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

“Look,” Royce told her, “I don’t care for being locked up or killed. Big surprise there, right? And I’m guessing you’d prefer that we don’t reduce your gathering’s population by even a single life, true? Given her story”—he indicated Seton—“I suspect you understand it’ll cost you at least that if you force the issue. So, let’s try something else. How about a trade?”

“We have the duchess, I get that,” Mercator said. “But what do you have that we could want?”

Royce smiled. “The duke.”





No one returned Hadrian’s swords, but neither did they attempt to tie the two up. Mercator left the crowd in the main meeting hall with a promise to update everyone before morning. Then she sent a runner to fetch someone named Selie, convinced Griswold to come along, tried in vain to discourage Seton from doing the same, and chose a dozen of the larger Calians and mir to act as guards. Then the entire entourage escorted Royce and Hadrian across the street.

They entered a small dilapidated building with a partial roof, broken windows, and a mostly intact wooden floor. A well-worn path had been cleared through the debris down the stairs to the cellar. Four stone walls without a single window, six wooden chairs surrounding a rickety table, and the stub of a candle melted onto an overturned cup made up what Hadrian suspected to be the headquarters of the revolution.

Mercator took a seat and gestured for Royce and Hadrian to join her.

Seton looked at the dozen men and mir who were trying to look as tough as possible. “You don’t need them.”

“Not all of us share your unwavering faith,” Mercator told her.

“It’s not faith. I’m just saying . . .” Seton smiled shyly at the guards. “No offense, but if Hadrian wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t be able to stop him.”

“He doesn’t have his swords,” Griswold said.

“I know.”

Mercator puzzled on this a moment. As she did, an older, dark-skinned woman entered in a rush. “Mercator? I was told you needed me.”

“We do.” Mercator motioned to the open chair. “This is Selie Nym, Erasmus’s widow. She will be acting in her husband’s stead as a representative to the Calians, agreed?” She looked to Griswold, who nodded. “I’m sorry to impose on you at a time like this, Selie, but we have an emergency.”

The widow shook her head. “Don’t go to worrying about me. This is bigger than an old widow’s problems. Erasmus would never forgive me iffen I didn’t pick up his part in this.”

Mercator folded her hands on the table and took a breath. “Okay, we’re listening.”

Royce straightened up and faced the three. “Hadrian was telling the truth. We were hired to find and, if possible, rescue Genevieve Winter, the Duchess of Rochelle. If she’s still alive, we can help each other.”

“She is, but it doesn’t matter; her husband doesn’t care what happens to her. Or he does, but not enough to meet our demands.”

“Or there’s a third explanation.”

“Which is?”

“That he doesn’t know anything about your requests, and he thinks his wife is dead.”

Mercator’s brows knitted, her eye shifting in thought. “That’s not possible . . . is it?” She looked to Griswold, who only shrugged.

“How were your demands relayed?” Royce asked.

“We wrote them down and left a note in the carriage the night she was taken.”

Royce shook his head. “Maybe it got lost in the debris, or it blew away, but in any case, the duke knows nothing about the note.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We’ve been investigating her disappearance, remember? And Villar was right about us meeting with Captain Wyberg of the city guard, but he didn’t say anything about finding a note. And Leopold had the guard searching the city, and none of them knew about any demands. In fact, Wyberg thinks she was most likely killed by some rival for the crown.” Royce leaned in. “If you could prove to the duke his wife is alive, and make your case for reforms, he might agree in exchange for her return. Your original plan can still work, which means there would be no reason for the revolt tomorrow. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Mercator’s eyes showed a momentary glimmer of hope, but then it vanished. “Except there’s absolutely no way to get to the duke. I can’t enter a shop to buy a loaf of bread at midday, so there’s no way anyone is going to let me into the Estate at night, especially to have an audience with the duke.”

Royce looked at Hadrian. “I’m guessing the captain could get us an audience, right?”

He nodded. “Wyberg could manage it, and he owes me favors much larger than this.”

“So, all we need is proof that his wife still lives. If we had that, I think he would listen to what you have to say. Then, if I could persuade him to agree . . .”

“Royce can be very persuasive,” Hadrian explained.

The thief nodded. “I have a lot of money riding on this job, so trust me, I’m motivated.”

“You want me to speak face-to-face with the duke?” Mercator gave a little laugh. “That sounds incredibly risky. What’s to stop you from handing me over and saying, ‘This is the kidnapper!’”

Royce shook his head. “If we did that, you’d have the duchess executed, right? The duke would lose his wife, and I’d be out a fortune. Where’s the benefit in that?”

Technically, Royce could make even more money if he let them kill her, then gathered up the heads of those responsible and carried them back to Gabriel Winter, but Hadrian imagined such a debate was for another day and a different crowd.

Hadrian watched Mercator. She was no fool; nor was she one of the typical meek elves he so often saw on the streets of Medford. While appearing not quite middle-aged, she had a demeanor that suggested otherwise. Her eyes surveyed them with a careful judgment born of wishful thinking but tempered by years of disappointment.

Mercator looked to the widow Nym and Griswold, both of whom shook their heads.

“These boys have no skin in the game that they’re setting up.” Selie said. “We’re betting the house and they’re tossing in a copper din.”

Mercator nodded. “She’s right. Your fortune doesn’t stack up against the gamble we shoulder in this proposal. I need greater assurance. Lives are at stake, mine being the least of my worries. But the two of you—the architects of this grand plan—have no serious risk.”

Royce faltered, searching the ground for ideas.

Hadrian noticed Seton was still watching him. She wanted a solution almost as much as he did. His time in the east had always been a dirty stain on his life, but she’d showed him there had been at least one pinprick of light. Another one would be nice.

“I’ll stay,” Hadrian declared.

“What?” Royce and Mercator asked together.

“I’ll spend the night here, under guard, as insurance. Royce can escort you to the duke. If he betrays you, has you killed or whatever, then your people can kill both me and Genny Winter.”

Griswold pointed at Seton. “According to her, that’s not too easy.”

“But unlike Royce, I’ll let you tie me.”

Mercator looked surprised at the offer and nodded. “I could agree to that.”

“Yes,” Griswold nodded. “That seems fair.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Royce said. “In fact, that sounds really stupid.”

“Why?” Hadrian asked. “Do you plan on betraying anyone?”

“No, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I don’t like working under pressure, okay? And what guarantee do we have that they won’t . . .”

“Won’t what?” Hadrian asked.

“Won’t kill you anyway?”

Hadrian looked at Seton. “I have a protector.”

The blonde smiled. “Yes, you do.”

“I’d be happier if it were someone a little taller,” Royce said.

“Does everyone agree?” Hadrian asked.

Griswold nodded.

“Selie?” Mercator turned to the Calian. “What do you say?”

“Old Eras, he never did like the idea of fighting. Couldn’t even bring himself to argue with me. Just said, ‘Selie, there’s no reason to be that way,’ and he was usually right, too.” Her lips shifted as tears slipped down her cheeks. “People got the wrong impression because he was always haggling, but he just liked the sport of it. Couldn’t understand why folks refused to get along. He would’ve wanted to find a peaceful solution.” She looked around to nodding heads. “We agree to this.”