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

But criminal is such a relative term, and what is normal, anyway?

Puck looked at the ground, shaking his head with a grimace. “No, no, I can truthfully say not even that would be enough. I’m telling you for the third time, you have the wrong man. The true culprit must be either deaf and blind or depraved to the point of utter insanity.”

Hadrian turned around, shifting the tip of the sword strapped to his back and resting a hand on the rump of his mount. “Are you noble?”

“If you mean, do I have highborn blood in my veins, the answer is no. Why do you ask?”

“The way you talk is . . . clever . . . complicated. You use odd words like culprit and depraved.”

“That’s because I’m a poet,” Puck declared with dramatic flair. He tried to follow the remark with a sweeping bow, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope to execute it successfully. “I make my living going from great house to great house entertaining my hosts with songs and stories. Tales of woo and woe. From the epic love affair of Persephone and Novron to the tragic courtship of Lady Masquerade and Sir Whimsy. I make them laugh; I make them cry; I inspire, educate, and—”

“Seduce?” Royce provided. “Women have a weakness for poets. Did you beguile Bliss Hildebrandt with words?”

Puck expressed his indignation by stopping, and he was jerked forward by Hadrian’s horse. “You aren’t listening. I didn’t seduce her. I wouldn’t do that for all the gold in Avryn. I’d rather fornicate with a rabid ferret. I’m telling you, when we get back to Sansbury, you’ll see her and understand. And I hope she gives you both hugs and wet kisses for your efforts. Then you’ll realize the true depths of your mistake. She’s like an ugly old hound that still thinks it’s a puppy, even while drooling those long elastic strands of goo. And when she opens her mouth to thank you, you’ll see her tongue, an organ that’s far too long for any reasonable living thing.”

“Lady Hildebrandt is with child,” Royce said. “Had to happen somehow.”

Puck smirked. “I’ve seen baby porcupines, too—don’t know how that happens, either.”

“He just sounds so . . .” Hadrian struggled. “You know, sincere.”

“By all the gods! That’s because I’m telling the truth!” Puck shouted to the sky. “The two of you are . . . you’re . . . what exactly? I have no idea. Sheriffs? Bounty hunters? No matter, whatever your profession, you must do this often, right? You’ve surely captured dozens of suspected wrongdoers and brought them to justice. You must know what nefarious men are like. How they act. When you dragged me out of that tavern in East March, did I act guilty? I’m assuming most criminals run, isn’t that so? Did I? Did I resist at all? No, I didn’t. What did I do instead?”

“You called for a sheriff,” Hadrian replied, and glanced at Royce with a tiny nod of acknowledgment.

“Yes! Yes! I did that because I thought you were accosting me. Only thugs would drag a person out of a public house and tie him up. And if a sheriff had heard, it would be the two of you on the end of a rope—and a shorter one than this, I suspect.”

Hadrian shifted his sight between Puck and Royce with a ruminating expression.

“Doesn’t matter,” Royce interjected, attempting to preempt the thought forming in his partner’s head.

“But if he’s innocent, should we really be turning him over to Lord Hildebrandt? If he’s convicted, he won’t have the shield of noble blood. The baron will kill him.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It certainly matters to me,” Virgil chimed in.

“Why? Why doesn’t it matter?” Hadrian asked.

“All I care about is the eight gold Hildebrandt is paying us.”

“That’s cold, Royce,” Hadrian said.

“No, that’s life. Don’t complain to me. Take it up with Maribor, or the universe, or nature. The same rules that starve a sparrow in winter will see Puck hang for a crime . . . even if he didn’t commit it. But that’s not our problem. We don’t have anything to do with that.”

“Excuse me?” Puck spoke up. “I feel obligated to point out that it’s you who tied this rope to my wrists, and it’s you who is dragging me incessantly toward a fate I don’t deserve. It’s your horse, not Maribor’s, not the universe’s, not nature’s, and it certainly has nothing to do with any ruddy, bloody sparrow!”

“Eight gold tenents.” Royce looked hard at Hadrian. “Say those three words out loud. Repeat them over and over until it drowns out the little ferret bugger behind us.”

Hadrian didn’t look convinced.

“Okay, how’s this. Remember that we promised . . . we gave our word to Lord Hildebrandt that we would fetch Puck and bring him back.” Royce struggled to get the words out with a straight face.

When Hadrian replied with a solemn nod, Royce had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. The two had been together for three years, two working officially as the rogues-for-hire enterprise called Riyria—and still Hadrian thought a promise was something that must be kept. Hadrian was young, in his early twenties, but the man had been to war more than once, and it baffled Royce how he could remain so unworldly.

Puck focused his attention on Royce. “So, that’s all my life is worth? Just a few gold coins? What if I offer you more than Lord Hildebrandt is willing to pay? Would that balance the scales in your maladjusted world, a place where you claim to play no part even though you hold the leash?”

Royce frowned. “You don’t have that kind of money. If you did, we would’ve reached a deal back in East March.”

“I could get it.”

“No, you can’t. You’re a poet. Poets make little money, and they certainly don’t save for a rainy day. You throw your coin away on ridiculous things—your clothes, for example.”

“True enough, but I wasn’t talking about my money,” Puck said. “While I swear I never touched Bliss, I have dallied with a few ladies in my time. Some of them are quite fond of me. I’m sure Lady Martel would pay ten to save my life.”

“Lady Martel? Are you referring to Lord Hemley’s wife?” Royce asked.

“The very same.”

Royce smirked. “I doubt your prowess between the sheets could possibly be worth ten gold.”

“You misunderstand me. My relationship with Martel Hemley isn’t like that. I mean, I could have slept with her. She’s no great looker, either, but at least she’s intellectually stimulating, and she finds me equally so. I’m sure ten gold would seem like a small price to ensure our continued conversations. Our kinship is based on a mutual love of the written word. Why, just last summer I spent a whole night, in her bedroom no less, doing nothing but drinking and exploring her library.”

“Is that a euphemism, or are you actually talking about books?” Royce asked.

“Oh, so you’ve heard of them! Yes, books. The woman has a wide range of interests and has a little library right off her private chambers. She has copies of the Song of Beringer and The Pilgrim’s Tales, which is impressive but not atypical. The most interesting thing on her shelves is a bizarre little diary.”

Royce reined his horse to a stop and pivoted in the saddle. “She showed you her diary?”

Puck looked up, concerned. Royce hadn’t intended to be threatening, but it was an attribute difficult to control.

“Well, yes, but it wasn’t her diary. The memoir belonged to a fellow named Falkirk de something, who had excellent penmanship and an archaic writing style. Lady Martel mentioned she stole it, although I doubt that. I mean, who ever heard of a noble thief? She was fairly drunk at the time, so I didn’t take what she said seriously.”

“Did she mention where she met this Falkirk guy?” Royce asked.