The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(21)
Mercator noticed a carriage rolling toward them. She quickly lifted her sopping shawl and covered her ears. Erasmus turned away, pretending to adjust stock in the rafters of the awning as the coach passed by.
“They weren’t even looking,” she said. “The curtains were closed.”
“Doesn’t matter. If anyone sees your ears, if anyone thinks I’m dealing with a mir . . .” He gave her a look of exasperation. “Take the coins and go.”
Did he set the coins on the cart because he didn’t want anyone to see him giving me money, or because he didn’t want to accidentally touch my hand? Sometimes Mercator also saw what she didn’t desire.
She couldn’t tell which was more likely or which was better.
“Before I go, I need to know. Has there been any word? Any hint about the duke taking action?”
This was her real reason for coming. She needed the money, but the necessity for hope was even more demanding.
He shook his head, an angry scowl on his face. He, too, was running out of patience. They all were, and that was bad. That was dangerous. Erasmus turned toward the sound of another carriage and glared at her.
She took the coins, snatched up the vest and her bundles, and left.
Tucked between the old open-air sewers and river spillway, the derelict Rochelle neighborhood—known as Melrah by the inhabitants, and the Rookery by everyone else—lacked paved streets, and the rain turned the narrow paths of dirt, ash, and night soil to slop. Most of the buildings in that part of Rochelle had long been abandoned. Since the residents had no means or right to repair them, roofs and walls collapsed as support beams rotted. Mercator’s people used the timber remnants as firewood on cold nights, gutting their shelters for warmth. The old forest encroached on Melrah as it sought to take back what had long ago been stolen. Cutting firewood wouldn’t have been difficult, except they weren’t allowed to down trees. Technically, they weren’t allowed to burn the fallen walls and stairs. The grand total of what the inhabitants of the Rookery weren’t allowed to do seemed endless. Still, Mercator counted her blessings. There was still one thing left off that list: The mir were allowed to live.
But is this really living?
Mercator stepped around those bundled in rags, who huddled in every windbreak and dry patch. She made for the light of the little fire where half a dozen mir still warmed themselves beneath the surviving roof of the old mill. Seton was the first to spot her, and a smile stretched the girl’s face. Girl. This was another absurdity. She should have considered her a gyn, but even in her own mind the old language was being replaced. A girl was a human female child, not an eighty-three-year-old mir who had so little human blood that she possessed the traditional blond hair and blue eyes of the ancient Instarya and looked to be just beyond adolescence. But just as with the shattered homes, they worked with what they had. And, at least compared with Mercator, Seton was a child.
“You’re back!” Seton called and left the warmth of the fireside to hug Mercator.
The hug was a surprise. Mercator hadn’t expected it, and the open expression of affection overwhelmed her. Feeling the unabashed arms of the girl, who ignored Mercator’s soaked clothes to squeeze her tightly, made the old mir tear up. She thanked the rain for hiding it.
“Has there been any word?” Seton asked.
“It’s been two weeks,” Vymir said. “Something must have happened by now. It’s nearly spring.”
Mercator shook her head, and their happy expressions deflated. “No,” she said, and then pulled out the coins. “But we have this.” She moved around the fire’s circle and dropped a coin into each person’s hand.
When she got to Seton, the girl refused to lift her palm. “It’s your money.”
“You helped me gather the plants for the dye.”
“But that’s all,” Seton protested. “If you let me, I would—”
Mercator took the girl’s hand and forced the money into it. “Unlike you, I don’t need to look pretty.”
Seton’s face darkened. “Beauty has always been a curse for me. You know that. Would have been better if I had been born a twisted wretch. If it hadn’t been for the rasa . . .”
“That was years ago.”
“Still haunts me. Besides, what good are looks when I’m a mir, a filthy elf that—”
“You’re beautiful,” Mercator said firmly. “We all are, even Vymir.” She gave him a wink. “Don’t let the opinions of the ignorant convince you truth is a lie.”
Seton scowled, looking down at the mud on her own feet. “An eight-year-old boy threw a rock at me today. I was in the street—just walking, for Ferrol’s sake!—and he threw a chicken-egg-sized rock—one that his mother had given him. When he missed, she gave him another. After a while, it’s hard not to see yourself as they see you.”
“After a while?” Mercator smiled while still holding tight to the girl’s pale hands with her own bluish-black fingers. “I’m a hundred and twenty-three years old, and let me tell you something. After a while, you learn the truth about people, which is people don’t know anything. People are dumber than spooked cattle chasing one another off a cliff. It’s persons you need to listen to.”
Seton’s eyes narrowed in confusion.