The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter Read online

  After nearly two weeks, the key was close to done, and so were Genny’s fingers. They throbbed, and her knuckles were a series of abrasions, two of which had scabs. Taking a break, she hid the key in the wall crevice. Then she lay down on the straw and sucked on her fingertips, staring at the ceiling. The underside was plaster. Parts of it had been painted. Most had faded; other sections had chipped and fallen. An old bird’s nest was in one corner. She wondered how a bird had gotten in, then realized the door must be new.

  Why am I still here? Why hasn’t Leo agreed to the demands? Even if her life wasn’t in jeopardy, what Mercator was asking made sense.

  If the situation were reversed, she would have traded the duchy for Leo.

  So why hasn’t he?

  Genny knew why. The answer to that question was too obvious, sort of like standing in a lush field and wondering about the color of grass. All she needed to do was look down, but Genny didn’t want to. All her life she had looked, forced herself to see what others refused to accept. How much easier it would have been to welcome her role as a dutiful daughter, to blind herself to the facts and pretend everything was fine.

  After her mother’s death, her father gave up. Because he was a whiskey distiller, everyone expected Gabriel Winter to resign from life by becoming a drunk. Everyone thought he’d crawl into one of his casks, but that just showed how little they knew him. Her father didn’t drink, never had. Even when he taste-tested, he spat. But there was more than one way to withdraw, and a man didn’t need to be a drunk to become mean. People made excuses for him. Some even lied. And there were those who came right out and said that her life would be easier if she looked away.

  “Get married,” they told her. “Find a man and make a new home.” But Genny knew that wasn’t in her future, not back then. Even as a young girl, she knew spinsterhood was all but certain. Instead, Genny ignored all the advice. She looked, she saw, and she accepted the way things were—and then she decided to change them.

  With the general abdication of her father, Genny took the reins of the business and rebuilt it. In less than a decade, Winter’s Whiskey went from a cheap black-market product to a posh commodity. A few hidden stills that ran on stolen grain became the largest warehouse and distillery in the world, buying thousands of pounds of rye, oats, and barley. Genny even went so far as to purchase rights to farms from Count Simon, an unprecedented act since only royals controlled land. That could only happen in Colnora, which had always had its own rules. As long as the money flowed, the crown looked away. Genny made a habit of ignoring traditions, of pushing the boundaries that others observed but she saw as too limiting. With a loud mouth, a refusal to accept restrictions, an irritating habit of being right, and absolutely no concern as to what others thought of her, she ran naked and laughed at the fools who raced her in long robes. Success proved she was right, and that was all she needed.

  This was the one lie she told herself. The only reality she chose not to look away from.

  Genny convinced herself that saving her father would be enough. That and beating all those arrogant merchants who called her names. Hatred was another form of admiration, she concluded, and wealth was the measure of worth. The deception was hardly a choice. Love wasn’t a commodity she could buy. Her blind eye was a simple matter of finding contentment within the bounds of the possible.

  Then one day, a man, a duke, a short, portly, balding eastern noble smiled at her; and just like that, what was possible changed.

  The situation was made unbearable because she genuinely liked him. Leo wasn’t handsome or dashing; he was awkward and often silly. But when she was in the room, his eyes never left her. Many suggested he only pretended to care to get at her money. Her own father had told her that—he smashed a window with his bare hand, lacerating his fingers in the process to ensure she heard him. She did. Genny heard all of them, but for once, for the first time in her life, she chose to look away—to believe in a dream. She rationalized that her money, which was considerable, wasn’t enough to make a dent in the coffers of a kingdom. The Duke of Rochelle made more in taxes on any given month than Winter’s Whiskey did in a year. He’s not marrying me for my money, she had assured herself. And in a way, that was true, which was why it was so easy to believe. In doing so, she understood what she never had before—why people decided to lie to themselves. Genny wanted to be loved, to be wanted, desired, cherished, not because of what she was capable of, but because of who she was, what she was. This was something she’d never dared dream of before, and Leo Hargrave was holding it out to her, begging Genny to take it.

  She so desperately wanted the fairy tale to be true that she fell into the habit of looking away.

  But he didn’t come to her on their wedding night, or the night after, nor any night since. They slept in separate bedrooms. Leo didn’t talk much. People said he was naturally quiet. She accepted this. Then when the whispers started, and even the servants began calling her the Whiskey Wench, Leo did nothing. He still smiled at her, gave Genny whatever she liked, complimented her, but the hugs were few, the kisses fewer. He loves me, but not everyone shows affection in the same way, she told herself. She needed to believe he felt the same way she did, because if he didn’t, it would break her heart into so many pieces there would be no putting it back together.

  Why am I still here? Why hasn’t Leo found me? Has he even looked?

  Tears welled up. She felt them coming hot and painful along with the truth.

  Genny wasn’t stupid. That was part of her problem. She had figured it out some time ago. Leo hadn’t married her for the money. That was where everyone had it wrong. He had married her because he needed a wife. He needed one fast, and it didn’t matter who.

  It’s not true, part of her still protested. But that internal voice was losing volume, smothered by facts that could no longer be overlooked. She was fighting a losing battle. Genny cried as quietly as she could. She didn’t want Mercator to hear. It didn’t work.

  “Are you hungry?” Mercator asked.

  “Is this a trick question?” Genny said, wiping her eyes and sniffling.

  “I have bread. Would you like some?”

  “I’d sleep with Villar for some bread.”

  “The bread isn’t that good,” Mercator chuckled.

  Genny laughed with her.

  Since that first real conversation about eating gold, the mood in her prison had changed. Mercator wasn’t ready to fling open the cell door and set her free, but it was obvious she felt the abduction had been a mistake. The moment they shared was soft, gentle, comforting, fun. Strange how the flip side of tears was laughter. They could have been a pair of visiting friends up past bedtime, hiding from parents. Snickering as they shared secrets about boys, about clothes, about all the things friends were supposed to talk about. Only Mercator wasn’t her friend. She had no reason to cheer her up.

  “I’m sorry for disrespecting your husband,” Genny said.

  “Who?” Mercator asked.

  “Isn’t Villar your—”

  “Oh, blessed Ferrol, no! How could you possibly think that he and I . . .” She faltered. “Villar is merely the leader of his clan, the Orphe. I’m the head of the Sikara. Ours are the two oldest and most respected mir families. We have no romantic relationship, and to be honest, I think he finds me repugnant.”

  “Well, he has no reason to feel that way. You are very kind.”

  “I was involved in kidnapping you, remember? How is that kind?”

  “You offered me bread, and I know you don’t have much. You didn’t have to do that.”

  Mercator didn’t say anything. There was no sound on the other side of the door.

  “Oh, I see. Is that bread meant to be my last meal?”

  “No!” Mercator replied hotly. “It’s just bread.”

  Nothing was said for a moment, and the silence felt suffocating.

  “There’s still time,” Mercator offered.

  “And when the time runs out?”

/>   Mercator sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “I suspect Villar does.” Genny clenched her jaw. She felt lying to herself now was pointless, and yet there wasn’t much point in not lying, either. The result was going to be the same, and it didn’t matter one bit either way.

  “Listen, do you want the bread or not?”

  “No,” Genny said. “Why waste it.”

  Silence followed, and lingered. No sounds came from the other side of the door for a long time, then Genny heard Mercator sigh again.

  “What’s wrong?” Genny asked.

  “Now I don’t want it, either.”

  “Don’t be that way. You spent good money. You should eat it.”

  Another pause. Mercator shifted in the other room. Genny wasn’t near the door, couldn’t see her, but it sounded like she sat down, and none too gently.

  “I don’t like doing this, you know?” the mir said, her tone miserable. “You seem like a nice person. It’s just like Villar to grab the only decent noble. It’s just . . . I have to . . . we have to . . . something has to be done, and nabbing you was certainly better than the alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  “Death. Many would die.” There was a loud noise on the other side of the door, something clattering on the floor. “If only your husband would concede to the demands, this whole mess would be over. It’s not like we asked for riches. We just desire the same rights everyone else already has. And you were already trying to do just that.”

  “So, you believe me?”

  “I do now. I asked around. You really did attend a meeting of the Merchants’ Guild, and you suggested the Calians and dwarves be allowed membership.”

  “You’re being nice. I doubt anyone who was there described it like that.”

  “You’re right. They said the Whiskey Wench had lost her mind. That the bitch was blackmailing them and would ruin the city as a result.”

  “At least I made an impression.”

  “You did,” Mercator said. “So why hasn’t the duke agreed? Why hasn’t he demanded the guilds alter their charters? Doesn’t he care about his people? Doesn’t he care about you?”

  Genny didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She honestly didn’t know, and not knowing hurt so badly the tears came again. She cupped her face, trying to muffle any sounds, pushing them inward so that her body jerked with the agony.

  “I’m sorry,” Mercator said. “That was an insensitive thing to say.”

  A key turned in the lock, and the door to the cell opened. Normally, Mercator set her meals carefully, never coming close. This time she took a step into the room and handed her a bit of bread. “Eat it. Don’t eat it. I don’t care.” She left, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

  “Thank you,” Genny said.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

  Genny bit into the bread. This was the first real food she’d had in days. “Thank you just the same,” Genny muttered softly.

  “I can still hear you!”

  “Sorry.”

  Mercator groaned.

  Mercator looked up. The cloth drape that hung over the arched entrance in lieu of a door drew back. Villar had come to bother her again.

  He was soaked and paused just inside to shake the water out of his hair. Slipping off his cloak, he snapped it twice to shake the wet off.

  “Is she still alive?” he asked, looking at the closed door to the little chamber. This had become something of a ritual, being the first thing he said each time he entered.

  Every church needs its rituals, Mercator thought.

  “Yes,” the duchess responded. “I’m still alive. And how goes your search for proof that you aren’t the accidental love child of a whorish werebat and a horse’s ass?”

  This made Mercator chuckle. She put a blue hand to her face, trying to hide it.

  Just as Villar always asked the same question, their captive always replied with a new retort—some of her responses quite creative. The woman had a surprisingly inventive mind.

  Villar glared at Mercator. Then his sight shifted to the fresh dye on her arms, and his expression of disgust deepened. Mercator hated herself for it, but she pulled her sleeves down just the same. “Is it raining again?”

  “No,” Villar said, throwing his soaked cloak on the only stool in the room.

  Mercator looked at him, puzzled, but he refused to explain.

  “The feast is in two days, and the duke hasn’t taken any action or uttered a public word concerning the demands. He’s not going to concede. Humans don’t care about anything except keeping others down so their position at the top is maintained.”

  Mercator toggled a finger between them. “We’re both at least half human.”

  “Our lesser half, certainly. And you’re—” He stopped himself and stared at her. An awkward moment lingered.

  Mercator did nothing to help. She didn’t say a word and stared right back, daring him to say more. Villar was less a book to be read and more a clear window one hoped the owner would drape out of common decency.

  He turned aside. “The point is, compromise doesn’t work. You can’t say I haven’t tried to be reasonable. I’ve given them a chance to avoid blood. But time has run out, and now we have to do things my way.”

  “You can’t.”

  “We have to.”

  “You’re suggesting suicide, and not just for those of us in Rochelle, but for all of Alburn, all of Avryn maybe. Even if we succeed, the backlash will be a generational tidal wave of hate and persecution.”

  “Are we not persecuted now? We’re already drowning. What difference is a wave to those trapped at the bottom of the sea?”

  She pointed at the duchess’s door. “She agrees that things need to change. Maybe if we let her go, she could talk to—”

  “She’s lying, saying what she knows you want to hear.” Villar threw up his hands. “You’re so stupid! Do you hear yourself? Let her go? We kidnapped her, held her for weeks in a filthy cell. Do you honestly think that once she is safely back within the Estate’s walls she’ll lift a pinkie finger to help us? And don’t forget, a man has died. Do you think they grant pardons for murdering the ducal cofferer?”

  “You should never have killed him.”

  “She will point us out and cry for revenge.”

  “She’s not like that.”

  “Maybe it isn’t stupidity, maybe you’re so indoctrinated into accepting their views that you’ve forgotten who you are. Ours was once a proud and respected people, and we can be that again. I’ve called for a meeting tomorrow, and I expect you to attend . . . and support my plan. You’re the head of the Sikara family. Your great-great-grandfather was Mir Sikar and mine, Mir Plymerath. It’s time that those who currently rule accept the truth about this region’s past and give us the respect we deserve.”

  “Things will change, but not all at once,” Mercator said. “You can’t obtain respect at the point of a sword, not from people who despise us. Respect needs to be earned. Trust needs to be built up over time, over generations.”

  Although she argued against him, Mercator understood his hatred all too well and, even more, the damaging effects of ridicule. In many ways, she wanted to join in his outrage. They only disagreed over methods. Her outrage of principle was as acute as his. But after more than a hundred and twenty years, she had learned that wisdom was superior to passion, and that the easy and the fast never changed much; in fact, it often made matters worse. At a mere sixty years old, Villar hadn’t learned that lesson yet. Knowing Villar, she wondered if he ever would.

  “At this meeting you’ve called, will Griswold Dinge and Erasmus Nym support your plan? If they don’t, will you reconsider?”

  “No need, their people have suffered nearly as badly as ours.” He stole a look at the locked door and frowned. “We can only achieve our goals by force. Change—real change—happens no other way. And you’re wrong. The only means of gai
ning respect is at the point of a sword because power is the only thing people respect.”

  “So you respect the duke, do you? Because he has plenty of swords. And the king—whoever he turns out to be—will have even more at his disposal. If you shed blood, you’ll be starting a war we can’t possibly hope to win. No, not a war. That presupposes a conflict between reasonably able forces; this will be a slaughter.” She fixed him with a steely gaze. “Do you know what a scapegoat is?”

  “I know the term.”

  “But do you know what it really means, its origin? Ages ago, before the time of Novron, people lived in small villages. They were superstitious and easily frightened. Once a year they would take a goat and cast all their faults and offenses on it. Then they drove it out of the village to die in the wilderness. They did this in the hope that the gods would punish the goat instead of them. As it turns out, people haven’t changed much.” Mercator walked over and grabbed a blue cloth off the line and held it up in a fist. “They’re still just as superstitious and ignorant as ever. The nobility of Alburn will use us as their scapegoat. They’ll point at us and say, There is the cause of our hardships, punish them. Only they won’t wait for the gods to deal out the retribution. They’ll take it by their own hands.”

  “Would that be any different than how things are now? Our people are starving! I doubt Amyle will live to see another week’s worth of dawns. Histivar—you pass him every day—he lives under a bridge! Under a lousy bridge! How can you stand there and suggest things can get worse?”

  “Because they can. Right now, we are alive, and alive is better than dead.”

  “No, it’s not. Not like this.”

  “You’ll only get us killed. And not just here. You do this, and the repercussions will ring out all over the world. Our people everywhere will suffer.”

  “I don’t care. Better to die than live and suffer in poverty and humiliation. Better still to take some of them along.”

  Villar snatched up his cloak, threw it back over his shoulders, and started toward the exit. “And one more thing.” He paused, turning back. “You need to prepare yourself. When this happens, you have to do your part, too.”