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

Hadrian shook his head.

Evelyn tilted hers and peered sternly at the both of them. “At this point, there is nothing either of you can say to redeem yourselves. I told you no jiggery-pokery, did I not? No shady business. But here we are. I’d throw you out now, but I can’t stand wasting food. So, sit down and eat your last meal under my roof. Immediately afterward, please gather your things and leave. I’ll have no more to do with either of you.”

“But—” Hadrian started.

She shut him down with a raised hand. “No! No, I don’t want to hear your excuses! Just eat and get out. The eggs are ruined, and the pastries are likely hard, but that’s your fault.”

They settled into chairs. Hadrian reached to uncover the food plates but Royce stopped him.

“What are you waiting for?” Evelyn asked, annoyed.

“We haven’t given thanks.” And before Evelyn could reply, Royce bowed his head. “We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food Mrs. Hemsworth has made for us, and apologize for being late. We weren’t in a prison. Well, Hadrian was, sort of, but only because he volunteered to risk his life to save the Duchess of Rochelle. She’s still alive, by the way, but being held prisoner by a murderous mir—the same one who brought the stone gargoyle to life and hurt all those people in the plaza. Oh, and it killed Mercator Sikara, a mir who was only trying to keep peace between the Pitifuls and the nobles. More would have died if I hadn’t managed to lure the thing to the top of Grom Galimus and cause it to fall, shattering on the plaza. Despite all this, we would have still been on time except we haven’t yet found the mir holding the duchess, and we’re in a bit of a hurry because he may kill her at any moment. Oh, yeah, and he’s intent on unleashing a great deal of bloodshed later today. So, Lord Novron, we’ve been a tad busy. We hope you understand and forgive us for our tardiness.”

Royce looked at Evelyn, who stared at him incredulously.

“May we prove worthy of your kindness.” She concluded the prayer with wide eyes that looked back at Royce, dumbfounded.

Hadrian gave her a big smile as he uncovered the food and scooped spoonfuls onto his plate, then passed it on to Royce.

“Are you . . . was that true?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t lie to Novron,” Royce told her through a mouthful of eggs, which were not at all ruined.

“Who are you?”

Royce glanced at Hadrian. Normally this was where his less experienced partner would put them in jeopardy, openly admitting everything because someone had gone to all the trouble of asking. Hadrian, however, kept himself occupied with the meal. Neither of them had dined the night before, and Hadrian was fond of repeating the military axiom: Never pass up a chance to eat or sleep, as you don’t know when you’ll get another opportunity.

Royce turned back to Evelyn Hemsworth, who waited with a cringing expression, a look that was half dread and half curiosity. She wanted to know, and at the same time she didn’t. Royce used the moment it took to chew and swallow to mentally sort through the most reasonable replies. None worked for this. After his acrobatics, and his admission that they were seeking to save the duchess, he couldn’t exactly pretend they were traveling merchants or agents for such. He toyed with the idea of saying they were undercover Seret Knights, but Royce was certain Evelyn knew more about the Seret than he did. He also considered refusing to answer at all, but that wouldn’t do. They needed her help, and while his message of grace had blunted her anger, she was many leagues from trusting him.

With all other options eliminated, and this being an absurd situation, Royce tried something utterly ridiculous. He once more borrowed from Hadrian’s example. “We were hired by Gabriel Winter of Colnora to come to Rochelle and find Genny Winter, his missing daughter. Mister Winter thought she might have been murdered. What we discovered was she hadn’t been killed but kidnapped. She was taken by a loose coalition of the city’s underprivileged, who hoped to influence the duke’s policies by a route that avoided a full-scale revolution. However, it turned out that not everyone wanted to avoid the insurrection. A mir named Villar intends to use dwarven magic to create another stone golem to kill everyone at the Feast of Nobles today.”

Royce waited for the explosion. He expected Evelyn to demand that they leave, or to see if she would shout for the city guard, calling for their arrest. At the very least, she would loudly deny everything he said. He also expected a good helping of disbelief concerning the raising of golems. Royce had arguments ready, but they weren’t good ones. The truth was a poor weapon when fighting faith, but he was prepared to do battle nonetheless.

“Oh my blessed Novron!” she exclaimed in shock. Her hands came down, two wrinkled fists pounding the table, soundly ringing the porcelain plates. “Then why are you just sitting here?”

Royce and Hadrian looked at each other, surprised.

“You . . . you . . . believe me?” Royce asked.

“It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

“It does?” Royce looked at Hadrian, who had a mouthful of pastry and could only shrug.

“Absolutely,” Evelyn said. “And besides, everyone saw you and the golem wreaking havoc through the gallery and across the cathedral. That’s hard to argue with. So, shouldn’t you two be out looking for this Villar fellow? If what you say is accurate, he’s been recruited to murder every noteworthy noble in Alburn.”

“We are,” Hadrian said. “We didn’t actually come for breakfast.”

She watched him chew a huge mouthful. “No?”

“We need to ask you about Rochelle,” Royce said. “We’re looking for any special places, ancient churches or something that might be considered deeply sacred.”

“Grom Galimus,” she replied instantly.

“Besides that,” Hadrian managed to say after he swallowed.

Evelyn thought a moment. “Well, there is supposed to be an ancient burial ground up in Littleton. Dates back to the early imperial age. I’ve never been there. Littleton, or ‘Little Town’ as it was once called, is the dwarven ghetto. Not a safe neighborhood, you understand.”

“We’ve been there,” Royce said. “But that’s not it, either. There has to be another place, maybe something related to mir?”

Evelyn pondered while pouring tea for herself. Royce and Hadrian watched as she deposited two cubes of sugar and stirred. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyplace else like that. Of course, you could visit the gallery. That’s what I’d do.”

“Already been there, twice,” Royce said.

“And from what I’ve heard, I shouldn’t send you a third time lest the entire place be destroyed, but there are old maps. One in particular hangs on the third-floor wall. It’s very big and believed to have been drawn by the original surveyors who laid out Rochelle. You might find what you’re looking for on it.”

Royce and Hadrian pushed away from the table.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Evelyn said.

Royce stopped and looked back. He reminded himself he hated this strict, authoritarian, erudite woman, but with no success. Had life seen fit to give him a mother, Royce suspected she really would have been something like Evelyn. Anything less would have been useless. “You might want to leave,” he told her.

“Leave?” Evelyn said. “Leave what?”

“Get out of the city.”

“Are you suggesting I flee?” She signaled her indignation with a raised eyebrow.

“Look, Villar harbors a good deal of resentment against those he feels suppressed his people. You’re pretty much the face of that fellowship. Everyone knows about your hatred for mir, and if you’re—”

“I do not!” she snapped. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because we learned about your room for rent from one.”