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

Mercator Sikara shivered in the cold rain, pulling the thin shawl tighter to her neck. A wind blew up Vintage Avenue the way it often did that time of year, coming off the bay to deliver its damp, salty slap. The squall had a clear path funneling between Grom Galimus and the Imperial Gallery, the two biggest buildings on Darius Square, creating a piercing blast that coursed along the river. The spiderweb-thin shawl was poor defense against such an onslaught, and the pelting rain added insult to injury. “And look at you without even a wrap,” she said to the great statue of Novron as she watched the rain drizzling down the marble. “But then, I suppose demi-gods don’t get cold, do they?”

The weather has been terrible, so much worse than last year. Mercator vaguely remembered feeling the same way the previous spring and wondered if she’d thought the same thing each year. If so, then it might be because that was the natural progression, a downward spiral. Or maybe I’m just old. Too old to appreciate the charm of a late winter’s rain. The young look at snow and marvel at its beauty. Old folk look at it and think about the danger of falling. Am I that old? I mean, I am—but, not really. Or am I?

She supposed a stranger wouldn’t guess her to be beyond forty. She was. Mercator was well beyond forty, and not even the very young would find pleasure in such a cold rain. Her hypothesis was confirmed by those around her. Everyone braced themselves as best they could against the winter’s spiteful bite. All along the riverfront, vendors and customers alike bowed their heads, clutched cloaks, and hunched up their shoulders like hedgehogs in a hurricane.

Why is misery easier to bear in groups? Unlike the changing state of the weather, this thought seemed to be an irrefutable truth. There was strength in numbers; any anthill proved that. Still, a million ants working in perfect harmony couldn’t stop the wind or halt the rain. And if they could, there was always the question of whether it would be wise to try.

Mercator trudged with her burden up the street to the Calian dealer and his rickety wagon filled with scarves, cheap jewelry, and a rack of clothes. Erasmus wasn’t a real merchant, in that he wasn’t a member of the Rochelle Merchants’ Guild—wasn’t allowed to be. He was Calian, and while he was prominent among his people, he wasn’t permitted to engage in commerce in any substantial, permanent, or professional way. Every transaction he completed was illegal, but a transient cart could be overlooked. The illicit nature of his trades had to be one of the all-time cosmic absurdities: One of the world’s greatest tradesmen was barred from his practice in one of the largest trading ports in the world. But the city—all of Alburn, really—was home to many of life’s most profound absurdities. Mercator knew this all too well because on that same list there was a line reserved specifically for her.

“Evening, Mister Nym,” she greeted the Calian, dropping her bags at his feet. The man, whom she’d known for decades, ignored Mercator, pretending to straighten his counter of baubles. The rain drizzled off his tiny red-and-white-striped awning. “I have more dyed wool: double-ply bolts, thread, and yarn. This batch came out particularly well: very deep, extremely even.”

Erasmus sniffed and wiped his nose, looking at her only from the corner of his eye, still pretending she wasn’t there. “Too early,” he grumbled, slurring his words as he attempted to move his lips as little as possible. His hands busied themselves with the stock. “You shouldn’t be here. People will see.”

He was absolutely correct in that she was there much earlier than usual, but . . . “Mister Nym, it’s pouring, and it’s cold, and it’s only going to get worse as the night goes on. No one is watching. I need money. Eating is a habit that, once started, is hard to break.” She paused, then added, “Or so I’ve heard, at least.”

This forced a smile onto the Calian’s grim face. He looked up and down the street. As she’d said, no one was paying attention to them. She wouldn’t have approached otherwise. Mercator knew the rules, and she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Erasmus’s tenuous hold on his street corner. He was one of the few who bought her dyed wool, and he was a friend.

“I can’t buy any now.” There was a sympathy in his eyes.

Erasmus Nym was a good man, braver than most. He’d often risked his life and livelihood to help her. She couldn’t ask for more than that, and she offered him a nod.

As she bent to pick up her bundles, he stopped her. “Hold on.”

Erasmus pulled back some scarves and retrieved a small purse. He poured out a few coins and set them on the countertop, pushing them in her direction.

“What’s that for?”

“I owe for the last batch.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Maybe the one before, then. Just take it.”

“But I—”

Erasmus reached up, pulled down a beautiful blue vest, and dropped it onto Mercator’s bundles of dyed wool. “Here, you might as well take this. Can’t sell it. Everyone thinks it’s cursed now. I should have sold it to the duchess straightaway.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Habit.” He sniffed. The Calian was coming down with a cold. Spring colds were a curse. “Couldn’t help myself. It’s in our blood, you know.”

Mercator’s brows went up. This was the first time in forty years he’d ever suggested, even vaguely, that the two of them shared the same blood. Then she realized he hadn’t. Erasmus Nym was merely referring to himself and other Calians; he hadn’t intended to include her in the term our. Sometimes Mercator heard what she desired. Not that she wanted to be seen as Calian; that wasn’t the point. Her skin and his were the same color, but she wasn’t Calian. And even though Erasmus Nym had long claimed some kind of noble ancestry, his people were the dirt on the streets of Rochelle. Mercator’s ilk was the manure that even the Calians stepped around. And Mercator herself was—

“Your head!” Erasmus was waving a hand over his own in an urgent motion. “Cover your head!”

Mercator noticed a carriage rolling toward them. She quickly lifted her sopping shawl and covered her ears. Erasmus turned away, pretending to adjust stock in the rafters of the awning as the coach passed by.

“They weren’t even looking,” she said. “The curtains were closed.”

“Doesn’t matter. If anyone sees your ears, if anyone thinks I’m dealing with a mir . . .” He gave her a look of exasperation. “Take the coins and go.”

Did he set the coins on the cart because he didn’t want anyone to see him giving me money, or because he didn’t want to accidentally touch my hand? Sometimes Mercator also saw what she didn’t desire.

She couldn’t tell which was more likely or which was better.

“Before I go, I need to know. Has there been any word? Any hint about the duke taking action?”

This was her real reason for coming. She needed the money, but the necessity for hope was even more demanding.

He shook his head, an angry scowl on his face. He, too, was running out of patience. They all were, and that was bad. That was dangerous. Erasmus turned toward the sound of another carriage and glared at her.

She took the coins, snatched up the vest and her bundles, and left.