The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter Page 8

  Hunger, the wet, and the smell of cooking meat finally proved irresistible, and Hadrian dragged him into something called The Meat House—a small, smoky, congested shack off one of the narrower side streets. The weather-warped shack sold one-pound chunks of lamb or pork on small planks of grease-stained wood. “Freshest meat in the city. We get it from the slaughterhouse next door,” the cook told them. They each bought a slab of lamb from the man who worked the spit. Then, helping themselves to a pair of pre-poured beers lined up on the counter, they elbowed spots at the long, narrow shelf that served as a communal table. With a row of men standing and chewing on steaming meat while staring at a wood wall decorated with years of grease splatter, the Meat House had all the ambience of a bovine food trough. The only light came from the open spit as drools of grease hit the coals and set off brilliant flares. Still, awful as it appeared, the no-nonsense eatery was warm and dry, and the meat—if nothing else—was hot.

  A beefy, bald-headed thug dressed in a stained blue work shirt, smelling of fish and lacking so much as a scarf to shield him against the cold, struggled to rip a mouthful of meat free from the bone without burning his fingers.

  “Might want to let it cool,” Royce offered.

  The bald man barely turned his head, just shifted his eyes to focus suspiciously on Royce. Dogs did that, too, when eating.

  “Only got a few minutes before the next trawler comes in,” the man said, and licked his fingers. “I can work with burnt hands, but not an empty stomach.”

  “Ugly night to be working outdoors.”

  “Any night’s a good night if you’re getting paid.”

  Royce didn’t like the prospect of blisters, so he used Alverstone to cut a bite-size chunk. Popping it into his mouth, he still needed to suck in air or risk burning his tongue. He was shocked to find the meat tender and flavorful, but Royce, of all people, ought to know better than to judge anything based on appearance.

  Hadrian stood on his left, talking quietly with a small fellow in a gray hood. Royce had a keen sense of hearing, but at times it worked against him. With so many conversations, it was difficult to focus on just one. He and Hadrian needed information, but while Hadrian was friendly and liked to talk, he was also likely to give out unnecessary details. Believing the job would eventually take a violent and unlawful turn, Royce preferred to monitor his friend’s conversation. Best to make certain Hadrian didn’t advertise their real names, where they came from, or the fact that they were very likely going to murder the Duke of Rochelle.

  After a while, Royce relaxed. Despite Royce’s many comments to the contrary, Hadrian wasn’t an idiot. They wouldn’t still be together if that were the case. While his friend might retain the asinine belief that most people were basically good, he had at least learned not to trust everyone who smiled his way. Because two hooks in the water could catch more fish than one, Royce turned his back to Hadrian and focused on the bald man to his right.

  Adopting the local manner, Royce slumped against the shelf, resting on his elbows, and asked, “If a fella was looking for something to keep him warm tonight besides a blanket, any idea where he might look?”

  “You want whiskey?”

  Denser than expected.

  Royce shook his head. “I was thinking more along the lines of a woman, the sort you pay for.”

  The bald man’s face turned toward him. Lit by the fire, it glistened with a thick coat of slathered grease. “Ain’t got that here. Illegal.” He tore another mouthful of lamb from the bone, actually ripping it with a turn of his head, then chewed with his mouth open. “Church don’t approve.”

  “Church doesn’t approve of a lot of things,” Royce said. “That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  “Don’t exist here.”

  “Where you two from?” asked a lean, swarthy fellow on the far side of the bald man, who also had grease dripping from his chin.

  “Maranon,” Royce answered. “Little place called Dulgath.”

  “Un-huh.” The dark man nodded, displaying what Royce had hoped for: total ignorance. “Well, Tom’s right. Don’t know how they do things in Dul-gath, but Rochelle is a pious place.” He said the word pie-us as if demanding a dessert.

  “Moral and pure as the season’s first snowflake,” Tom added through a mouthful of meat.

  Then both men snickered. Hearing each other, the two grease-stained geniuses laughed harder until the bald guy nearly choked to death on a chunk of lamb. He coughed, spit some gristle into his hand, looked at it doubtfully, and stuffed it back into his mouth.

  Royce took a swig from his mug and discovered it was small. The term didn’t refer to its size, which in this case was far more than Royce was willing to consume, but rather the amount of alcohol. Small beer was a poor man’s brew, similar to the watered-down wine used in church services. The drink was designed to quench rather than intoxicate. Royce wasn’t thirsty, but he wanted to keep up appearances. “You’re both from around here then, is that right?”

  “Born on the docks,” the baldheaded one said. “Took over my father’s job unloading the fish trawlers. Which is why I run all the way here on my break. By bloody Mar, I can’t stand fish.”

  “I’m originally from Blycourt,” the other said. “That’s down east, closer to Blythin Castle. You probably heard of it. But my family moved here when I was young. Spent most of my life in Little Gur Em.” He pointed out the door as if this held some meaning.

  “Glad to meet some locals.” Royce forced himself to talk with his mouth full and let grease drip to his chin. “Maybe you can tell me a bit about the city. What to look out for, where not to go.”

  The swarthy gent jumped to answer so quickly that he nearly lost the food in his mouth, and he had to pop a hand to his face to trap it. “You in town for the Spring Festival?”

  “Yep, though it doesn’t feel much like spring. More crowded than I would have thought.”

  The local man nodded. “Bishop proclaimed anybody seeking the crown has to be here for the feast, else they ain’t eligible to be king. It’s bringing noble folk from all over. Some, a lot actually, think he plans to hold a contest, and the winner gets the crown.”

  “That explains a lot. Had trouble finding a place to stay. Any clue who’s going to be picked?”

  “Most likely it will be Floret Killian, the Duke of Quarters,” Tom put in.

  “What about Leopold Hargrave? He’s the duke here, right?” Royce asked.

  “Old Leo’s got no children. A king needs heirs.”

  “Just got married, didn’t he?’” Royce asked. “He could still have kids, although . . . I heard something about his wife going missing, is that true?”

  Like candles blown out by Royce’s words, the gleeful smiles on both men’s faces vanished.

  They shot nervous looks at each other, then scanned the shack as the fire flared and shadows hit the walls.

  “I got to get back. Trawler is likely in by now.” The bald man chugged his remaining beer and wiped his face with his sleeve. Before pushing his way out, he fixed Royce with a suspicious glare.

  The swarthy man continued to stare from across the gap that was left behind by the bald man’s hasty departure. He studied Royce from boots to hood. “You looking for the duchess?” His words reached out slowly like fingers in the dark.

  “I didn’t say that. Just making conversation.”

  “Why are you here . . . Mister . . . ah . . . what did you say your name was?”

  “His name is Grim, and I’m Baldwin,” Hadrian jumped in, shoving his extended palm past Royce. “And you would be?”

  The man looked at Hadrian’s hand as if it were a hissing snake. “Leaving, I think.” He backed away, pulling a blue kerchief from his neck and wiping his hands. Without another word, he shoved past and headed out the door.

  Royce and Hadrian shared a puzzled look.

  “Curious,” Royce muttered.

  “I told the fella I was talking to that my name was Baldwin,” Hadrian wh
ispered. “Didn’t want you picking the same name.”

  Royce looked for the guy in the gray hood. “Where is the fellow you were talking to?”

  “I mentioned the duchess, and he remembered he had to feed his cat.”

  Royce looked around the Meat House. Smoke filled the space where a row of men leaned on the shelf, guzzling beer and tearing seared flesh. Too many eyes looked their way. More than before?

  “Maybe we should—”

  “Not be here?” Hadrian smiled. “Was thinking the same thing.” He swallowed the last of his beer, and together they moved back to the street.

  The Meat House was in a run-down section a few blocks from the city’s harbor. Royce led the way uphill, heading back toward their rented room while steering away from the crowds. The route threaded them through ever-narrower streets lined with walls of brick, places where rodents darted in the shadows. Rain was still falling, drizzling down walls, pouring off roofs, and creating a stream that threatened to back up the open-grate sewers.

  “I take it you didn’t learn anything useful?” Royce asked.

  “You mean beside the fact that a monster stalks the city streets and rips people’s hearts out?”

  “Cute, but—”

  “I’m not joking. That’s what he actually told me.”

  “The one with the cat?”

  Hadrian nodded. “Had the same kind of ears as the mother who told us about the room for rent. He was trying to hide them, but you could see the points when he turned.”

  “They’re called “mir”—part human, part elven.”

  “Is mir an elven term? In Calis, they’re called kaz.”

  Royce nodded. “I think so, but don’t know what kaz means, besides ‘universally hated,’ that is.”

  They reached the crest of a little hill. The street veered right, and, trying to stay on track, Royce took a side lane to the left. He didn’t know for certain, but hoped it went through to something bigger. If nothing else, it afforded a quieter, darker path, and he felt the need to disappear. They hadn’t been in town a full night and already he felt they’d made a misstep, one he couldn’t even blame on Hadrian.

  “How about you?” Hadrian asked. “Any luck?”

  “Some. I know why it’s so crowded. Apparently, you have to be at the Spring Feast to be chosen king. Every noble in Alburn must be here, and the lowborn have come to see who gets picked. Oh, and maybe Leo didn’t marry Genny for just her money.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Candidates need to produce an heir.”

  Hadrian smiled. “Which means . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah. I guess it’s doubtful the duke killed her, but that doesn’t mean she’s alive. She could have been murdered by a rival.”

  Hadrian nodded. “But she could be alive. She doesn’t have to be dead to prevent the bishop from picking her husband. Maybe she’s being held captive until after the new king is crowned.”

  The two skirted a puddle. The present road, which was so narrow it felt more like an alley, lacked the precision engineering of Mill Street. Sewers were still in use—Royce saw the grates at regular intervals—but the water didn’t drain into them. Instead, the runoff chose to gather in low pockets and holes that the road menders had neglected.

  “Hmm,” Hadrian mused.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you find it suspicious?”

  “I find everything suspicious. Can you be more specific?”

  “Well, Gabriel Winter said Reinhold and his whole family were dead. I saw him once when he reviewed the troops. That old guy had enough children to be an honorary rabbit. And none of his heirs are alive? Seems odd. His death and Genny’s disappearance might be related. Could be we’ve stumbled into something more than the disappearance of a wealthy woman. We should find out what happened to the previous king. I suppose we could ask Evelyn Hemsworth. She might know.”

  Royce made a face.

  “Did you just shudder?” Hadrian began to chuckle. “You shuddered, didn’t you? The infamous Mister Grim quivers at the thought of talking to an old woman?”

  “Oh, and I suppose you’re eager to have breakfast with her in the morning? Won’t that be grand! Assuming the shriveled shut-in biddy eats food. I’m betting she gets by on blood she sucks from goats.”

  “She’s not that bad.”

  Royce stopped walking and faced Hadrian straight-on.

  Hadrian’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, so she’s as irritating as rough wool to a sunburn, but she has to have the finest—”

  From behind them, a loud noise cut through the drumming rain.

  The two spun.

  They were alone on a dark street. A moment before, Royce had considered the lack of light as a bonus, but now he had cause to reconsider. Seedier neighborhoods settled for oil lanterns; some got by with torches, and many made do with nothing at all. But even in the worst areas, there was light from windows, except where they now stood. This street had none. No doors, either. Three-story brick walls hemmed them in.

  The clatter was unmistakable: horses running, headed their way.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Hadrian asked.

  From behind, a wagon—one of the big ones with high sides used to haul livestock—came thundering their way, pulled by a pair of black draft horses racing at full tilt. The street was so narrow the wheels scraped the walls, first one side, then the other. Even in the dark, Royce could see the lathered sweat on the animals, their ears back, eyes wide and wild. The steeds were in a panic.

  “Run!” Royce shouted.

  Together, they sprinted up the street, but Royce knew they wouldn’t reach the end of the block.

  “Here!” He led Hadrian to a sewer grate.

  The two dropped to their knees and together wrenched the square of iron bars free, revealing an uninviting hole. Sparks flared and illuminated the dark alley as the left wheel of the wild wagon scraped the end of its metal axle across the face of one brick wall. Royce didn’t search for a ladder. No time to even look below. Anything was better than death by trampling. This was a lie, of course. He admitted it to himself even as he leapt in. There were many things worse, Royce just didn’t think he’d find any on that list at the bottom of a sewer. For the most part, Royce liked sewers. He’d grown up in one.

  The fall wasn’t far, and the water at the bottom was deeper than he expected, which initially seemed like a good thing. Royce always believed it was better to hit water than rock when leaping into a dark hole of unknown depth. After the inaugural splash and obligatory gasp for air, he had a second to realize the water was chest high. A second after that, he discovered the amount of water wasn’t insignificant when combined with the rainwater surge. A powerful current dragged him and Hadrian off their feet and hurtled the two through a lightless tunnel that scraped their legs and elbows across stone walls too slick from slime to grasp.

  The darkness was broken by intermittent columns of light entering through other sewer grates. The flashes gave Royce a sense of how fast they were going. Slower than a trotting horse, but not by much. The sensation was odd and eerie. Bobbing weightless in the dark, the patches of pale light—set at near-regular intervals—rushed by, the only marker of time and distance. The hard stone walls echoed every noise, magnifying drips, splashes, and the water’s rush.

  “This isn’t good!” Hadrian shouted.

  His voice bounced around the tunnel, making it impossible for Royce to tell his partner’s location—behind, maybe? “What was your first clue?”

  “Where do you think this goes?”

  “Best guess? The bay.”

  They swept around a sharp curve that had Royce reaching for a handhold as he skidded along another wall. His fingers came up with fists of muck.

  “How much you wanna bet this doesn’t pour out on a nice soft beach?” Hadrian yelled.

  They passed more lighted grates. In the flash, Royce looked behind him. Hadrian was there, just back and off to the left. The current hel
d the two in near-perfect synchronicity. Kicking and stroking as best he could, Royce broke the distance, moving closer until he latched on to Hadrian’s foot. When he did, Hadrian kicked.

  “Stop it, you fool!” Royce yelled.

  “Was that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Hold still!”

  Royce caught Hadrian’s foot again and pulled, docking them together. He grabbed hold of Hadrian’s belt to ensure they stayed that way.

  “I thought . . .” Hadrian paused. “I don’t know. I mean, we’re in a big sewer, aren’t we? Could be anything down here.”

  “Use your sword,” Royce said. “The big one. See if you can catch it on anything.”

  He felt Hadrian twist, then heard the sound of metal scraping, but he sensed no noticeable decrease in speed.

  They came near the wall again. Hadrian stretched and twisted. More scraping. A series of jerks, and there it was, the force of water surging against them. The force was too much for whatever grip Hadrian had managed, and they were off again.

  “Wall and ground are too smooth,” Hadrian reported. “Need something to catch the blade on.”

  “There!” Royce pointed at the next grating. “See the light.”

  “Too high. I can’t—”

  “Not the grate, next to it! Stairs!”

  In the dim light, Royce could see a set of stone steps descending into the sewer. He realized it was likely too dark for Hadrian to see. “Trust me. Right in front of that next shaft of light. On the left. Kick!”

  They both swam as hard as they could, which did little to alter their course. The current liked to keep them and everything else trapped in the center.

  Not going to make it, Royce realized as once more the light revealed their speed and the lack of sideways movement.

  “Hang on!” Hadrian shouted as they came close to the grating. His head dipped below the water. A moment later Royce nearly lost his grip on Hadrian’s belt as the bigger man shoved off the bottom of the sewer, propelling himself toward the steps. Holding the long blade with one hand on the pommel and another on the flange, Hadrian caught the corner where passing sewage frothed against the wall. Grunting loudly, Hadrian drew them to the side. The current grew weaker the farther away from the center they moved; still, Hadrian’s arms shook with the strain to keep them stationary as water frothed in his face.