The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(11)

“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.

“So, who killed Virgil and why?” Hadrian asked.

“Won’t ever find out,” Royce replied. “It’s a double blind. Quadruple if you add in Albert and Constance. We apprehended the poet under trumped-up allegations, nothing dire enough to arouse suspicion—even from someone like me. Then, a second group was hired to do the killing, and probably they were told an entirely different story. All of which makes it incredibly difficult to trace the responsible party or determine the actual motive.”

“Well, not to be insensitive to Mister Puck and his demise, but”—Albert looked over at the coins—“I’m in dire need of a new doublet and breeches. It’s important to keep up appearances you know, and—”

“Go ahead.” Royce nodded. “Take a tenent, but the new outfit will have to wait. We still need to pay Gwen for the use of the room and catch up on our late stable fees.”

“Well then, we’re in luck because I already have another job lined up.”

“Not through Lady Constance, I hope. I’d prefer something a little more straightforward. A job where I know what I’m getting into before I step in.”

“Ah—no, this one didn’t come from Constance, but it’s . . .” Albert paused. “Unusual.”

Royce folded his arms. He’d had his fill of unusual. “How so?”

“Well, normally I have to poke around and look for work, but this fellow came to me, or rather he came looking for you.” Albert looked pointedly at Royce.

“Me?” This unusual was sounding worse by the second.

Albert nodded. “He’s staying in the Gentry Quarter. Wouldn’t give me a name or even tell me what it was about. He said he’d know when you returned, and he’d stop by then.”

“He would know?”

Albert nodded. “That’s what he said.”

“Well, doesn’t that just make me feel all warm and cozy. Did he mention how he knew I was living in Melengar, or how he knew me, period?”

“Nope, only said he was up from Colnora and was looking for . . .” Albert paused to think. “It was a strange name, one that made me think of a cleaning service. He didn’t mention Riyria, but when I did, he recognized the word. Hmm, I wish I could remember what it was.” Albert furrowed his brow further in concentration.

“Don’t worry about it,” Royce told him and wished he could take the same advice, but he knew all too well that the stranger from Colnora had called him Duster.





Chapter Three

The Whiskey Baron





It took only a few hours for the mystery man to show up at The Rose and the Thorn. They had time for baths and a hot meal. Hadrian was able to down two tankards of beer, but Royce wanted to stay clearheaded. Normally he unwound after a job with a glass or two of Montemorcey, and he was annoyed that the wine would have to wait. Albert had Gwen seat the potential client in the Diamond Room, which had been kept empty of other patrons to give them privacy.

He sat in the back, an elderly man with gray hair and a face as salty and rugged as a seaside cliff. He wasn’t tall; if he stood, Royce suspected they might be the same height. He was, however, big. More than stocky, and even larger than portly, the man eclipsed the chair in which he sat and strained the seams of his traveling clothes. The tunic he wore had double stitching and metal studs, which decorated the floral designs across his chest. A heavy cloak lay tossed over the back of the chair beside him. Made of a thick two-ply wool, the wrap looked new. He had gloves, too, expensive calfskin. They rested on the table near the cloak. Each had the same floral design as his tunic. A matched set, Royce thought.

The visitor watched Royce and Hadrian enter as if studying them for later recall. He didn’t bother getting up or offer to shake hands. He patiently waited as Royce and Hadrian took their seats on the stools opposite him, not saying a word.

He focused on Royce. “Is it you? Are you Dust—”

Royce cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t use that name anymore.”

The man nodded. “Fair enough. What should I call you, then?”

“Royce will do, and the big fella is Hadrian.”

Each gave a nod of acknowledgment.

“Who are you?” Royce asked.

“I’m a man who lived in Colnora during the Year of Fear.”

Royce let his hand slip off the table. Beside him, Hadrian placed both feet flat on the floor to either side of his stool. The old man didn’t appear formidable in any sense, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable: revenge. He wanted it, and he’d come to get it.

“Name’s Gabriel Winter.”

Royce knew the name but had yet to make the connection. And as far as he could recall, he’d never tangled with anyone named Winter.

“You terrorized Colnora. The entire city was paralyzed from the horror you wrought. Pushcart people, street sweepers, shop owners, business barons, everyone right up to the magistrate was terrified. Even brave Count Simon fled to Aquesta that summer. That did a lot for morale, I can tell you.” The fat of the man’s neck quivered as he spoke, but his eyes never wavered, and his voice remained steady and calm. Both hands stayed in plain sight, ten pudgy fingers, palms on the table beside the empty gloves and half-melted candle. Nothing else lay between Royce and Winter but the tabletop.