“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.
CHAPTER 13
Hadrian followed behind Royce. There was enough room to ride alongside, as the road north was as wide as three oxcarts, but he hung back. Traveling next to him would feel too friendly, and Hadrian had no such feelings. It was possible that Royce had saved his life on the barge, but for all the wrong reasons. And while he had helped him in the stables, again he had not acted out of friendship or loyalty. Hadrian was nothing but a stone in a stream he needed to cross, useful only so long as his foot was on him.
The two rode for hours. The sun had set and the moon had taken its place, but Royce hadn’t said a word since they left Arcadius’s office, hadn’t even looked at him. Hadrian could have fallen asleep, or off a cliff, and Royce would have neither known nor cared.
They traveled through a bleak world, barren of trees. A windswept highland inhabited mostly by rocks and tall grasses, which grew in patches and all leaned the same way, bowing in submission to the prevailing wind. In the distance, he could see rocky mountains, jagged, dark, and grim. This was Ghent-at least that’s what Royce and Arcadius called it. Neither had felt it necessary for him to know the details of their mission. Arcadius appeared to care only that Hadrian go along, not that he be an informed member of the team. This was fine. Hadrian didn’t want to be there at all. Stealing was wrong. He believed that but was unable to muster much indignation, given he’d done far worse over his few short years. He was trying to be better, but so far all he’d managed to do was run away. Hadrian had fled his home, deserted one army for the next, abandoned Avryn for Calis, and finally with no place left to run, he’d returned home. Hadrian had even run away from Vernes when he might have stayed to help Pickles, and he left Colnora rather than attempt to solve the riddle of the barge. Now he was to be a thief, which didn’t sit well with him. But he was stealing only a dusty journal, not the food from a family’s mouth. And if it could change Pickles’s life from one of desperate poverty to one of almost limitless hope, then it might be the most virtuous thing he’d ever done.
Hadrian tried not to think too much. He didn’t ask questions, which he imagined was the real reason why he knew so little, but it was impossible to spend three days in Sheridan and not learn something. First, he discovered that wool was the number one industry in the area and that there were far more sheep than people. Second, he discovered Ghent, or more precisely the city of Ervanon, was once the capital of three of the four nations of men, having been the home of a short-lived empire. Hadrian found neither of these facts particularly interesting or important. The third item, however, surprised him. Ghent, while being the northernmost region of the country of Avryn, was not a kingdom or principality. Ghent was an ecclesiastical dominion, ruled by the Nyphron Church, and Ervanon was the center of the church and home of the Patriarch. This last bit Hadrian remembered having heard before. His father never spoke of the church, and Hintindar had no priest, but everyone knew of the Patriarch just as everyone knew of the gods Novron and Maribor. This meant he would be thieving from the church. If he hadn’t already angered the gods, this ought to cinch the deal.
So far Hadrian wasn’t terribly impressed with Ghent. The hillsides had the expressions of old war veterans, scarred and withered. The fields were empty, picked clean, trampled of life. The road had once been paved in stone. Hadrian saw them in patches, now mostly buried in dirt. The whole place seemed used up, sucked dry. Something that may have once been great remained a dust-covered memory.
They came to a bend in the road where it turned more west than north, and there at the turn was a squat fir tree that for the last quarter mile Hadrian had suspected might be a bear.