The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter Page 4

  “You should go inside,” Gwen said. “It’s getting cold out here, and Albert probably wants to talk to both of you.”

  Eight. Eight gold tenents. Royce eyed the pale yellow disks with the embossed image of Amrath, or maybe it was the king’s father. Apparently, the two looked similar, or perhaps they didn’t and the kingdom’s treasurer got lazy and had the minter make only slight modifications to the previous molds. Didn’t matter. The fact remained that they were genuine, and there were eight. Royce, Hadrian, and Albert were in the Dark Room, a moniker bestowed due to its lack of windows as well as the shady business conducted there. Albert had dumped the coins on the table, then sat back in the chair nearest the fireplace to put his stocking feet up on the hearth. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  “I don’t understand,” Royce said.

  “No mystery; we got paid.” Albert gestured at the money with an overly dramatic flourish. The viscount had lost everything except his title before becoming Royce and Hadrian’s liaison to the nobility. He retained a lofty air and that easygoing attitude that comes from living without fear of any natural predator.

  Hadrian set his bags down and took a seat by the fire. “We didn’t finish the job. Didn’t even get Puck back to Sansbury. A troop of men killed him on the King’s Road.”

  Albert swished his lips back and forth in momentary thought, then waved his hands dismissively. “Clearly Lord Hildebrandt was pleased with how things turned out. Likely he planned to execute the poor fellow as it was. You merely saved him the effort.”

  Hadrian dragged over a chair and sat down beside Albert and the table of coins. He plucked one up, turning it over in his fingers. “How could he have . . .” He looked at Royce. “He can’t possibly know Virgil is dead.”

  “Of course he can.” Albert sat forward, an annoyed scowl forming on his face, as if the objections were a condemnation of his efforts. He fluffed the lace cuffs of his ruffled sleeves like a preening peacock. “The men who killed him probably worked for Hildebrandt. They must have ridden back, reported the deed done, and—”

  “Puck died just north of here, not far from where the South Road splits from the King’s Road. That’s twenty-five miles from Sansbury.” Royce, who had remained standing, shook his head. “Someone would have had to ride amazingly fast to reach there by now. And then it would take time for them to . . . Albert, when were you paid?”

  “Early this morning.”

  Royce and Hadrian looked to each other for answers but found only reflected confusion.

  “This morning?” Hadrian said. “Puck was alive this morning. We were all enjoying a pleasant little walk from East March.”

  Albert’s brows rose as the truth finally dawned. “Well, that . . . that is quite odd, isn’t it?”

  “Who paid you, Albert?” Royce asked.

  The viscount sat up, pulled his feet back under him, and straightened his vest by tugging on the bottom. “Lady Constance. We had a meeting this morning at Tilden’s Tea Room in Gentry Square. Wonderful little place right next to the bakery, so they get—”

  “Constance?” Royce said the word aloud. Something clicked, and he felt the way a hound might when taking a second sniff at a footprint. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  Hadrian nodded. “Me, too. Albert’s mentioned her a few times.”

  “Of course I have. I get most of our jobs through Lady Constance. She makes social butterflies look like shut-in moths. The woman knows everyone, and everyone knows her. She’s native to Warric, has connections in Maranon, but prefers the parties here in Melengar.”

  “Wasn’t she the one who hired us for the Hemley job? The one with Lady Martel’s diary?” Royce asked.

  Albert nodded.

  “But she wasn’t procuring the diary for herself, right?”

  “I believe that’s so. Just as I represent you, Lady Constance acts as a liaison for her people . . . er, clients . . . um, friends . . . however you want to refer to them. She’s never said anything, but I assume she adds a surcharge and pays us the difference. She has to make a living somehow.”

  “Isn’t she a noble?”

  “Yeah, well, given the straits you found me in, you should know that not all nobles are rich. She was married to Baron Linder of Maranon. Why, I don’t think even she could say. He had no lands, wasn’t wealthy, and not even particularly attractive.”

  “Wasn’t? Is he dead?”

  “Yes, in addition to his other shortcomings, he apparently lacked skill with a lance; he was killed by Sir Gilbert of Lyle in a Wintertide joust just six months after they married. How she manages to maintain such a lavish lifestyle is a mystery to everyone at court and a topic of much speculation.” He paused in thought. “I wonder what rumors circulate about me.” He waved the question away. “Anyhoo, I’m guessing she’s made herself as useful to her acquaintances as I’ve been to you.”

  “You never asked her about it?”

  Albert looked shocked and insulted at the same time. “Oh, dear Maribor, no! And she has never asked me about my affairs. We have a perfectly wonderful lack of curiosity about each other, which makes working together not only possible but delightful as well.”

  “You slept with her,” Hadrian said, his tone neither critical nor approving. He was merely stating a conclusion.

  Albert let slip a mischievous grin. “Along with our lack of curiosity, we share an obvious absence of morals and a mutual aversion to cumbersome attachments. But filling that void is a healthy appetite for lust. It’s a wonderful arrangement, two peas in a pod are we.”

  Royce, whose tiring hand reminded him that he was still holding his pack, looked around for a place to set it down. Mindful that the bottom was still wet with muck, he placed it on the hearth near the crackling fire. “So, you have no idea who actually hired us to steal that diary?”

  “Nope, can’t say that I do.”

  “And Virgil Puck?”

  “Well, that’s a different matter, now isn’t it? Of course it was Lord Hildebrandt; otherwise it would be terribly awkward when you arrived with him and . . .” Albert’s eyes shifted as he fit the puzzle pieces together.

  Albert was a fine intermediary. He’d a handsome face that polished up well, and he knew all the finer points of etiquette required to sail the dangerous waters of the Avryn aristocracy. He was competent and well spoken but suffered the illness of all nobles, a dulling of the senses due to privilege. Pets suffered from the same disorder. Having grown up in a household, a dog couldn’t be expected to live in the wild, any more than a cow or chicken. Domesticated creatures lacked basic situational awareness, that fearful ever-present state of expected catastrophe that kept the less pampered alive. Watching Albert, Royce saw him questioning his foundations and knew what was running through his head: No . . . that sort of thing happens to other people, not me.

  “So, Puck was telling the truth. He didn’t have anything to do with Bliss Hildebrandt. Guess I’m a better judge of people than you on this one.” Hadrian beamed a smile, which didn’t last long. Royce guessed it faded just as soon as his partner realized he had helped kill an innocent man.

  Royce knew better. Puck wasn’t innocent; no one was. He’d done something to someone, and the only thing Royce wanted to know was whether that something was going to rub off on him.

  “So, who killed Virgil and why?” Hadrian asked.

  “Won’t ever find out,” Royce replied. “It’s a double blind. Quadruple if you add in Albert and Constance. We apprehended the poet under trumped-up allegations, nothing dire enough to arouse suspicion—even from someone like me. Then, a second group was hired to do the killing, and probably they were told an entirely different story. All of which makes it incredibly difficult to trace the responsible party or determine the actual motive.”

  “Well, not to be insensitive to Mister Puck and his demise, but”—Albert looked over at the coins—“I’m in dire need of a new doublet and breeches. It’s important to keep up appearances you know,
and—”

  “Go ahead.” Royce nodded. “Take a tenent, but the new outfit will have to wait. We still need to pay Gwen for the use of the room and catch up on our late stable fees.”

  “Well then, we’re in luck because I already have another job lined up.”

  “Not through Lady Constance, I hope. I’d prefer something a little more straightforward. A job where I know what I’m getting into before I step in.”

  “Ah—no, this one didn’t come from Constance, but it’s . . .” Albert paused. “Unusual.”

  Royce folded his arms. He’d had his fill of unusual. “How so?”

  “Well, normally I have to poke around and look for work, but this fellow came to me, or rather he came looking for you.” Albert looked pointedly at Royce.

  “Me?” This unusual was sounding worse by the second.

  Albert nodded. “He’s staying in the Gentry Quarter. Wouldn’t give me a name or even tell me what it was about. He said he’d know when you returned, and he’d stop by then.”

  “He would know?”

  Albert nodded. “That’s what he said.”

  “Well, doesn’t that just make me feel all warm and cozy. Did he mention how he knew I was living in Melengar, or how he knew me, period?”

  “Nope, only said he was up from Colnora and was looking for . . .” Albert paused to think. “It was a strange name, one that made me think of a cleaning service. He didn’t mention Riyria, but when I did, he recognized the word. Hmm, I wish I could remember what it was.” Albert furrowed his brow further in concentration.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Royce told him and wished he could take the same advice, but he knew all too well that the stranger from Colnora had called him Duster.

  Chapter Three

  The Whiskey Baron

  It took only a few hours for the mystery man to show up at The Rose and the Thorn. They had time for baths and a hot meal. Hadrian was able to down two tankards of beer, but Royce wanted to stay clearheaded. Normally he unwound after a job with a glass or two of Montemorcey, and he was annoyed that the wine would have to wait. Albert had Gwen seat the potential client in the Diamond Room, which had been kept empty of other patrons to give them privacy.

  He sat in the back, an elderly man with gray hair and a face as salty and rugged as a seaside cliff. He wasn’t tall; if he stood, Royce suspected they might be the same height. He was, however, big. More than stocky, and even larger than portly, the man eclipsed the chair in which he sat and strained the seams of his traveling clothes. The tunic he wore had double stitching and metal studs, which decorated the floral designs across his chest. A heavy cloak lay tossed over the back of the chair beside him. Made of a thick two-ply wool, the wrap looked new. He had gloves, too, expensive calfskin. They rested on the table near the cloak. Each had the same floral design as his tunic. A matched set, Royce thought.

  The visitor watched Royce and Hadrian enter as if studying them for later recall. He didn’t bother getting up or offer to shake hands. He patiently waited as Royce and Hadrian took their seats on the stools opposite him, not saying a word.

  He focused on Royce. “Is it you? Are you Dust—”

  Royce cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t use that name anymore.”

  The man nodded. “Fair enough. What should I call you, then?”

  “Royce will do, and the big fella is Hadrian.”

  Each gave a nod of acknowledgment.

  “Who are you?” Royce asked.

  “I’m a man who lived in Colnora during the Year of Fear.”

  Royce let his hand slip off the table. Beside him, Hadrian placed both feet flat on the floor to either side of his stool. The old man didn’t appear formidable in any sense, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable: revenge. He wanted it, and he’d come to get it.

  “Name’s Gabriel Winter.”

  Royce knew the name but had yet to make the connection. And as far as he could recall, he’d never tangled with anyone named Winter.

  “You terrorized Colnora. The entire city was paralyzed from the horror you wrought. Pushcart people, street sweepers, shop owners, business barons, everyone right up to the magistrate was terrified. Even brave Count Simon fled to Aquesta that summer. That did a lot for morale, I can tell you.” The fat of the man’s neck quivered as he spoke, but his eyes never wavered, and his voice remained steady and calm. Both hands stayed in plain sight, ten pudgy fingers, palms on the table beside the empty gloves and half-melted candle. Nothing else lay between Royce and Winter but the tabletop.

  No cup or mug—he hadn’t ordered a drink.

  The Diamond Room was quiet. Not part of the original inn, the room had been recently built to accommodate the tavern’s growing popularity. The addition filled the oblong space between The Rose and the Thorn and Medford House and gave the place its diamond shape. The only sounds came from two barmaids cleaning mugs in the other room.

  “What do you want?” Royce asked as his fingers entered the front fold of his cloak and slipped around the handle of Alverstone.

  “I want to hire you.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised Royce. Albert had described the man as a potential client. But so much about the meeting was worrisome. “Hire me?”

  “Yes,” the man replied with curt candor, a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he knew a secret or the punch line to a joke that had yet to be revealed.

  “To do what?”

  “Exactly what you did in Colnora. Only this time I want you to make the city of Rochelle bleed.”

  Hadrian shifted in his seat, his feet coming off poised footings. “Why?”

  The man pushed back from the table, folding his arms across his chest as if contemplating what to say next, or maybe just working himself up to say it. Some things didn’t come easy. Royce understood that well enough, and from the miserable expression on the man’s face, he guessed that whatever he was about to say, this might be the first time he’d put it into words.

  “My wife died ten years ago. Just been me and my daughter since then. Good girl, my Genny, faithful, loyal, a hard worker, quick as a whip, and tough as leather. We did well together, the two of us. She got me through the tough times, and there were plenty of those. But less than four months back she went off with a nobleman from Rochelle. Fella named Leo Hargrave.”

  Hadrian leaned forward. “Leopold Hargrave?”

  “That’s him.”

  Royce raised a questioning brow at Hadrian.

  “He’s the Duke of Rochelle. It’s in Alburn, southeast of here. I was in King Reinhold’s army down that way before I shipped off to Calis.”

  “Reinhold is dead,” Winter said.

  “The king of Alburn has died?”

  “Him and his whole family. Bishop Tynewell is going to crown a new king come the Spring Festival. Genny wrote me all about it. She wrote me three days a week ever since the wedding, then nothing.” The man frowned, his sight falling to the surface of the table where he scraped at a worn spot with his thumbnail, trying to tear back a splinter.

  Royce nodded. “So, what? You think she’s dead?”

  “I know she is.”

  “Because she’s late in sending letters?” Hadrian said. “The woman just got married; she’s in a new city, a very different city, and she’s a duchess now. Might be a tad busy. Or maybe she sent letters and the courier was lost in the snows. It’s not spring yet, and those mountain passes can be treacherous. You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  Gabriel Winter looked into Hadrian’s eyes. “I did receive a letter, but not from my Genny. Hargrave wrote to say she’s disappeared.”

  “Oh, well, disappeared is . . . it’s not good, but it doesn’t mean she’s dead.”

  “Yes, it does.” His stare was cold and harder than granite. “I told her what would happen. She just wouldn’t listen. The only reason Hargrave married Genny was for her dowry. He doesn’t love her. Never did. But Genny, she loves him, see. From the top of her head to the tip of her toes she do
es. Don’t know why. She’s always been so sensible in the past, and this Hargrave . . . well, the man is noble, that should have told her everything right there. I tried to stop her, but how could I? He’s all she ever wanted. That’s what she told me. My Genny, she’s not what you would call pretty. Even as wealthy as we are, no one ever came knocking on her door. She was getting up there in age, will be thirty-three in the fall, and, well, when the duke asked for her hand it was like offering the gift of flight to a chicken. She couldn’t see past the dream. Hargrave killed her all right, him and his ilk. That was his plan from the start. I saw it in the man’s eyes. He was using her.” Gabriel turned to Royce. “I’d go there myself, but—” He spread his arms. “I’m old and fat, and never was that good with a knife. What could I do to avenge my darling daughter? Nothing. As a father, I’m incapable of doing the deed myself, but as a businessman”—he pointed at Royce—“I have the means to pay others to be my hands.”

  Businessman! That clicked the tumbler, and Royce finally knew who he was talking to, and how the man knew where to find him. “Winter’s Whiskey.”

  “That’s me.”

  It was Hadrian’s turn to raise a questioning brow.

  Royce clarified, “One of the business barons of Colnora, the ones who actually run the city. Nobles appointed by the king of Warric are supposed to administrate, but they rule like a barnacle commands a ship. The real control resides in the hands of the magnates who live in the Hill District: men like the DeLurs, the Bocants, and Gabriel Winter, purveyor of fine liquors and quality spirits.”

  “My neighbor is Cosmos DeLur. He was kind enough to provide me with your change of address.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “My money has bought me all manner of comforts, but right now the only thing I want is revenge.”

  “Have you tried contacting the duke?” Hadrian asked.

  “Of course I have.”

  “What did he say?”

  “His scribe wrote that Hargrave was ‘investigating the matter.’ Investigating the matter! Oh, I’m sure he’s looking real hard, given he’s the one who killed her!”