“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.”