The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter Read online

  “My part?”

  He nodded and pointed at the door that trapped the duchess.

  Mercator shook her head and mouthed the word no!

  “The revolution will start here.” He spun and walked back out.

  Mercator stood staring at the drape, but not seeing it. She felt cold. Mostly because her dress was soaked from working with the dye—mostly, but not completely.

  “Are you going to kill me?” the duchess asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft, hesitant.

  Mercator looked at the blue-black of her stained hands. Even to her, they looked like the hands of a monster.

  She didn’t answer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Gathering

  Breakfast the next morning was a surprisingly civil affair. Royce and Hadrian were on time, and Evelyn showed her approval with a slight nod before taking her seat. The meal was every bit as sumptuous as the morning before, but this time with waffles pressed into the shape of elephants. Evelyn didn’t bother asking either of them to do the benediction, but Hadrian and Royce waited patiently for her to do so, and showed respect by bowing their heads.

  “These waffles are excellent,” Hadrian said, mostly to break the silence, but also because it was true. Evelyn was an incredible cook, and he was wondering if she did indeed employ an army of fairy helpers.

  “Thank you,” she replied. Then, as if in acknowledgment of their fine behavior, she scrutinized Royce, who not only had risen early to wash and shave but had also elected to leave his cloak in their room. “That’s much better breakfast attire. I approve.”

  “Thank you,” Royce replied with equal propriety.

  Then Evelyn narrowed her eyes at Hadrian. “Is that a new scarf?”

  Hadrian sat up and smiled. “Yes, do you like it?”

  “It’s blue.”

  “Popular color in Rochelle, I’ve discovered.”

  “Only among idiots.”

  This brought a surprised smile to Royce’s face, but shocked Hadrian.

  “Your front door is blue,” Hadrian pointed out.

  “I didn’t paint it,” the old woman said. “That was my late husband’s doing. He had some fool notion it would protect us from a monster.”

  Hadrian looked down at his scarf, disappointed. He had expected the old woman to appreciate his adoption of the local style. Why he cared remained something of a mystery, but perhaps his desire to please her stemmed from the loss of his mother. Hadrian couldn’t remember much about her. She had died when he was still young, but he imagined Evelyn was what mothers were like, or supposed to be: stern, correcting, fault-finding, and great cooks. Her disapproval, as ridiculous as it was, bothered him more than all of Royce’s scoffing. Her mention of the monster, however, opened a door too tantalizing to let close without a peek. Hadrian gave up trying to win approval for his choice in fashion and asked, “You don’t believe in the Morgan?”

  Evelyn’s brows rose as she delicately tore a pastry in half. “Yesterday you didn’t know basic history, but today you’re steeped in local arcane folklore, are you?”

  “We’re trying to educate ourselves,” Royce offered.

  Evelyn wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, then sniffed. “Well, you won’t do it by listening to gossip and ghost stories, gentlemen. The Morgan is nothing more than a silly old legend. Honestly, I would think two grown men would know better. But of course you aren’t the only ones. Tomorrow, you’ll see. If you go to the Feast of Nobles, the whole lot will be attired in a bewildering spectrum of sapphire, cobalt, ultramarine, navy, turquoise, cyan, cerulean, and azure, all in an attempt to ward off a monster straight out of a children’s tale.” She focused on the scarf. “I think a man who carries three swords ought not fear a ghost.”

  “What exactly is this ghost story?” Royce asked.

  “You won’t like it. There’s more of that icky history stuff you’re not fond of.”

  “Make it short, and I’ll try and stay awake.”

  She tilted her head down and peered up at him. “You washed this morning, so I’ll let that go.” Evelyn paused to refill her teacup, set the ceramic pot down with a petite tink, and then picked up her cup with both hands. She sat back, watching the steam rise. “Yesterday, if you recall, I mentioned a fellow by the name of Glenmorgan. He was the brute who, back in the year 2450, conquered all the other petty little mongrel lords and called himself the new emperor, a title the church later changed to steward. He’s also the one who set up his capital in Ervanon and forced the Church of Nyphron to do the same. Well, he had a civilized son, but the boy didn’t live very long. His grandson, Glenmorgan the Third, was different. While still young, the child demonstrated he was just as barbaric as his grandfather, and he ran off to fight the goblins in Galeannon. To his credit, he won that battle, which was thereafter known as the Battle of Vilan Hills. At least it was until recently when another battle was fought, and now that original engagement goes by the less significant title of the First Battle of Vilan Hills.”

  “I was in the second,” Hadrian mentioned.

  Evelyn lifted her chin and peered at him over her cup. “Under whose banner?”

  “Lord Belstrad.”

  “You fought under the banner of Chadwick, Warric’s first regiment in the coalition force commanded by Lanis Ethelred? That was the conflict that turned back the Ba Ran Ghazel’s second serious invasion of Avryn. The one where Sir Breckton, Belstrad’s eldest son, had the rightful glory stolen from him by Rufus of Lanksteer. The northman’s ill-advised and downright ludicrous charge into a ravine won him the title of Hero of the Battle despite costing the lives of nearly all his men. Would have killed him, too, if the Ba Ran Ghazel hadn’t been just as dumbfounded by the stupidity as everyone else.”

  Hadrian blinked, his mouth hanging in surprise.

  “Close your mouth, dear. This is Rochelle, and more than mere goods flow through these ports. Here, we are fond of our history. My late husband was a particular maven of all things antiquated, and his passion became mine.” She took a sip of tea. “As I was saying, Glenny Three won the First Battle of Vilan Hills. The celebration took him across the bay to Blythin Castle, the onetime stronghold of the exiled empire and Nyphron Church—at least until they built Grom Galimus. Glenny spent the next few days drinking and basking in the praise of his nobles. When it came time to leave, they had a surprise waiting for him. The old families didn’t like the idea of a strong emperor who wasn’t sanctioned by the church. They were afraid the true Heir of Novron would be forgotten.”

  “They killed him?”

  She shook her head. “Heavens, no. Just as they are now, the nobility of that time were notorious cowards. They shied from murder. Instead, they locked Glenny Three in the bowels of Blythin Castle. Rumor says the granite cliff the castle sits on is riddled with ancient tunnels where the Seret have carved out a vast number of oubliettes. They sealed him in, walled him up, and walked away. As you can imagine, betraying your emperor after he’d just saved the empire from disaster generated a fair degree of guilt. So here in Rochelle, the city nestled in the shadow of Blythin Castle, there arose a ghost story to accommodate that shame. The tale tells that Glenny was upset with his fate, and being a bundle of ambition that even death couldn’t squelch, he turned into a monster and found a way out of those tunnels. Now he creeps down here to Rochelle in search of the nobles who betrayed him. They’re all long dead, but Glenny doesn’t know that, you understand, and when it sees someone that looks like one of them, the Morgan has his revenge. And it’s bloody; it’s always very bloody.”

  Evelyn took another sip, set her cup down, and reached for her pastry.

  “And the color blue?” Hadrian asked.

  Evelyn flipped her hand in nonchalant dismissal. “Blue wards off evil, of course. That’s why proper baby boys are always covered in it, to protect them from demons and evil spirits. Superstitious fools are willing to pay the exorbitant cost to protect their precious darlings.”

 
Hadrian considered this. “What about baby girls? Aren’t parents concerned about them, too?”

  “It’s not a matter of concern. They don’t need protection. Evil spirits aren’t interested in them.” Evelyn made no attempt to hide her caustic sneer. “They’re females after all, entirely unimportant. No self-respecting demon would waste its time with a girl, so inexpensive pink is just fine.”

  “Where are we headed today, my faithful hound?” Hadrian asked as Royce, having donned his cloak once more, darted off at a brisk pace up Mill Street, heading away from the river. Once again, Hadrian struggled to keep pace with his partner as he moved swiftly uphill.

  While Hadrian maintained his belief that the two had been lucky the day before, there was no denying their efforts had yielded little progress in finding the duchess. They knew the whereabouts of an Estate-employed dwarf who might, or might not, have been the driver of the duchess’s coach. They also knew that the aforementioned dwarf was in nefarious contact with a Calian who was now dead, the victim, it seemed, of the five-hundred-year-old reincarnation of a betrayed emperor. Then there was the phantom who had tried to crush them with a rock, whom Royce had thought was dead, but wasn’t. This elusive mir had survived a high dive from the cathedral roof into the Roche River well enough to pay them a visit, but failed to leave his name or address.

  “Back to dwarf-land?” Hadrian asked.

  “No,” Royce replied. “Today we’re going to a funeral.”

  “A funeral? Whose?”

  “That’s what I hope to discover.” Royce stopped when they reached the first cross street. A brisk wind gusted down its length, blowing a tumbling basket past them. “Which way leads to this wonderland of Calian shopping you love so much?”

  “It’s down near the harbor, in Little Gur Em, close to where we ate yesterday.”

  Royce set off down the street, staying on the walk to avoid the wagon traffic. “I’m betting the Calian with the missing face had a family, and families have a tendency to bury members when they die. If we see a funeral—a procession, a gathering at a graveyard or home—odds will be good that we’ll have found the faceless man.”

  Traffic increased as they headed south toward the bay, where the salty air mixed with the smell of fish. Men wheeled laden carts uphill and empty ones down toward the docks. Others carried hods, or toolboxes, or ladders. Several in the loose-fitting dress of sailors staggered out of doors, squinting at the sun as they dragged themselves back toward the ships. Others milled about in a daze with no clear purpose. They wandered without an evident destination, looking with child’s wonder at the buildings, shops, and carts. Hadrian realized that they acted much as he did, and in that instant, he understood that these were visitors to the city, there to witness the historic crowning of the new king.

  Hadrian studied the streets and building shapes, trying to recall his trip from the night before. He looked for anything familiar, but it was significantly different in daylight. Recalling a neighborhood of dilapidated houses, he turned down a narrow street and found what he was looking for: an avalanche of busted crates, an open sewer grate, and a familiar clothesline stretching overhead. Clothes had been taken off the cord, and the ladder was missing, but the dollop of manure was still there, complete with the slide mark from his boot.

  “Getting close,” Hadrian said. After a wrong turn, he doubled back and found the shabby wooden fence. With no one watching, they jumped it together. Back in the land of dented buckets, Hadrian found the intersection, verifying his memory by looking down the street and seeing the spires of the cathedral. The crossroads, so ominous the night before, was laughably mundane in the daylight. He turned his back on Grom Galimus and walked only a few steps before being rewarded with a stain of blood leading to an alley.

  The bells of Grom Galimus were chiming as Royce bent down, studying the ruddy blemish. He scooped up some pebbles, chips, and shards of rock recently scattered. He sniffed them.

  “What’s it smell like?” Hadrian asked.

  “Gravel,” Royce replied.

  “From the box,” Hadrian said. “I probably spilled some when checking it last night.”

  Royce nodded and stood up. He looked around and sighed.

  “Nothing?” Hadrian asked.

  “Other than the fact the body is gone, I have nothing.”

  After that, the two proceeded to imitate the rest of Rochelle’s visitors who wandered the maze of streets. Royce and Hadrian explored the back areas—those residential sections where chickens wandered free; where hanging rugs formed all the privacy available for roadside privies; where naked children played in puddles, and gatherings of mothers watched the two of them with suspicious interest. Royce made a methodic search, up one row then down the next, with an eye to the impoverished homes. They looked for crowds, for groups dressed in black, for weeping huddles of those who might be mourning the loss of a loved one.

  After hours traipsing through trash and garnering unfriendly glares, Royce stopped. “I suppose it’s possible he didn’t have any family or friends.”

  “Someone took his body away,” Hadrian said.

  “Maybe the guards or neighborhood elders? Can’t have the children playing with dead bodies, might give them sicknesses and a true understanding of their genuine worth to society. Maybe we should head down to the harbor. That’s where they probably dump bodies. This city looks like the sort to have a cadaver-sluice. Our Calian conspirator is likely halfway to the Goblin Sea by now.”

  “He had to have somebody who cared about him,” Hadrian said.

  “Why?”

  “Everyone has someone.”

  “No, they don’t.” Royce focused on a scraggly little pug-nosed dog that was rummaging through a pile of rotting fish bones and tangled netting. “Think about all the stray dogs out there, the ones like that, the mangy wretches no one wants, the sort that people throw rocks at to drive away. They don’t have anyone, and people like dogs, right? Man’s best friend, isn’t that what they say? There are a lot of stray humans, too.” Royce continued to watch the dog with sympathetic eyes. There was something odd about the mutt. The dog wasn’t a stray. It had a collar. A blue collar that—

  “You’re not a stray anymore, Royce.”

  “What?” Royce turned with a puzzled look.

  “I’m just saying that if you died, I’d bury you. And if not me, Gwen would.” He laughed. “By Mar, Gwen would build a tomb for you and paint it blue.”

  “I wasn’t talking about me.”

  “Sure. I was just saying.”

  “Perhaps you should try not saying anything.”

  When Royce looked back, the dog was gone.

  The light of another day began to fade as they returned once more to Little Gur Em’s merchant square; the bells of Grom Galimus chimed.

  “I don’t know.” Royce sighed. “Maybe we should look for the dwarf. He might not have relocated. If I put a knife to his throat, or better yet his wife’s, he might . . .” Royce paused. Looking around at the crowd, his expression became puzzled.

  “What is it, boy? What do you smell?”

  Royce glared.

  “Sorry.” Hadrian grinned.

  Royce nodded toward the people moving around them.

  There were three young girls carrying cloth-covered baskets of baked goods. A man with a saw looped over one shoulder walked past and tipped his hat. An elderly couple strolled hand in hand, shuffling along as slowly as a pair of lazy snails, looking both romantic and cute. Most were Calian, a few were dwarves, and several were mir.

  At first Hadrian saw nothing odd, then as he watched he saw it. Where earlier, people were going, coming, and milling about, now everyone—every single person, right down to the children—was heading east.

  “They weren’t doing that a minute ago?” Hadrian asked.

  “The bells.” Royce nodded in the direction of the cathedral. “They just rang.”

  “Hurry up or we’ll be late,” a Calian woman said as she ushered childr
en out of her home. She caught sight of them, offered a cautious smile, then looked away and shooed her boys along.

  One by one, the shopkeepers and cart vendors closed their doors and covered their wares. After locking their treasures away, they, too, headed away from the setting sun.

  “Where do you think they’re going?”

  The two stood in the square and watched as it emptied of people, draining like a leaking bucket until only a few stragglers remained. As the light faded and night crept into the city once more, Royce and Hadrian followed.

  Pursuing the parade east, Hadrian noticed they were leaving Little Gur Em and entering a decidedly less inviting part of town. In all his wanderings and late-night chases, Hadrian hadn’t been here. Based on the way Royce was looking about, he hadn’t, either.

  Like the fringe of an old coat, the eastern edge of the city frayed. Rochelle had been bigger once; now the forest worked to reclaim stolen land. Grand homes and shops abandoned to decay had been uprooted by trees bursting through foundations, popping roofs, and throwing branches through windows so that the forest appeared to wear the houses. Streets had lost stones; the gaping holes reminded Hadrian of missing molars in an ancient mouth, while the tufts of yellowed grass that spurted in doorways were the unwanted hair of the aging. Wind blew shredded curtains, tattered awnings, and loose boards, which made a hollow, lonesome sound that echoed down the cavity-plagued road.

  The procession took several routes, but all of them concluded at a stone ruin that might have once been a warehouse. Large enough to have been used to construct sailing ships, the building had four intact walls and half a wooden roof. None of the windows retained any evidence of glass, and the stone exterior showed only a speckled stain of paint where a mural had once decorated a wall. Conversations had been few, but as the many groups and individuals transformed into one tight crowd, soft murmurs rose. Royce and Hadrian drew their hoods up as they slipped inside. The sun was gone, the land dark. A single bonfire shimmered brightly at the front of the building, casting giant shadows on chalk walls.