The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)

“Regardless, Rochelle is unique in its collision of diversity, and added to that are the rigid trappings and traditions of a bygone era. This city is resentful of changes that have occurred over the centuries. We are a lake with layers of sediment. At the bottom are the mir, and they’re down there for a reason.”

“You disapprove of my intervention on behalf of that child?”

“That mir.”

She frowned. “I guess you don’t think I should have added the pork and cheese, either? Would you have preferred that I send him on his way with a pat and a wave? Better yet, I should have just let him be mutilated, yes? You believe that because the mir are unattractive and unsophisticated . . . because they don’t fit in . . . that they should be shunned? Is that it?”

The duchess wasn’t speaking about the child anymore, and Devon wasn’t about to step into her trap. “I think you should have just bought that horrible vest and given it to your husband.”

The duchess folded her arms across her massive bosom and let out a humph. “Why? Why was saving a child so wrong?”

Devon shook his head. “Mir aren’t like us, my lady, and neither are the dwarves or Calians. They’re creations of different gods, lesser gods, and it’s wrong to grant them the same privileges enjoyed by the blessed of Maribor and his son Novron.”

“You’re wrong; they are the future of this city!” she declared with conviction. “If golden wheat grew wild on your farm, you’d cultivate it in the hope of profiting from a natural crop. That’s just common sense. When one is desperate as we are, one must leverage every asset . . . not merely the pretty ones.” She scowled so that her lips appeared squeezed by full cheeks. “So, I’m guessing you also don’t approve of what I just told the merchant guild. A little late to make your opinion known, Devon. Care to weigh in on my marriage to Leo? It’s only been three months; perhaps you will change his mind, and he’ll ask the bishop for an annulment.”

De Luda sighed and rubbed his temples. “I’m simply trying to point out that you are inexperienced and na?ve.”

“Inexperienced? Na?ve?” The duchess let out a deep chuckle. “I’ve hammered out deals on a pirate ship in a storm while downing shots of Black Dog. Back in Colnora, I have a neighbor who is one of the most renowned thieves in the world, a man rumored to toss rivals off Amber Falls during summer barbecues. But he’s also an excellent customer, and the people he invites to dine aren’t innocent, so I overlook his transgressions. As for na?ve, do I look like a rosy-cheeked debutante?” She waited, but he said nothing. “Of course not. I’m a heifer too old to milk and too tough to butcher. Do you think I got where I am by being blind? I’m not pretty, nor polished, definitely not quality stock as people tend to say. I’m the Whiskey Wench. That’s what the soldier called me, isn’t it? That’s what everyone says, right? I know what they think. I’m not oblivious to the whispers about why Leo chose me. Well, I’ve heard worse, believe me. I’m a woman. We always hear worse. The starched-shirt-and-tight-hosed dandies around here are dandelion tufts next to what I’m used to dealing with.”

Devon took a deep breath, then another. “I merely meant that you are too na?ve about the ways of Alburn, and Rochelle in particular. Ours is a complex and dangerous city. Your Colnora is a free and open municipality where merchants flaunt their independence. Rochelle is old, congested, and choked by tradition and bureaucracy. This city is filled with hidden places and dark secrets. Too many secrets, and it’s unforgiving of mistakes. We still believe in the traditional ways and in ancient-world monsters. I assume from your interest in the blue vest that you’ve heard about our murdering ghost.”

“My hometown has its fair share of bogeymen, as well, Devon. I’ve personally lived a whole summer in a city terrorized by gruesome murders that took low-and highborn alike.”

“The murderer was a man?”

“What else?”

Devon nodded. “In many places, paying heed to superstition is merely a habit. For instance, in Colnora, when someone tosses salt over their shoulder after an accidental spill, they don’t actually expect to fend off a demon creeping up behind them.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Rochelle has literal demons stalking people?” She raised her eyebrows and displayed a lopsided smile. “Do they have fangs and bat wings? Do they spit fire?”

“I’m saying wise people stay indoors at night and dress their children in bright blue to ward off evil. And despite that, citizens of this city are mutilated—a great many as of late. Myths are too often rooted in truth, and we—”

The carriage came to an abrupt halt. They hadn’t yet crossed the bridge leading to the Estate. “Why are we—”

The door on Devon’s side ripped open. Cold air rushed in, damp and clammy. In the dark, he saw a pair of cruel eyes, malevolent and evil. He recoiled, pushing away and fighting to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. He died with the duchess’s screams ringing in his ears.





Chapter Two

The Return of Virgil Puck





Royce knew what was coming.

Hadrian had glanced back at their prisoner more than a dozen times, even though nothing had changed. Virgil Puck continued to walk behind Royce and Hadrian’s horses, still tethered with one end of a rope tied tightly around his wrists and the other end fastened to the horn of Hadrian’s saddle. Nevertheless, the interval between the glimpses shortened, and the length of each look grew at a measurable rate. If Royce had a means of calculating time in small increments, he thought it possible to determine the exact moment when—

“What if he’s telling the truth?” Hadrian asked.

Royce frowned, feeling cheated. He expected it would’ve taken longer. Hadrian hadn’t changed as much as Royce had hoped. “He’s not.”

“But it sounds like he might be.”

“Yes, I am,” Puck said, his voice rising above the shuffle of his own feet—the walk of the reluctant.

“He’s no different from anyone accused of a crime. Everyone proclaims their innocence.” Royce didn’t bother looking back. Everything he needed to know was revealed through the tautness of the rope. From it, he could tell Puck was still tethered; beyond that, Royce didn’t care.

The three made leisurely progress along the rural portion of the King’s Road, just north of the city of Medford. The day was warm, and while most of that year’s snow had finally melted, runoff was still making its way to lakes and rivers. All around, Royce could hear the trickle of water. Each season had its own distinct sounds: the drone of insects in summer, the honk of geese in autumn, the wind in winter. In spring, it was birdsong and running water.

“He’s no criminal, not a murderer or even a thief. I mean, technically, he’s accused of giving rather than taking.”

Royce raised a brow. “Lord Hildebrandt would disagree. Virtue and chastity, these are the things that have been taken from his daughter.”

“Oh please!” Puck erupted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Have either of you seen Lady Hildebrandt? She didn’t receive the name Bliss from her lovers, I can assure you of that. She’s forty-three going on eighty-nine, with the face of a savagely carved jack-o’-lantern and the figure of a two-ball snowman. And don’t get me started on her acidic personality and that grotesque cackle of a laugh. I’m absolutely positive she retains her virtue the same way a bruised and rotting melon avoids being eaten. No one who has actually met Bliss Hildebrandt of Sansbury could possibly imagine crawling into bed with her. I’d personally rather curl up with a diseased monkfish. Maybe if there had been a knife at my throat, I might . . .”

His pause caused Royce to look back.

Virgil Puck’s misshapen nose was off center and sported a bulbous tip like the knob on the end of a walking stick. Beyond that, the man was tall, thin, and endowed with long, curly blond hair, the sort to evoke sighs from women of every rank and class. He wore only a heavy tunic, breeches, and boots. The tunic was covered in vertical white-and-blue stripes, and the boots were yellow as a canary’s breast. Hadrian was right about one thing. Virgil didn’t have the look of a normal run-of-the-mill criminal.