The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(13)
“Have you tried contacting the duke?” Hadrian asked.
“Of course I have.”
“What did he say?”
“His scribe wrote that Hargrave was ‘investigating the matter.’ Investigating the matter! Oh, I’m sure he’s looking real hard, given he’s the one who killed her!”
“You know that for a fact?” Hadrian stared in shock.
“I know it as well as you’re sitting here. I told Genny he only wanted her money. Guess he didn’t need my girl once his debts were paid. No reason to keep her. Nobles aren’t like you and me. No loyalty, no civility. They behave all righteous and proper, but it’s just an act.”
Gabriel turned to Royce. “Will you make them suffer the way you did in Colnora?”
“Expensive,” Royce said.
“You know who I am. What street I live on. I can afford it, and I want blood. I’ll give you fifty gold for your time and another twenty-five for every life you take, double if they suffer.”
Hadrian dragged a hand down his face. “All this talk of blood and bodies; she could still be alive.” Gabriel started to speak, and Hadrian put a hand up to stop him. “Granted, it doesn’t look good, and it does sound like something bad has happened to her, but she might not be dead. Could be she’s locked up somewhere. Killing a duchess is dangerous, even if she’s new to the family.”
Gabriel thought about this for a moment. “Fine. I’ll pay one hundred and fifty yellow stamped with Ethelred’s ugly head if you find, rescue, and bring Genny back alive. But if she’s dead, my original offer stands.”
“Depending on the extent of involvement, this job might prove costly, even for you.”
Gabriel Winter’s rage returned. He made fists on the table. “I have a lot of money, but only one daughter. And if she’s gone, what need have I for gold?” He wiped his eyes. “Make that goddamn duke and all those working for him bleed. Turn the Roche River red for me, for me and my Genny.”
“How far is it?” Royce asked.
Hadrian stuffed the round of fresh bread in the small sack tied around the horn of Dancer’s saddle. This was his quick-access bag where he kept his travel essentials for riding: gloves, some peanuts, three strips of jerky, a rag, a few apples, cedar grease to keep the bugs away, a tinder kit, and a needle and thread. The loaf was fresh out of the oven and still warm. Though he’d just finished a fine breakfast, Hadrian knew the odds of the loaf surviving even the short distance to the Gateway Bridge were slim. He considered stuffing it into the big leather bags behind his saddle, but the loaf would be crushed there, and that was no way to treat a gift from Gwen.
“To Rochelle?” he asked. “I dunno, five, six days maybe, assuming the mountain pass is clear, which it should be since Gabriel Winter has been getting letters from there. We’ll have to cross to the eastern side of the Majestics.”
“And we’ll need to skirt around Colnora,” Royce reminded while he finished tying down the last of his gear across the rump of his horse. “Will it be hot down there?”
Hadrian considered this. Rochelle was nearly as far south as Dulgath, but the regions didn’t share the same climate. Dulgath had the most magnificent weather of anywhere he’d been. In contrast, Alburn, as he remembered, was a cold, wet place. “Bring your heavy cloak and boots.”
“Already have them.”
“When do you think you’ll be back?” Gwen asked. She stood on the porch of Medford House along with Jollin, Abby, and Mae, all out to see them off. The sun was just rising, and, except for Gwen, the girls were still in their nightgowns and wrapped in blankets. Behind them, painters set up scaffolding to continue turning The Medford House blue.
“Might be a while,” Royce said, his voice soft, regretful.
Gwen met him in the street, and the two stood an arm’s length apart. Hadrian watched and waited, as did the girls.
“This job could be more complicated than the one we did in Maranon, more . . . well, I don’t know, just more.” Royce held on to the lead of his horse, the distance between him and Gwen remaining undiminished. “Don’t get worried if we aren’t back for . . . I don’t know, could take several weeks. Let’s just say that, okay?”
Gwen nodded. “We’ll say that, then.”
“Right.” Royce didn’t move, just stared at her.
A moment, maybe two, went by and Hadrian considered whether Royce would ever move, wondered if he could. Hadrian couldn’t understand what prevented his partner from hugging and kissing her goodbye. Then he remembered this was Royce he was watching, and it all made sense.
“Right,” Royce said again, and nodded. He then led his horse down Wayward Street, and Hadrian followed.
The trip was quiet. Hadrian didn’t even attempt to chat.
Over the last three years, they’d gone through various conversational stages. Initially, Hadrian sought to draw Royce out, mistaking silence for social awkwardness. This served only to irritate Royce, who refused to be manipulated into doing anything, even talking. Hadrian then tried pretending Royce was a normal person who simply couldn’t speak. Thus, Hadrian took it upon himself to fill the many hours of slow travel with his own meanderings, and, when needed, he would supply both sides of a conversation. Royce had silently endured this. Given that Hadrian felt some of his musings were insightful, even entertaining, his companion’s muted reaction irked him. Once, Hadrian had performed an improvisational debate between a work-obsessed honeybee and a flighty dandelion that ought to have resulted in a stirrup-standing ovation, but Royce had ignored it completely, which caused Hadrian to wonder: Why am I doing all the work?