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

They had a noble duchess at their mercy, and they were torturing her for entertainment. They fed her gruel as humiliation. That was their plan, to beat her down, starve, degrade, and intimidate her. When she was desperate, perhaps they would give her dead rats and laugh, goading her to eat them. It was possible that the poor treatment was part of some clever plan, but Genny had come to believe that it was merely for sport. How grand it must be to embarrass her, what hoots, what laughs they must share. How wonderful to finally make one of them suffer.

Only I’m not one of them. Not really. She grimaced at the worn wooden bowl and remembered a similar one she had eaten from as a child. I’m not one of anything. The masses see me as privileged, and the nobles see me as the unwashed.

If Duchess Dederia, Duke Floret’s wife, had been abducted, she wouldn’t have survived the first hour. The moment they stuffed Dederia’s head into that smelly bag, she would have dropped dead.

They’re fortunate they got me instead. Lucky on the one hand, not so fortunate on the other.

Genny was done playing nice.

No one got anywhere by being timid. No one advanced through whispers. This was a lesson she’d learned early.

Genny had observed that successful men were bold and acted confident, even when they weren’t. They declared they were right, insisted it was so, and, amazingly, people who ought to know better, believed. Even if they were wrong half of the time, they were right the other half. After a while, the mistakes were forgotten, but the victories never were—the men made a point of reminding everyone of those. Genny had seen this, learned from it, and practiced what she had dubbed the Art of Bluster. She’d always had a big mouth, literally and metaphorically. And she was smarter than she looked, which at first was a hindrance, but later had become a weapon.

Peering out through one of the cracks in the door, Genny wanted to make certain there was an audience for the tirade she was about to unleash. Mercator was at the cook fire, dishing out her own meal. She poured the same dismal slop into an identical wooden bowl. Not a bit of fruit, nut, syrup, or berry was added. There was no meat, no bread, no cider or beer. Genny watched, baffled. She’d been certain her captives served themselves a different meal. Who would willingly eat such miserable food?

She stared as Mercator drained the last of the porridge into a bowl. That’s when Genny realized the most remarkable thing of all. After pouring out the remnants, Mercator had significantly less in her bowl than what Genny had been served.

Is this really what she lives on?

Mercator sat down on the floor, crossed her legs, and ate that half serving of porridge, lifting the bowl to her mouth and drinking it in like soup. Even at their poorest, the Winter family never ate this badly.

Genny knelt at the reach of her chain, staring out the gap in the door, studying her captor. Mercator was a miserable sight. She was thin and ragged, her skin dark—reddish brown like an acorn—except her arms, of course. She was small and more than lithe. Mercator looked like a deer in late winter. Stick-like legs, a long slender neck, high, hollow cheeks, and the infamous oblong ears that declared the woman’s elven heritage. Mercator was a mir, and all the mir Genny had ever seen were thin.

Are all mir in want of food?

Genny had already identified the need to empower the Calians and dwarves, but it turned out she had a blind spot—the mir. They were, as always, invisible. That was before Genny came to know one. Before she was forced to watch Mercator struggle to survive. Before she saw her eat the mouse’s share of the porridge. Before she saw a person where there wasn’t supposed to be one.

Mercator stopped eating. Her head bowed over the remains of her miserable meal, and with raised knees, she rocked in a regular rhythm. Try as she might to be quiet, Genny could still hear the sobs.

“What’s wrong?” the duchess asked.

After a gasp and sniffle, the mir lifted her head, brushed her hair back, and surprised Genny with an answer. “Your husband isn’t doing anything. He’s not trying to save you.”

“Leo? What do you mean?”

Mercator shook her damp hair. “When Villar grabbed you, he left our demands in the carriage—a simple set of instructions. Once they were followed, you’d be set free.” Her lower lip shook as her mouth pulled into a deep frown, the sort attempted in the hope of restraining emotion—an effort that never worked. “We didn’t even ask for much. Hardly anything at all. But rather than agree, or even make a counterproposal, he’s refused to bargain.”

“Demands?” Genny said mostly to herself. “You asked for money? A ransom? Is that what this is about?”

Mercator made a loud disgusted sound. “We aren’t thieves. We just want . . . a chance to live.” She sniffled again. “All we ask is to have the same opportunities as everyone else. For no known reason, Calians are denied the privilege to open their own shops. Dwarves are forbidden to engage in any trading, why is anyone’s guess. And my people, the mir, are banned from everything, labeled outlaws at birth. Our crime is existing.”

“Surely you exaggerate. You make and sell dyed cloth.”

“Illegally. And if I’m caught, or if those who risk doing business with me are apprehended, we both face mutilation or death depending on the whims of the city guard who discovers the offense. The punishments are capricious and subjective.” She shook her head and toggled a finger between them. “This right here, my talking to you, is against the law.”

“What do you mean?”

“A mir isn’t allowed to speak to a citizen of the city. Doing so will result in a beating. Technically, I can’t even look you in the eye. That, too, is forbidden, although rarely enforced. We can’t take water from wells or fountains, can’t fish or hunt for food. We can’t beg. Renting property is prohibited; so is sleeping on the streets or in alleys. We are banned from the bathhouses and denied the ability to clean ourselves in the river or bay. We mustn’t start fires to warm ourselves, have to speak in whispers so as to not disturb the better folk, and are forbidden to teach our children to read, write, or learn numbers.”

“How do you live?”

“That’s just it, we aren’t supposed to.”

“What did you ask of my husband? What did you demand.”

“We begged for the privilege to work, to buy and sell, and to rent land the same as anyone else. We asked to be made citizens of the city and be granted the same privileges, opportunities, and security granted to everyone else.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. Your husband could fix everything with a signature, but when it comes to granting even basic dignity to the Pitifuls, even the life of his new wife isn’t enough to make him do what is right.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Neither can I, but here we are.”





Mercator hated crying. Knowing the duchess was peering out, seeing her moment of weakness, made it worse. At this point, all she had was her dignity, and the duchess was stripping away even that.

“You know you’re being foolish,” the duchess said. “Kidnapping me was about as stupid a thing as a person could do.”

“So is calling me stupid if you ever want to eat again.”

“You don’t understand. I was trying to help you.”

“By calling me stupid?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Silly and stupid, I guess you really don’t like food, do you?” Mercator picked up a rag and wiped her face.

“You misunderstand. Let me explain. The night you abducted me, do you know what I was doing? Where I was coming from?”

“I heard you were on a shopping spree. Checking out a blue vest to give to your husband.”

“That was a momentary stop on my way back from a meeting with the Merchants’ Guild.”

“Merchants’ Guild?” Mercator stared at the closed door. She couldn’t see the duchess but guessed the woman was peering through the slats the way Mercator often did when trying to tell if the duchess was asleep. “What business does a duchess have with the guild? Are they not importing the fashions you desire?”

“I was trying to persuade them to grant membership to the Calians.”

Mercator let out an absurd laugh. “Why would you do that? Because you anticipated being kidnapped and thought it might be a good way to—”