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

“No, this is an emergency.”

The chamberlain’s frown deepened. “Aren’t you supposed to handle emergencies? Why does the duke have you in charge, if not to provide him the luxury of sleeping at night? As you can see, the sun is down. We don’t bother him with trifles when he is sleeping.”

“Trifles!” Roland burst out. “I just said—”

“Tut-tut!” The chamberlain placed the palms of his hands together then tilted the tips of his pressed fingers toward Roland. “This is what you will do. Tomorrow morning—and not too early—you can come and make an appointment to speak to the ducal clerk. Given the feast, I’m sure he’ll be too busy to receive you, but if it truly is an emergency”—he looked at Wyberg skeptically—“he’ll get you in to see the duke’s secretary, who will evaluate your request and determine if it warrants an audience. If it does, your request will be passed on to the Ducal Council of Attendance, which will review His Lordship’s itinerary and try and find time in the schedule for you. Now, doesn’t that sound like a better way to go about this? I’m sure whatever the problem is, you can manage it for a while.”

“This can’t wait!” Roland exploded.

Royce stayed out of the confrontation. He had entered behind the captain, acting as Roland’s shadow, and soundlessly moved about the foyer, feigning interest in the art. With all of Wyberg’s outbursts, the chamberlain only gave Royce a cursory glance, then ignored him altogether. Royce inched behind the chamberlain, slipping beyond his peripheral vision. Spotting a painting of a stag in a river valley, Royce moved toward it. While it wasn’t the best art in the room, it was near the corridor. Moving over, he leaned in to inspect it further.

“I must see the duke tonight!” Wyberg shouted and thrust his arms out in a rage. “You have no idea what’s going on! If I don’t—”

“Calm yourself!” the chamberlain snapped, throwing up his hands and cringing as if he felt Wyberg was about to attack.

Royce took that opportunity to slip into the unguarded hallway.

Wood paneling, tiled floors, and an arched ceiling complete with painted designs in the ducal colors greeted Royce as he trotted down the corridor, moving fast—far faster than if he were burgling. It felt odd. This was wholly without precedent, and Royce wasn’t certain how to proceed. What do I do if I spook a servant or, worse, a guard? He guessed his normal solution might not be the best choice in this instance. He was there to talk to the duke, not kill him or his servants. He was acting blind. Moving boldly through a lit house, unannounced and unwanted, was strange when doing so with none of the normal tools he used in such situations.

This is more like something Hadrian would do. The man is becoming a serious liability.

As he searched the vast estate for clues to the duke’s whereabouts, Royce reviewed the pros and cons of continuing his partnership with the man who didn’t seem to live in the same world. He genuinely liked Hadrian, although at that moment he wasn’t able to bring to mind a single reason why. But is liking something a good enough reason to offset the risks? I like Montemorcey wine, but too much will kill me. The more he thought about it, the more similarities he found between them. They both impede my ability to think sensibly, resulting in bad judgments, and too much of either gives me headaches.

Still, the best argument was also the worst. Hadrian was wrong. I do have a unicorn in my world, and the damn thing goes by the name of Hadrian Blackwater. He’s a mythical beast impossible to believe in, even when he’s right in front of me. Royce had never had the need to believe in anything before, but that was the effect of the unicorn on a mortal man. It made him consider things he thought impossible. Because if unicorns were possible . . . what else might be? In that way, Hadrian was less like Montemorcey and more like Alverstone. Perhaps that was why Royce could never throw either of them away.

Finding another stair, Royce took it, guessing the duke slept on the highest floor. Reaching the top, he found the residence to be more inviting. Deeply stained wood and tapestries softened the hard edges. Small tables topped with bouquet-filled vases added a dash of personality through spring blossoms. Expansive windows framed with thick green drapes invited moonlight in and made the house feel more like a home—a three-story one with a footprint the size of a large island and filled with priceless art. Royce passed an open door and spotted a chambermaid turning down a bed. She didn’t see him, and Royce slipped quickly past.

A boy in a white tunic, who carried a tray of porcelain cups and plates, did see him, but the lad didn’t say a word—just walked right past.

I’ve been doing it all wrong, Royce thought. Apparently, I can saunter into any mansion, lift what I like, and stroll right back out.

He looked at the corridor of closed doors and considered his next move. Should I knock? The idea felt absurd.

Royce heard a noise behind him and spun to find the chambermaid stepping out, holding a pile of white linens. She, too, saw him; he was certain she had, but the maid—like the boy—didn’t raise her eyes to the level of his face. As she turned to leave, Royce had an insane idea. It was the sort of crazy notion that Hadrian would propose.

“Excuse me,” Royce said, feeling ridiculous. “Where might I find the duke?”

As soon as he said it, Royce knew he’d made a mistake. He wasn’t Hadrian, and such things only worked for him. Maybe if I was wearing polka dots . . .

“I believe His Lordship is in the library, sir,” the maid replied. “He’s having trouble sleeping again, sir.”

Royce stared at the woman, dumbfounded.

Apparently, mistaking his bewilderment for an unfamiliarity with the Estate, she added, “Around the corner. First door on the left, sir.”

“Ah . . . thank you,” he replied.

She nodded and walked off with her armload of sheets.

What sort of place is this? Yes, please. Right this way, sir. The duke is right in here. Have at him, sir. Slit his throat. Would you like tea with that? Royce shook his head while watching her vanish down the steps, then remembered why he was there.

The door to the library was open, and Royce walked in. What wasn’t windows was bookshelves, though there weren’t many actual books. Most of the shelves were filled with painted plates, potted plants, intricately carved boxes, models of sailing ships, and even skeletons or stuffed figures of small animals set in poses. A large map hung from the ceiling above the fireplace’s hearth, where a meager fire halfheartedly burned. The duke stood at one of the windows, looking out at the night sky. He was a balding, plump man, the sort that might have been strong and stocky in his youth, but years and wealth had transformed him. He was barefoot, wearing only a long nightshirt that exposed the gray hairs on his calves.

“My lord?” Royce ventured, trying his best not to sound like a thief. The duke failed to react and continued to stare out the window. Royce inched forward as if sneaking up on a skittish rabbit that might bolt. “Duke Leopold?”

The man turned. “Oh,” he said. “I see.” He nodded some understanding that eluded Royce. Perhaps he thought he was there to retrieve dishes or turn down the bed.

The duke lifted a decanter filled with an amber liquid and poured some into a crystal glass. He held up the decanter in offering.

Royce shook his head.

“Do you mind if I . . .” He didn’t wait for approval, and drank, then took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“For what?” Royce asked.

“You’re here to kill me, right?”

Royce was stunned.

“You look surprised.”

“I ah . . .”

“What else could you possibly be doing in my residence unannounced this late at night just before the crowning? And your cloak and hood—well, it just screams killer.”