
“So because I don’t have a horse no more, I’ve spent the last year pushing and pulling a heavy cart around the streets of this city.”
“And I care, why?”
“Because you ain’t nearly as heavy, and I might accidentally break something when I throw you in the river.” Dixon took hold of the arm that was holding Gwen, and Stane winced as he let go.
Dixon shoved him hard against the wall of the fishery shed.
“I have a lot of friends who work around here,” Stane said. “I wouldn’t come back.”
“And if I were you, I’d stay out of the Lower Quarter, because I don’t like men who hurt women, and I don’t need a lot of friends.”
Dixon stayed between Stane and Gwen until they were back to the street.
“Thank you,” Gwen said. “But you should be careful. He was the one who killed Avon.”
Dixon stopped. His face reddened and he turned back.
“Don’t,” she said, putting a hand on his arm.
“Is that why you all left?”
“He was coming back for the rest of us, and Grue had no problem with that.”
“I would.”
Gwen smiled and took his hand. “Congratulations, you’re the first.” She started forward again, but Dixon hesitated, still looking back.
“Leave him. He’s not a threat anymore.”
“He bothers you again, and he won’t be anything anymore.”
They trudged on through the rain, back to Artisan Row. Each quarter had better and worse areas, and the block that backed up against the entrance to the Lower Quarter was the artisan’s version of Wayward Street. The Row they called it, a line of narrow two-story shops so tiny that much of the work was done on the street. Usually this jammed traffic, forcing people to maneuver around cutting tables, looms, and racks, but the rain was keeping everyone inside, where little appeared to be getting done.