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

“Maybe you should talk to Albert,” Gwen coaxed.

Hadrian started up the steps, but Royce didn’t move. Days had passed since he’d seen Gwen, and he just wanted to look at her—to be with her. Such behavior wasn’t normal, not like him at all. Royce felt awkward and uncomfortable. Gwen, it seemed, was a much better thief. She’d managed to steal an entire person; She’d pinched his old self, stealing it away like a poorly guarded purse. When she was around, everything was different. Mostly, it was confusing, both exciting and peaceful, which left Royce pondering the change. Was he better off or crippled? Had he lost his way or found a better one?

“You should go inside,” Gwen said. “It’s getting cold out here, and Albert probably wants to talk to both of you.”





Eight. Eight gold tenents. Royce eyed the pale yellow disks with the embossed image of Amrath, or maybe it was the king’s father. Apparently, the two looked similar, or perhaps they didn’t and the kingdom’s treasurer got lazy and had the minter make only slight modifications to the previous molds. Didn’t matter. The fact remained that they were genuine, and there were eight. Royce, Hadrian, and Albert were in the Dark Room, a moniker bestowed due to its lack of windows as well as the shady business conducted there. Albert had dumped the coins on the table, then sat back in the chair nearest the fireplace to put his stocking feet up on the hearth. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“I don’t understand,” Royce said.

“No mystery; we got paid.” Albert gestured at the money with an overly dramatic flourish. The viscount had lost everything except his title before becoming Royce and Hadrian’s liaison to the nobility. He retained a lofty air and that easygoing attitude that comes from living without fear of any natural predator.

Hadrian set his bags down and took a seat by the fire. “We didn’t finish the job. Didn’t even get Puck back to Sansbury. A troop of men killed him on the King’s Road.”

Albert swished his lips back and forth in momentary thought, then waved his hands dismissively. “Clearly Lord Hildebrandt was pleased with how things turned out. Likely he planned to execute the poor fellow as it was. You merely saved him the effort.”

Hadrian dragged over a chair and sat down beside Albert and the table of coins. He plucked one up, turning it over in his fingers. “How could he have . . .” He looked at Royce. “He can’t possibly know Virgil is dead.”

“Of course he can.” Albert sat forward, an annoyed scowl forming on his face, as if the objections were a condemnation of his efforts. He fluffed the lace cuffs of his ruffled sleeves like a preening peacock. “The men who killed him probably worked for Hildebrandt. They must have ridden back, reported the deed done, and—”

“Puck died just north of here, not far from where the South Road splits from the King’s Road. That’s twenty-five miles from Sansbury.” Royce, who had remained standing, shook his head. “Someone would have had to ride amazingly fast to reach there by now. And then it would take time for them to . . . Albert, when were you paid?”

“Early this morning.”

Royce and Hadrian looked to each other for answers but found only reflected confusion.

“This morning?” Hadrian said. “Puck was alive this morning. We were all enjoying a pleasant little walk from East March.”

Albert’s brows rose as the truth finally dawned. “Well, that . . . that is quite odd, isn’t it?”

“Who paid you, Albert?” Royce asked.

The viscount sat up, pulled his feet back under him, and straightened his vest by tugging on the bottom. “Lady Constance. We had a meeting this morning at Tilden’s Tea Room in Gentry Square. Wonderful little place right next to the bakery, so they get—”

“Constance?” Royce said the word aloud. Something clicked, and he felt the way a hound might when taking a second sniff at a footprint. “I’ve heard that name before.”

Hadrian nodded. “Me, too. Albert’s mentioned her a few times.”

“Of course I have. I get most of our jobs through Lady Constance. She makes social butterflies look like shut-in moths. The woman knows everyone, and everyone knows her. She’s native to Warric, has connections in Maranon, but prefers the parties here in Melengar.”

“Wasn’t she the one who hired us for the Hemley job? The one with Lady Martel’s diary?” Royce asked.

Albert nodded.

“But she wasn’t procuring the diary for herself, right?”

“I believe that’s so. Just as I represent you, Lady Constance acts as a liaison for her people . . . er, clients . . . um, friends . . . however you want to refer to them. She’s never said anything, but I assume she adds a surcharge and pays us the difference. She has to make a living somehow.”

“Isn’t she a noble?”

“Yeah, well, given the straits you found me in, you should know that not all nobles are rich. She was married to Baron Linder of Maranon. Why, I don’t think even she could say. He had no lands, wasn’t wealthy, and not even particularly attractive.”

“Wasn’t? Is he dead?”

“Yes, in addition to his other shortcomings, he apparently lacked skill with a lance; he was killed by Sir Gilbert of Lyle in a Wintertide joust just six months after they married. How she manages to maintain such a lavish lifestyle is a mystery to everyone at court and a topic of much speculation.” He paused in thought. “I wonder what rumors circulate about me.” He waved the question away. “Anyhoo, I’m guessing she’s made herself as useful to her acquaintances as I’ve been to you.”

“You never asked her about it?”

Albert looked shocked and insulted at the same time. “Oh, dear Maribor, no! And she has never asked me about my affairs. We have a perfectly wonderful lack of curiosity about each other, which makes working together not only possible but delightful as well.”

“You slept with her,” Hadrian said, his tone neither critical nor approving. He was merely stating a conclusion.

Albert let slip a mischievous grin. “Along with our lack of curiosity, we share an obvious absence of morals and a mutual aversion to cumbersome attachments. But filling that void is a healthy appetite for lust. It’s a wonderful arrangement, two peas in a pod are we.”

Royce, whose tiring hand reminded him that he was still holding his pack, looked around for a place to set it down. Mindful that the bottom was still wet with muck, he placed it on the hearth near the crackling fire. “So, you have no idea who actually hired us to steal that diary?”

“Nope, can’t say that I do.”

“And Virgil Puck?”

“Well, that’s a different matter, now isn’t it? Of course it was Lord Hildebrandt; otherwise it would be terribly awkward when you arrived with him and . . .” Albert’s eyes shifted as he fit the puzzle pieces together.

Albert was a fine intermediary. He’d a handsome face that polished up well, and he knew all the finer points of etiquette required to sail the dangerous waters of the Avryn aristocracy. He was competent and well spoken but suffered the illness of all nobles, a dulling of the senses due to privilege. Pets suffered from the same disorder. Having grown up in a household, a dog couldn’t be expected to live in the wild, any more than a cow or chicken. Domesticated creatures lacked basic situational awareness, that fearful ever-present state of expected catastrophe that kept the less pampered alive. Watching Albert, Royce saw him questioning his foundations and knew what was running through his head: No . . . that sort of thing happens to other people, not me.

“So, Puck was telling the truth. He didn’t have anything to do with Bliss Hildebrandt. Guess I’m a better judge of people than you on this one.” Hadrian beamed a smile, which didn’t last long. Royce guessed it faded just as soon as his partner realized he had helped kill an innocent man.

Royce knew better. Puck wasn’t innocent; no one was. He’d done something to someone, and the only thing Royce wanted to know was whether that something was going to rub off on him.