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

The chimes of Grom Galimus rang out the midday bells as Royce led Hadrian past the harbor where dozens of sail-stripped masts looked like a forest in winter. They had spent the morning walking around the city. Royce had moved with the speed of intent, which kept Hadrian from asking questions. Royce never cared for them, and Hadrian assumed everything would reveal itself in time. Hours passed, marked neatly by the cathedral bells, as they cut through crowds crossing the bridges to the west side of the city, then circled back. Returning to the plaza, which by then had filled up with its usual crowd, Royce led the way south along the river, taking what appeared to be a nonsensical route that zigzagged streets to the harbor.

“Where are we going?” Hadrian finally asked as they passed between a pair of giant elephant tusks that made a gateway into a neighborhood of narrow streets.

“Hmm?” Royce murmured, glancing back as if he hadn’t heard exactly what Hadrian had said, which was a sure sign something was up.

The blocks past the elephant tusks were so tightly packed that clotheslines stretched between buildings created a complex crisscrossed webbing. Those not covered with drying clothes were decorated with colorful flags or flower-laden garlands. The passage was jammed with people who edged around the obstacles of vendor stands where merchants purposely placed their carts in the way of traffic and shouted at customers in more than one language. From some unseen place, rhythmic drums pounded an addictive beat.

“Are you heading somewhere or just wandering?” Hadrian shouted as he dodged around a dark-skinned woman carrying two caged chickens that fluttered and squawked. “Are you looking for the driver in the crowds?”

“Oh, no.” Royce shook his head. “I know where the driver is, but there’s no sense in going after him until tonight.”

Royce made an elegant spin, dodging around a wagon of firewood, his cloak sweeping behind. Trying to keep up, Hadrian nearly plowed into a mother holding the hands of two children, but halted at the brink. All three looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back, concluding a silent but clear conversation that included understanding, forgiveness, and a bit of humor. Slipping past, and around the wagon, Hadrian struggled to catch Royce as he darted and wove from one hole to the next—holes that all too often fit only Royce.

Is he trying to lose me?

They broke out of the narrows and merged into a broader marketplace, where Hadrian was able to use his long legs to cut the distance. “So . . . what? We’re sightseeing?”

Royce glanced back to show the irritation on his face.

“What, then?”

“I’m looking for another place to lodge. Another boardinghouse. Figure there has to be something else. We didn’t look everywhere. Maybe in the less affluent areas we’ll find something. I’d rather share a room with rats than have another breakfast with that woman.”

“Are you serious? The city is booked, and the room we have is fantastic.”

“Our room is being let out by a crazy person.”

“She’s nice.”

“She’s demented and will likely knife us in our sleep.”

“Evelyn Hemsworth? You can’t be serious.”

“No, I’m not. I’m obviously speaking metaphorically. It is far more likely that she’ll poison us with tomorrow’s breakfast. That’s how her type usually works.”

“Her type? What do you mean, her type?”

Royce didn’t answer. He was moving again and once more eluded Hadrian. This time he cut around a group who gawked at a veil-draped young woman dancing with zills on her fingers. At her slippered feet lay a cloth hat littered with a few copper coins. If Hadrian weren’t concerned about losing Royce in the crowd, he would have lingered a bit.

They were in the heart of the neighborhood dominated by colorful pottery, flatbreads, bright clothes, baskets, wood carvings, and exotic spices. Several signs denoted the location as Little Gur Em, a reference to the jungles of Calis, which were both dense and dangerous. To Hadrian, who had spent time in the real Gur Em, it seemed like a slur, but the residents appeared to have embraced the name, adding it to their carts. LITTLE GUR EM OILS AND SERUMS, one plaque read, GUR EM JUNGLE TEAS, another.

All around, dark-skinned Calians spoke in accents or in the harsh jungle tongue of the Tenkin language. Old wrinkled men in loose wraps clustered at open-air tables, playing games of Heker, drinking coffee, and smoking from tall brass water pipes. Hadrian recalled the salt and pepper shakers on Evelyn’s table and realized that immigrants spilling into Alburn had brought all the flavors of home. The music, the smells, the voices and faces all threatened to unlock mental doors Hadrian preferred to keep closed. Moving down that street, he wasn’t pushing through a crowd so much as through a thicket of thorny memories. This was an era of his life he’d walked away from. One he had vowed never to return to. He struggled to ignore the street and focused on Royce.

“Evelyn isn’t crazy,” Hadrian said. “She’s normal. That’s your problem with her. You don’t know how to deal with normal.”

“She’s not normal.”

“Sure she is. The woman is upstanding and decent. You can’t even recognize it anymore because you’re so . . . so higgery-jiggery.”

Royce stopped and looked back at him. The thief wanted to scowl, to show his anger and disdain, but he was having trouble. Royce looked like a person trying not to sneeze, but that wasn’t what he was holding back. He fought down an unwanted smile. “Don’t be absurd,” he snapped. “A person can’t be higgery-jiggery. Higgery-jiggery is something a person does.”

Hadrian chuckled. “Oh, so you speak fluent Evelyn Hemsworth now?”

They had ended up in front of a pushcart painted with a landscape of a jungle waterfall. The picture offered an impressive display of carvings in wood and polished stone. The man behind it, a short, thin fellow with a white beard and big teeth, eagerly jumped to his feet. “You need a gift to settle a dispute with your girlfriend, yes?” he said to Royce.

The thief looked at the Calian cart worker, aghast.

“Ah yes, it is clear from the look of distress on your face. You have had a squabble and now you must make up with a present!” the merchant declared. “That is the only way to properly resolve these setbacks with a sweetheart.”

“She’s not my sweetheart.”

“My apologies, good sir!” The merchant smiled and clasped his hands before him, revealing long thin fingers. “And I can see the problem clearly now. Oh, yes! It is a bickering feud with your wife that brings you to my cart. Ah, yes, a far more serious state of affairs than a mere misunderstanding with a trollop. Never a good thing when the wife suspects you of higgery-jiggery!” He grinned. “But better than jiggery-pokery, yes?” He followed this with a wink that left Royce staring at the man as if he had three heads.

“Now, what you need is a peace offering.” He rubbed his hands together then flexed his fingers as if he were about to perform a magic trick. “A fine bit of artistry to make her forget your transgressions.” The man snatched up a figurine of a man and woman in a passionate embrace. He held up the finely carved sculpture. “This—this will make her remember why she married you, yes? Hand-carved in Dagastan by a ninety-year-old blind shepherd who was rumored to have once been a pirate. And because you are in such a dire state, I will sell it to you for only a single pair of silver tenents. The answers to your prayers, yes?”

“No!” Royce snapped.

“Are you sure, Royce?” Hadrian grinned. “The little missus might forgive you when she sees that.”