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

Royce didn’t respond except to draw up his hood as he started to walk away; then he stopped. His sight fixed on one of the other figurines in the back. “That one,” he said, pointing at a hefty sculpture of a man standing triumphantly with one foot on a defeated foe.

“So your wife is a devotee of the arena games?” the happy cart man asked, lifting the figurine up with some difficulty. This was no lightweight bauble. “And not a better choice will you find should you look the world over.”

“He’s not looking for a gift for his wife.” Hadrian pushed abruptly forward. “He isn’t even married. We aren’t looking to buy anything. C’mon, Royce. We should probably find something to eat. Maybe we can—”

Hadrian stepped away, but Royce didn’t follow.

“What’s the story with this one?” Royce asked. “Why does the man have three swords?”

“Ah!” The merchant grinned at them both, and Hadrian noticed how all his teeth were yellow and crooked. “This carving is a beautiful work of art created to commemorate the greatest warrior in the world: Galenti, the Tiger of Mandalin, the Hero of Calis, the Courtier of the Queen, and the Bane of the Ba Ran Ghazel.”

“I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” Hadrian clapped his palm to his stomach. “I think there’s a place that sells meat on a stick over there. Smells great. Ever have meat on a stick?”

“Greatest warrior in the world, eh?” Royce asked. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Only to those who have never seen him fight, I would imagine. He was already well-known for his battles against the Ghazel when he arrived in Mandalin. But it was his victories in the arena that brought about his conquest of the queen.”

“Is that so?” Royce took down his hood and smiled at Hadrian. “And who is this queen?”

The man turned and plucked another figurine from his inventory—this one of a beautiful, sultry woman with slanted eyes painted in decorative outlines. She had a round, doll-like face with a small pouting mouth accentuated by brilliant red lips. She wore a hat with pheasant feathers and a silken dress that appeared no more than paint on the figure. “Rea Rhys Ramsey, the illegitimate daughter of the king of Calis. Her half brother, Lemuel Ramsey, ordered her death, but Rea Rhys escaped and retreated to the one place she knew her brother would never look—the east. She followed the Estee River into the ancient Erbon region in the center of the country. There, she rediscovered the ruins of Urlineus. She claimed the ancient imperial city as her own and renamed it Mandalin. Her restoration of the old arena and resumption of the games made her quite popular. Now she rules Eastern Calis, while her brother rules the west from Rolandue.”

“Oh, so she’s still alive?”

“Very much so. Rea Rhys is notorious. Living on the fringe of civilization, she manipulates Tenkin warlords by day and battles the Ba Ran Ghazel at night. She has the beguiling beauty of a starry constellation and is as seductive and dangerous as a viper. For nearly two years, Galenti was her paramour and she his patron. The two swam in lakes of liquor, beds of tulan leaves, and pools of blood until his last fight.” He pointed at the other statue. “They call Galenti the Tiger of Mandalin because he battled against a great striped cat.”

“Last fight? That statue shows him victorious. Did the beast eventually kill him?”

The merchant laughed. “No, no, Galenti could never be defeated. Like all good legends, he simply disappeared.” The man made a flamboyant show of throwing his hands up, as if releasing a dove to the heavens. Then he halted as he looked at Hadrian. The vendor’s eyes narrowed as they shifted focus from one sword to the next.

Royce turned to Hadrian. “What do you think? Maybe my missus would like this one. Should I get it?”

Hadrian frowned and walked away. “I’m getting something to eat.”





Royce didn’t buy either statue. This didn’t surprise Hadrian. There was no way Royce would walk around with a one-foot figurine under his arm. Nor could he see him riding back to Melengar with it strapped to the back of his saddle. Thus, Hadrian didn’t find it odd when Royce joined him at the Erbonese Teahouse without either gift for the missus, but he was surprised when Royce’s only question was, “What do they serve here?”

Partially in the street and on the edge of the traffic flow, the café provided a grand view of the city’s human parade. The two sat at one of a dozen wobbly tables, which were nestled under an outdoor thatch-covered pavilion. The structure did little to block the wind or sun. The proprietor was a native Alburnian, but all he did was greet the customers. The ones doing the work were Calian immigrants.

“If it’s authentic fare,” Hadrian replied, “rice and tea. Although if you’re adventurous, you could try Hohura. That’s a Calian liquor. If you’re absolutely insane, you could get a mug of Gurlin Bog, goblin liquor that hisses and tastes like something a campfire vomited.”

“I think I’ll avoid intoxicants for the time being.”

“Then you’ll want to steer clear of anything with grenesta in it, and they tend to put the herb in everything. I once had a fabulous stew; ten minutes later I passed out.”

Royce peered at him with a grimace. “You’re making me long for the Meat House.”

“But this place has chairs and a better view.”

Few areas of the city had thus far matched Little Gur Em for activity and interest, and Hadrian revised his assumption that the name was derogatory. Perhaps it began that way, as the real Gur Em was as universally cherished as Black Fever—which was often contracted in the selfsame jungle. Still, the Gur Em was wild, colorful, fragrant, and bursting with life. In this way, it was mirrored by the Calian district of Rochelle. Hadrian remembered Calis as overwhelming to the senses, grand bazaars and vast markets set in old cities on the ocean coast, or vibrant villages in the dense brush, but here the experience was jammed into a tiny urban neighborhood of stone buildings and cobbled walkways. It was indeed a jungle of sorts.

Without a word, a barefoot man in a long, unadorned tunic delivered a communal bowl of rice and vegetables, which was accompanied by a plate of piled flatbread and dark tea. The food was so hot it steamed. Hadrian knew the dish as fried kenase. Royce sniffed it dubiously then waited until Hadrian took a bite before joining in.

“How come you didn’t ask me about Mandalin?”

“You mean all that stuff the guy said about the queen and a tiger and arena fights?”

“Yeah.”

“The truth?” Royce asked.

“Sure.”

“Not interested.”

“Really?” Hadrian set down his tea, surprised. “A man tells you this fantastic story about bloody battles and a notorious queen of Calis, and you aren’t even mildly curious?”

“If our pasts aren’t our present, there’s likely a reason.”

“So you won’t ask me, and I shouldn’t ask you?”

“Something like that. Besides, I’m sure in a contest of bygone horrors, I’ve got you beat.”

Hadrian peered across the lip of his steaming cup. “You think so?”

“You don’t?” Royce appeared genuinely surprised. “A whole city still has nightmares about me.”

Hadrian nodded, then hooked a thumb back in the direction of the merchant. “You weren’t paying attention. An entire country knows about my murderous past.”

“Maybe. But they like you. No one is making carvings of me.”

“In Calis, they also craft the likenesses of Death and Pestilence. They’re an odd people.”

“He didn’t talk about you like you were a scourge.”

“Because all he knows is the myth. Have you ever wondered how a soldier of fortune could be so . . .” Hadrian paused to take a sip of his tea.

“Na?ve?” Royce offered.

Hadrian swallowed. “I was going to say optimistic.”

“Really? I suppose it could be described like that. Yeah, I’ve puzzled over that one for some time. Most mercenaries are a bit more—”

“Jaded and cynical?” Hadrian offered.

“I was going to say realistic and practical.”

“Really? I suppose it could be described like that. But what you might not be considering is that maybe I’m on the return trip.”

“Huh?”

“Do you have nightmares of people you killed?”

“No.”

“There you go.”