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

Genny laughed with her.

Since that first real conversation about eating gold, the mood in her prison had changed. Mercator wasn’t ready to fling open the cell door and set her free, but it was obvious she felt the abduction had been a mistake. The moment they shared was soft, gentle, comforting, fun. Strange how the flip side of tears was laughter. They could have been a pair of visiting friends up past bedtime, hiding from parents. Snickering as they shared secrets about boys, about clothes, about all the things friends were supposed to talk about. Only Mercator wasn’t her friend. She had no reason to cheer her up.

“I’m sorry for disrespecting your husband,” Genny said.

“Who?” Mercator asked.

“Isn’t Villar your—”

“Oh, blessed Ferrol, no! How could you possibly think that he and I . . .” She faltered. “Villar is merely the leader of his clan, the Orphe. I’m the head of the Sikara. Ours are the two oldest and most respected mir families. We have no romantic relationship, and to be honest, I think he finds me repugnant.”

“Well, he has no reason to feel that way. You are very kind.”

“I was involved in kidnapping you, remember? How is that kind?”

“You offered me bread, and I know you don’t have much. You didn’t have to do that.”

Mercator didn’t say anything. There was no sound on the other side of the door.

“Oh, I see. Is that bread meant to be my last meal?”

“No!” Mercator replied hotly. “It’s just bread.”

Nothing was said for a moment, and the silence felt suffocating.

“There’s still time,” Mercator offered.

“And when the time runs out?”

Mercator sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“I suspect Villar does.” Genny clenched her jaw. She felt lying to herself now was pointless, and yet there wasn’t much point in not lying, either. The result was going to be the same, and it didn’t matter one bit either way.

“Listen, do you want the bread or not?”

“No,” Genny said. “Why waste it.”

Silence followed, and lingered. No sounds came from the other side of the door for a long time, then Genny heard Mercator sigh again.

“What’s wrong?” Genny asked.

“Now I don’t want it, either.”

“Don’t be that way. You spent good money. You should eat it.”

Another pause. Mercator shifted in the other room. Genny wasn’t near the door, couldn’t see her, but it sounded like she sat down, and none too gently.

“I don’t like doing this, you know?” the mir said, her tone miserable. “You seem like a nice person. It’s just like Villar to grab the only decent noble. It’s just . . . I have to . . . we have to . . . something has to be done, and nabbing you was certainly better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Death. Many would die.” There was a loud noise on the other side of the door, something clattering on the floor. “If only your husband would concede to the demands, this whole mess would be over. It’s not like we asked for riches. We just desire the same rights everyone else already has. And you were already trying to do just that.”

“So, you believe me?”

“I do now. I asked around. You really did attend a meeting of the Merchants’ Guild, and you suggested the Calians and dwarves be allowed membership.”

“You’re being nice. I doubt anyone who was there described it like that.”

“You’re right. They said the Whiskey Wench had lost her mind. That the bitch was blackmailing them and would ruin the city as a result.”

“At least I made an impression.”

“You did,” Mercator said. “So why hasn’t the duke agreed? Why hasn’t he demanded the guilds alter their charters? Doesn’t he care about his people? Doesn’t he care about you?”

Genny didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She honestly didn’t know, and not knowing hurt so badly the tears came again. She cupped her face, trying to muffle any sounds, pushing them inward so that her body jerked with the agony.

“I’m sorry,” Mercator said. “That was an insensitive thing to say.”

A key turned in the lock, and the door to the cell opened. Normally, Mercator set her meals carefully, never coming close. This time she took a step into the room and handed her a bit of bread. “Eat it. Don’t eat it. I don’t care.” She left, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

“Thank you,” Genny said.

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

Genny bit into the bread. This was the first real food she’d had in days. “Thank you just the same,” Genny muttered softly.

“I can still hear you!”

“Sorry.”

Mercator groaned.





Mercator looked up. The cloth drape that hung over the arched entrance in lieu of a door drew back. Villar had come to bother her again.

He was soaked and paused just inside to shake the water out of his hair. Slipping off his cloak, he snapped it twice to shake the wet off.

“Is she still alive?” he asked, looking at the closed door to the little chamber. This had become something of a ritual, being the first thing he said each time he entered.

Every church needs its rituals, Mercator thought.

“Yes,” the duchess responded. “I’m still alive. And how goes your search for proof that you aren’t the accidental love child of a whorish werebat and a horse’s ass?”

This made Mercator chuckle. She put a blue hand to her face, trying to hide it.

Just as Villar always asked the same question, their captive always replied with a new retort—some of her responses quite creative. The woman had a surprisingly inventive mind.

Villar glared at Mercator. Then his sight shifted to the fresh dye on her arms, and his expression of disgust deepened. Mercator hated herself for it, but she pulled her sleeves down just the same. “Is it raining again?”

“No,” Villar said, throwing his soaked cloak on the only stool in the room.

Mercator looked at him, puzzled, but he refused to explain.

“The feast is in two days, and the duke hasn’t taken any action or uttered a public word concerning the demands. He’s not going to concede. Humans don’t care about anything except keeping others down so their position at the top is maintained.”

Mercator toggled a finger between them. “We’re both at least half human.”

“Our lesser half, certainly. And you’re—” He stopped himself and stared at her. An awkward moment lingered.

Mercator did nothing to help. She didn’t say a word and stared right back, daring him to say more. Villar was less a book to be read and more a clear window one hoped the owner would drape out of common decency.

He turned aside. “The point is, compromise doesn’t work. You can’t say I haven’t tried to be reasonable. I’ve given them a chance to avoid blood. But time has run out, and now we have to do things my way.”

“You can’t.”

“We have to.”

“You’re suggesting suicide, and not just for those of us in Rochelle, but for all of Alburn, all of Avryn maybe. Even if we succeed, the backlash will be a generational tidal wave of hate and persecution.”

“Are we not persecuted now? We’re already drowning. What difference is a wave to those trapped at the bottom of the sea?”

She pointed at the duchess’s door. “She agrees that things need to change. Maybe if we let her go, she could talk to—”

“She’s lying, saying what she knows you want to hear.” Villar threw up his hands. “You’re so stupid! Do you hear yourself? Let her go? We kidnapped her, held her for weeks in a filthy cell. Do you honestly think that once she is safely back within the Estate’s walls she’ll lift a pinkie finger to help us? And don’t forget, a man has died. Do you think they grant pardons for murdering the ducal cofferer?”

“You should never have killed him.”

“She will point us out and cry for revenge.”