The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(22)

“Look,” Mercator told her. “You can talk to a person. You can reason with an individual. Usually. But people, that’s another thing altogether. In a group is where they lose their way. Doesn’t matter if it’s humans, dwarves, or mir, if you put three or more in a room, they’ll manufacture stupid like it was spun gold. They’re like honeybees that way, except the product is never sweet. Don’t listen to them. Listen to me. Don’t listen to people, listen to a person.”

Mercator bent down to lock eyes with Seton, offering a reassuring smile. “Things will improve. I’m going to make it better. That’s my responsibility as matriarch of the Sikara. I owe that to my grandfather and his father before him.”

“It’s been this way for centuries,” the girl said.

“Yes, it has, but spring is coming. Trust me. Spring is coming.”

Seton sighed and nodded, but she clearly didn’t believe.

Mercator couldn’t blame her. She had a hard time believing it herself. “Good. Now take that coin to the Calian Precinct tomorrow and buy something nice to eat.”

Mercator turned to leave.

“We have food,” Estrya announced to her gaily.

“You do?” Mercator turned back.

They all nodded proudly.

Estrya pointed to the black pot on the fire. “Vymir and Bista found mushrooms growing in the alley under a crate. You’ll stay, won’t you? It’s the least we can do.”

Mercator shook her head. “I don’t have to lift that pot’s lid to know you don’t have enough to feed three mouths, much less seven. Besides, I need to get back. I’ve been gone too long as it is.”

“Where is it you go?” Seton asked.

Mercator smiled wryly. “It’s a secret.”

“You can’t tell me?” Seton looked shocked.

“Not even you.”

Her expression turned pained. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not a matter of trust; it’s a matter of responsibility. I’m matriarch, so the unpleasant tasks fall to me.” Mercator raised her arms, letting the sleeves fall back, revealing the blue skin that ran up to her elbows. “See? Perfect example. Some things leave marks that cannot be erased, and what I have to do is another one of those things.” She turned away from the fire. “Enjoy your meal. Soon it will be better. I promise.”

With a final wave, Mercator walked back out into the cold rain.





Chapter Six

Over Lamb and Small Beer





Royce was stunned when they reached the top of the stairs and opened the door. The room was the very definition of cozy. A large, elaborately carved dark-wood chimney breast framed the fireplace and dominated one wall, a fire already crackling behind a brass screen. A figurine of a boy skating on a pond adorned one side of the mantel and a candelabra the other. Deep-burgundy paper covered the walls, heavy drapes framed the tall windows, and a plush Calian rug lay on the hardwood floor. Soft chairs, dressers, and tables made a pleasant sitting area near the fire; a big bed all but filled an adjoining room. Paintings hung on the walls, and a bellows rested in a basket beside a full set of hearth tools. The chamber was bedecked with lamps, pillows, and a mirror. Even paper and pen lay upon a desk.

Hadrian dropped his bags near the door. “This is the nicest room I’ve ever been in.” He looked down at his dirty boots. “I’m afraid to move.”

Royce eyed the place, confused. He made a quick tour, peering behind the wardrobe, checking the backside of the drapes. In most places they stayed, he would find dry rot, mildew, rat droppings, and sometimes blood. Here, he found pristine wood and polished glass. “No wonder she didn’t dicker.”

Hadrian crossed to the dry sink. “Hey, there’s soap next to the wash basin—and towels embroidered with the name HEMSWORTH.”

Royce looked over, nodding. “Makes them harder to sell after stealing. You have to pay for the thread to be removed. No name on the rug, though.” He studied the intricate floral design. “How much do you think the carpet would fetch? A fortune, right? We could drop it out the window. Wouldn’t make much of a sound when it hit the street.”

Hadrian looked up from the towels and shook his head. “We aren’t stealing from a widow.”

Royce looked affectionately at the rug. “An apparently rich widow.”

“We’re here to do a job, remember?”

Royce faced the windows, assessing the logistics. They were too narrow to climb through, but a carpet could slip out just fine. Assuming they weren’t painted shut, he could roll the rug up and shove it out while Hadrian waited below. They could throw the thing over the back of one of their horses easily enough. The hard part was knowing where to sell it. That was always the challenge of working in an unknown town.

Hadrian snapped his fingers, gaining Royce’s attention. “Hello. Focus. You said you like the current job. Can we concentrate on that? You might get to kill people, remember?”

Royce looked up. “True.” He stared back at the carpet longingly. “We can empty this place later. No sense doing it now and losing the room.”

Hadrian sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, appearing as comfortable as if he were sitting on blown glass. He stared at the cushioned stool in front of him but made no move to put his feet up. “What’s our first move?”