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

Still, mir were allowed to stand inside the doors, observe the services, listen to the choir, and then wait on the steps, hoping for handouts. So long as they were respectful and didn’t block access, they were granted the privilege of silent begging. As such, it wasn’t odd for a mir to trot up the marble steps and enter the giant doors of Grom Galimus.

Once more, no one looked, no one noticed, no one cared when Villar slipped inside for his first meeting of the night.

Villar had been a fraction late, but the bishop was more so, leaving Villar to stand between the two stained-glass Teshlors. No service was under way, and the vast interior was mainly empty. The only ones there were a few boys cleaning up and a few devoted faithful kneeling on the stone floor, praying to the statues of Novron and his doting father, Maribor. Despite his covert mission, Villar refused to dip his head or avert his eyes. He would not worship these gods, nor even pretend to. They were the gods of men. From either side, the Teshlors stared at him. Villar felt uncomfortable under their watchful, sunlit gaze—a gaze that suggested they saw more than a stubborn mir—but even as he waited, Villar noticed the light failing and their images fading with it.

Hard heels echoed. A robed figure moved through the gallery pillars. The bishop approached.

When he came into view, he silently waved Villar to a corner. They were still not past the knights, but Villar was also not near the doors.

“Is there a problem?” Tynewell whispered. The bishop positioned himself between Villar and the door, blocking the view of everyone except the boys cleaning up.

“No, everything is perfect.”

“Then why are you here?”

“A Calian named Erasmus Nym will need access to Grom Galimus the morning of the feast.”

Tynewell looked puzzled. “I have an early service. People will—”

“After the service. Midday is fine. He doesn’t need long to prepare.”

The word prepare made the bishop wince. “What exactly will this Erasmus person be doing? I won’t allow him to desecrate the church. He’s not going to sacrifice a goat on my altar.” Tynewell’s eyes widened. “Or a child.”

Villar paused a moment, wondering where that had come from. He hadn’t told the bishop everything. Villar didn’t think it wise, and the bishop didn’t want to know the details. The only thing Tynewell cared about was that every Alburn noble at the feast would die.

“Nym won’t do anything other than what I have.”

Tynewell thought a moment then asked, “And where will you be?”

“Someplace else. A place that I don’t want Erasmus to know about.”

“And what does this Erasmus fellow know about me and my involvement? Is having him use my church such a good idea? Will it point a finger my way?”

“No, this cathedral is huge, and you can’t be expected to know what occurs in every crook and corner. I’ve already shown him where to go, and he didn’t ask anything about others involved. I just wanted to let you know it would be him rather than me in case you happened upon each other.”

“And no one else knows anything, right? You haven’t bragged, have you? Gone off in some tavern about how the bishop has promised you a favor in return for arranging a murderous riot?”

“Mir aren’t welcome in taverns.”

“Be that as it may, the point is still valid. You haven’t been drunk under some forsaken bridge boasting about how you’ll be Duke of Rochelle when the bishop crowns himself king for lack of options, have you? If anyone discovers I’m involved, neither of us will get what we want.”

“I don’t drink.”

Tynewell studied him carefully, then smiled. “Good. You know, I had my doubts about you. Relying on a mir—such a thing doesn’t come easy, but I’m a man of faith. I believe that if you show faith in someone, that someone will prove themselves worthy. This is your opportunity. Succeed and you’ll earn my trust and the rule of this city. Imagine that. You’ll be a hero to your people. You’ll live in the Estate and govern this region on my behalf. I will be king of Alburn—a bishop-ruler just like Venlin—and you’ll be the first mir noble since the fall of Merredydd. You and yours will get their due, trust me.”

Villar didn’t trust him, but this was the only chance he, or any of them, had. The whole affair was a terrible gamble, and there was no way to be certain the bishop would honor his pledge to appoint him duke. But it didn’t matter. Left to itself, nothing would change. Villar would rather die than face another day of eating the Duke of Rochelle’s trash and watching the mir people beg for scraps thrown in the street. And either way, at least Villar would have the chance to fight back. The ability to kill those who had humiliated him and his people for generations would be a worthy reward. This was something Mercator could never understand. She had become domesticated, but Villar’s heart was still free.

Leaving the cathedral, he stood upon the steps to watch the last of the daylight fade. He had plenty of time to reach his second appointment. He would, in fact, be incredibly early. Perhaps he should get something to eat first. He considered rummaging through the duke’s garbage for dinner, something he’d have to do just one last time. He looked down at the Estate, a place that would soon be a place of honor rather than one of humiliation. That’s when he saw them, the two strangers. The foreigners who had been asking questions about the duchess and poking around where they shouldn’t. One was perched high up on the pediment at the far end of the bridge watching the Estate as if waiting for something.

Villar realized what it was, and he knew he wouldn’t be getting dinner that night.





Chapter Fourteen

The Driver





“What exactly are we looking for?” Hadrian asked, shifting his position again. The capstone he sat on was cold.

“The driver,” Royce replied.

The two were on the west side of the East Bridge, where Royce hadn’t taken his eyes off the front gate of the duke’s estate since they’d arrived. Hadrian sat on the bridge parapet out of the way of traffic, looking like a lost boy who’d foolishly let go of his mother’s hand and hoped she’d come back. Royce was above him, perched high on the massive end-pediment that announced the start or end of the bridge, depending on which way one was walking. He stood behind the statue of a winged beast, a giant, ugly bat-thing with horns and fangs. Royce and the sculpture made quite the diabolical pair as he clung to a wing, peering over the stone monster’s shoulder. Occasionally the gate to the Estate opened. Someone would exit, or enter, and each time Royce became still and attentive. Then the gate would close, and he would settle back, disappointed.

They never did find a new place to stay. All livable spaces were occupied, even the open-air patches of dirt under bridges and behind stables. Royce had continued to search until the sun threatened to set, then he insisted on a hectic race to the Estate. They’d been there for more than an hour, and, so far, nothing had warranted the rush. Except for his two-word statement, Royce hadn’t responded to any inquiries about their current vigil.

The day had remained reasonably warm, continuing the rumor that spring was just a few steps down the road. The morning had been sunny, but afternoon had invited clouds to the party, and more were showing up all the time. A variety of boats passed beneath them. Professional fishermen hauled in nets, heading upriver after a day on Blythin Bay. The waterway also played host to a series of trows that ran up-and downriver, dropping off one load of cargo at the harbor and picking up another to haul back upstream. Along the bridge, the flow of foot traffic, wagons, and carriages was picking up. With slumped backs and bowed heads, servants, traders, and laborers returned home, their way lit by a fading sun.

“There he is!” Royce said with urgency as he leaned forward, leering with the same malevolent expression as the statue to which he clung.

A small figure stepped outside the front gate of the ducal estate, gray-haired, partially balding. With his protruding brow and long beard, the dwarf looked like the quintessential depiction of his race. He glanced both ways before crossing the street and then entered the flow of traffic coming toward them.