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

The merchant laid out the vest out on the counter before them, shaking his head. “My dear lady, this is imported silk from eastern Calis, extraordinary workmanship. For months, it rode in a caravan through the panther-and cobra-infested jungles of the dreaded Gur Em.” He accompanied his outlandish tale with hand gestures as if putting on a children’s show, going so far as to reach out with claws when he mentioned the panther. “Many died delivering this rare and beautiful cloth. Only master seamstresses are granted access to such material, for one wrong snip or a misplaced cut could result in a devastating loss. You, of course, appreciate the skill required to create such a masterpiece, so I’ll part with it for one gold, six silver for the vest, and an additional two gold for the coat.”

The duchess ran a pudgy hand over the shimmering material. “I think not, but the bit about the master seamstresses was a nice touch.” She gave him a friendly smile—the only sort she knew how to make. “This is common Vintu silk, farmed in the Calian lowlands along the southern coast of the Ghazel Sea. It sells in Dagastan for five silver dins per yard in any number of thrift shops. But sometimes, in spring mostly, you can find a bundle for four and some change. The parcel this came from was likely imported via the Vandon Spice Company and bought wholesale for three silver a yard and shipped here in less than two weeks as part of their usual rotation. Granted, the VSC likes to add exorbitant markups, and I’m sure that raised the price considerably, but there were no panthers, cobras, or deaths.”

Devon was stunned. Duke Leopold’s new wife, who insisted on being called Genny rather than the more formal Genevieve, was full of surprises—most of them disturbing and more than a little cringeworthy—but the duchess’s command of the mercantile industry was undoubtedly vast.

Still, the Calian didn’t lose a beat. He frowned, spread his hands apart, and shook his head. “I am but a poor merchant. Such a great lady as you won’t even notice the loss of a few pitiful coins. Yet for me, this sale could feed my wife and poor children for weeks.”

With those words, Devon was certain the Calian had won. The merchant had read the duchess correctly and properly spotted the weakness in her defense.

Genny took a step closer to the man, tilted her head down to eye him squarely, the ever-present smile growing sharper. “This isn’t about money,” she said with a glint in her eye. “We both know that. You’re trying to cheat me, and I’m trying to undercut you. It’s a game we both love. No one can convince you to sell for less than your minimum profit, and you can’t force me to pay more than I’m willing. In this competition, we are equals. You don’t even have a family, do you? If you did, they would be here helping to—”

A commotion cut through the crowd. A small boy, thin and dirty, darted through the throng of shoppers. The waif clutched a loaf of bread to his chest as he skillfully dodged through the forest of legs. The cry had alerted the city guard, and a pair of soldiers caught hold of the kid as he struggled to crawl toward a broken sewer grate. They hauled him up, his legs free and kicking, bare feet black as tar. No more than twelve, he was a wildcat: twisting, jerking, and biting. The guards beat the boy until he lay still on the cobblestone, quietly whimpering.

“Stop!” The duchess charged toward them, hands raised. Being a big woman in a large gown, the duchess was hard to miss, even on busy Vintage Avenue. “Leave that child alone! What are you thinking? You aren’t, are you? No, not thinking at all! Of course not. You don’t beat a starving child. What’s wrong with you? Honestly!”

“He’s a thief,” one of the soldiers said, while the other pulled out a strap of leather and looped one end around the boy’s left wrist. “He’ll lose his hand for this.”

“Let him go!” the duchess shouted, and, taking hold of the child, she wrenched his arm free of the soldier’s loop. “I can’t believe what I’m witnessing. Devon, do you see this? Is this what goes on? Outrageous! Brutalizing and butchering children just because they’re hungry?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Devon answered, “the law states . . . your husband’s law states that a thief forfeits the left hand for the first offense, the right for the second, and his head for the third.”

The duchess stared at him with an expression that could only be described as flabbergasted. “Are you serious? Leo would never be so cruel. Surely the law doesn’t apply to a child.”

“I’m afraid so; there are no exceptions. These men are merely doing their jobs. You really should leave them to it.”

The boy cowered into the skirt of her gown.

The guards reached out and took hold of the lad again.

“Wait!” The duchess stopped them as she spotted a man in a flour-covered apron. “Is this your bread?”

The baker nodded.

“Pay him, Devon.”

“Excuse me?” Devon hesitated.

She planted a hand on her hip and set her jaw. Even though Devon had worked only sporadically with the duchess, he’d learned this meant: You heard me!

Devon sighed, and as he walked toward the baker, he opened his purse. “This doesn’t change the fact that the boy broke the law.”

The duchess pulled herself up to her full height—which was considerable for a man and astounding for a woman. “I asked this boy to fetch me a loaf of bread. He obviously lost the coin I gave him, and since he didn’t want to fail in his assigned duties, he resorted to the only option available. I’m merely replacing the money he lost. Since he was acting on my request, your issue is with me, not him. Please feel free to submit any complaints you might have to the duke. I’m certain my dear husband will do the right thing.”

The baker stared at her for a brief instant. His mouth opened to answer, but survival instincts beat back his tongue.

She looked around at the others. “Anyone else?” She glared at the guards. “No? Well then, good.”

The soldiers scowled, then turned away. While Devon was paying the baker, he heard one of them mutter “Whiskey Wench.” The words were said softly but not quietly enough. The soldier wanted her to hear.





The carriage rolled on again with the duchess slumped in her seat. Being a large woman and having little room in the coach, she couldn’t slouch much before her knees pressed against the opposite bench. “Just a child. Can’t they see that? Of course they can, but do they care? Brutes, that’s what they are. They would have cut off that boy’s hand—chopped it off right there on the silk merchant’s stool I suppose. That’s the type of barbarity doled out in this city? Children are crippled because they are starving? That’s no way to run a duchy, and I’m sure Leo doesn’t realize how inappropriately his edicts are being measured out. I’ll talk to him, and he’ll clarify the law. With stupidity like this, it’s no wonder Rochelle is floundering. Such punishment only inflames dissent among a populace. Will the boy be a better citizen with one less hand?”

“Not a boy,” Devon said, rocking beside her as the carriage rolled and the horse’s hooves clattered.

“How’s that?”

“The thief wasn’t a boy, not human, I mean. He’s a mir. Didn’t you notice his pointed ears? He’s likely a member of some criminal organization. That’s how they operate, a colony of rats that haul their catch back to a central nest.”

“We have mir in Colnora, too, Devon. The boy’s heritage doesn’t change a thing. He’s still a destitute, starving child. It’s as simple as that.”

“Simple, you say?” Devon struggled to keep as civil a tongue as the baker had. He would have preferred to point out that it was she who was being a simpleton, but that would be going too far. The duchess often rubbed his fur the wrong way, and as a result, he usually said too much. Fortunately, he’d gotten away with comments that most people in her position would find disrespectful. With anyone else, he might have lost his tongue by now, and it was not without a sense of irony that Devon realized the same attitude which had saved the mir child had worked in his favor as well. “You haven’t been with us very long, Your Ladyship. You don’t understand Rochelle. How things work, I mean. This isn’t Colnora. Nothing is simple here. We have the problems of any major city, but we’re packed closely together, and this is home to four separate and distinct races.”

“The Calians aren’t another race, just another nationality.”