The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(19)

The door itself didn’t open, but the brass-grated security window slid back. Behind, a thin and withered gray-haired woman appeared, her lips pursed. She clutched the collar of a shawl about her neck and peered out with trepidation. She spotted Royce first.

He studied her for only a moment, then sighed and stepped aside, granting Hadrian the audience.

“By the Unholy Twins,” the old woman cursed. She glared at both of them. Her eyes were large—sunken and bulbous—accentuated by arching brows that glared in judgment. “If you’re looking for handouts, this isn’t the door. If you’re selling something, the Merchant District is in the city center. If you’re spreading news, I assure you I’ve already heard it. If you’re dispensing trouble . . . believe me, I’ve all I need, stocked full, I say.”

Hadrian blinked, stunned.

“Oh, my apologies,” she softened her voice, her brows drooping in understanding. “I see. You’re nothing but a pair of idiots. Off you go. Play in the rain. Leave the pretty bird on my door alone. It’s not real; it can’t fly.” She shooed at them with frail fingers. “The river is that way. If you fall in, odds are good that all your troubles will be over in short order. Goodnight and goodbye.” With a smile, she clapped the little window grate shut.

“We’re here for the room,” Hadrian shouted, his voice descending in volume with each word, accepting the defeat.

“Well done,” Royce said. He clapped slowly. “I must admit she didn’t appear the least bit frightened.”

The entire door jerked back, making the woodpecker clack. “Did you say you want to rent my room?”

“Ah, yes,” Hadrian replied. “We heard you have one to let. Is that true?”

“It is.” She looked them over anew, and a frown developed. “Do you have any money?”

Royce sneered at her.

“We do,” Hadrian said, and followed this with a big smile. He poured all his charm into it.

“I see,” she said, still frowning. Her eyes adding a cloud of disappointment to the mix. She promptly turned to address Royce. “I charge four silver a night—that’s tenents, mind you.”

Royce narrowed his eyes. “Unless this room comes with running water and its own staff, you’re dreaming. I’ll give you three silver dins.”

The woman sniffed. “Forgive me, did I say four silver? I meant five. And I only deal in tenents. I’ll have nothing to do with that worthless din fiddle-faddle. That funny money is nothing but painted metal. And the room comes with a pot and a bed. I, young man, comprise the entire staff, but don’t expect me to lift a finger on your behalf.”

Royce shook his head. “We’ll pay three silver.”

“No, if you want to stay here, you’ll pay six.”

“Six? But . . .” Royce glanced at Hadrian, perplexed and irritated. The thief had never shown much capacity for patience with children or the elderly, or indeed any living thing. “You’re supposed to reduce your price. It’s called haggling.”

“And you’re supposed to be polite to your elders. I’m not a hag.”

Royce sighed. “That’s not what haggling means.”

“No, it isn’t.” She glared at him with a look that could wither the most resilient weed.

“I think she was listening earlier,” Hadrian explained.

Royce glowered. “Yeah, I got that.”

“The price is six silver. Would you like to try for seven?” The old woman folded her arms stiffly, her lips pursing into a sour expression. And while she and Royce were close to the same height, she somehow managed to look down on him, waiting for the inevitable answer that her face declared she knew all along.

“You drive a hard bargain for a non-hag.”

“It’s also raining, and the city is packed.” She held her hand out, palm up. “You pay in advance. I’ll kick you out with no refund if you don’t obey my rules.”

“Which are?”

“You be quiet, respectful, and clean up after yourself. No women. No animals. No drinking. No smoking. No nonsense. Breakfast is at dawn. There is no dinner. Do not be late for breakfast. I don’t like wasting food.”

Hadrian pulled the coins out of his purse, and the woman took and inspected each in the light of the candle-lantern.

“We may want to stay more than one night,” Hadrian said, and dipped his fingers into his bag for more coins.

She held up a hand stopping him. “Let’s just see how the first night goes, shall we? Now—what are your names?”

“Baldwin and Grim,” Royce said.

She clamped the coins in a fist and stepped to one side, granting them entrance. “Well then, Mister Baldwin and Mister Grim, you’re at the top of the stairs on the left. My name is Evelyn Hemsworth.”





Chapter Five

Mercator





Mercator Sikara shivered in the cold rain, pulling the thin shawl tighter to her neck. A wind blew up Vintage Avenue the way it often did that time of year, coming off the bay to deliver its damp, salty slap. The squall had a clear path funneling between Grom Galimus and the Imperial Gallery, the two biggest buildings on Darius Square, creating a piercing blast that coursed along the river. The spiderweb-thin shawl was poor defense against such an onslaught, and the pelting rain added insult to injury. “And look at you without even a wrap,” she said to the great statue of Novron as she watched the rain drizzling down the marble. “But then, I suppose demi-gods don’t get cold, do they?”