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

“Oh no, she didn’t get it from him. Lady Martel obtained the diary from a monk she’d been having a tryst with. One night while he slept, she came upon the diary and took it because she wanted to learn about his true feelings toward her. Wasn’t until later that she realized it was the writings of this Falkirk fellow. She tried to return it, but the monk had disappeared before she could. She never saw him again.”

“You said the style was archaic. So, you read it?”

Puck nodded. “Tried to. To be honest, it bored me. Why are you so interested?”

When Royce didn’t answer, Hadrian said, “We do odd jobs for people. One was getting that diary from Lady Martel. After we did, she claimed it hadn’t been taken. Things like that needle Royce; he sees conspiracies and nefarious intent wherever he looks.”

Royce focused on Virgil. “What can—”

The sound of horses drew Royce’s attention. Eight men rode toward them, white tabards covering chainmail shirts, swords clapping thighs. They slowed upon approach but showed no signs of aggression. Royce and company had passed, or been passed, by a dozen groups of travelers that morning: farmers, tradesmen, merchants. These were the first with swords, and the tabards looked official. Usually, a patrol like this signaled trouble, but for once Royce and Hadrian weren’t breaking any law. They were acting in service of a respected baron of Melengar. And yet Royce still tensed.

“Pardon our intrusion,” the lead rider said, bringing his mount to a stop. The man’s helm was off, only a single day’s growth of beard on his face, and he was smiling. Royce didn’t know what to make of him. The rider continued, “Might I ask your names and inquire as to why you are dragging this man along the King’s Road?”

Royce hesitated for a dozen reasons, not one of which he could pin down as good or even sensible. He just didn’t like being stopped. He liked answering questions even less.

In that momentary vacuum, his partner jumped in. “My name is Hadrian. How are you?”

“I’m great,” the man replied. “What’s this fella’s name?” He pointed at the prisoner.

“My name is Virgil.”

“Is it?” The rider nodded and climbed down off his mount to face Puck. “Got a last name?”

“Puck. Perhaps you gentlemen can offer me some assistance. These two fellows seem to be under a misconception. They accuse me of taking advantage of Lady Bliss Hildebrandt—which I absolutely did not do. I’ve been wrongfully charged. If you could—”

Without warning, the tabard-clad man pulled out his dagger and stabbed Puck in the chest. Virgil didn’t even have time to cry out before falling to the ground.

Royce and Hadrian drew back, their horses shuffling and nickering. They each pulled weapons. Hadrian produced his bastard sword, and Royce freed his white dagger, Alverstone. The shift in Hadrian’s horse dragged Puck’s bleeding body away from his attacker, leaving a bloody trail. The man who’d stabbed Virgil showed no signs of concern. He merely took out a handkerchief and wiped the mess of blood off himself and his blade.

Virgil gasped, gurgled, and convulsed for only a few seconds. The poet was dead the moment the blade hit his heart, but it took a little time for the message to reach all quarters of his twitching body.

Royce and Hadrian waited, but none of the others so much as touched their weapons. The man who had killed Puck put his dagger away and climbed back up on his horse.

“Why did you do that?” Hadrian demanded, holding his sword at the ready.

“King’s orders,” the killer replied matter-of-factly. He wore an amused smile as he noticed Hadrian’s sword. “Nothing to do with either of you.”

Hadrian shot a look at Royce, and then he looked back at the patrol. “King Amrath ordered the death of Virgil Puck?”

The man looked down at the sad crumpled body on the side of the road still tethered to Hadrian’s saddle. He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” Then he kicked his horse and the entire troop rode away.





Royce and Hadrian arrived back on Wayward Street just before dark.

They would have returned sooner, but Hadrian had insisted on arranging for Puck’s burial. Royce, who had littered and in some cases decorated many a landscape with corpses, had difficulty following the logic. Puck wasn’t their mess to clean up. His body—once it had been disconnected from Hadrian’s horse—was nature’s problem. They had nothing to do with his death, so why waste time, let alone money, to dispose of the remains? But Hadrian and logic weren’t always on a first-name basis, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Hadrian had his own version of logic. Royce didn’t understand it, and after three years, he’d given up trying.

Wayward Street was still a muddy mire festooned with a dozen stagnant pools and scarred with the deep tracks from wagon wheels. A filthy patch of stubborn gray snow remained clutched in the shadowy armpit between the tanner’s shop and The Rose and the Thorn tavern. But the roofs were clear, and like a spring flower, Medford House blossomed with fresh blue paint. The last rays of sunlight illuminated the front porch of the grand house of prostitution, which was looking more like a luxurious inn as of late.

“Not much on patience, is she?” Hadrian said. “Thought she was going to wait for warmer weather.”

The front door opened, and Gwen DeLancy stepped onto the porch. She was wearing her blue dress, and the color very nearly matched the paint on the house. Royce guessed that was the point. He’d always liked that dress, and the color had nothing to do with it. Gwen smiled and extended her arms in proud presentation. “Well? What do you think? They just started today. Didn’t get too far, just this one wall, but isn’t the color wonderful?”

“It’s blue,” Hadrian said. “Wouldn’t a different color be better for business? Shouldn’t it be pink or something?”

“Of course it’s blue!” she scolded. “Medford House was always going to be blue. Just took me a while to raise the funds.”

Hadrian nodded. “Looks expensive.”

The two climbed down. They didn’t bother tying up their horses. The animals knew the routine and patiently waited to be unloaded.

“It is expensive.” Gwen pulled her arms in tight and half spun to admire the place she’d built. The skirt of her dress flared with the movement and her shoulders squeezed close to her neck, battling the chilly breeze. She was barefoot, one leg bent, her weight on the other, a hip tilted.

Royce stared and cursed time for insisting on moving.

“Royce?” Hadrian said.

“What?”

“Your pack.”

“What about it?”

“You set it down in the mud. It’s getting filthy.”

Royce looked around. His bag had somehow found its way into the slurry that was known to be a mixture of manure and sludge. “Gah!” he uttered his disgust, grabbing it and hoisting it to the steps. “How did that get there?” He glared at Hadrian accusingly.

“Don’t look at me. That was all your doing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that?”

“I was thinking the same thing. Kinda why I mentioned it.”

Royce scowled at the pack as if it were somehow responsible.

“Maybe you were distracted by how beautiful the new color is,” Gwen said, turning back. Her skirt did that flaring thing again. The sunlight caught her face and highlighted eyes outlined in dark paint. Her lips glistened, pulled up in a modest smile.

Hadrian snorted. “Yeah, that must have been it.” He placed his own saddlebags on the porch steps and took Royce’s reins. “Go on in. I’ll take the horses over.”

Gwen shook her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll have Dixon take care of them. Albert’s waiting inside.”

“Is he?” Hadrian exchanged a look of confusion with Royce.

Gwen nodded. “He’s all smiles. Says you got paid.”

“Paid? For what?” Royce asked.

Gwen shrugged, rolling mostly bare shoulders, making Royce want to ask For what? again. “The job you just finished, I would expect.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Royce turned to Hadrian. “Does that make sense to you?”