The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(23)
Royce stepped to the window and, barely moving the drapes, peered out at the street below. The rain was coming down harder, and the cobblestones were slick. Their horses, left out front, were getting a cold bath. “Need to quarter our animals, find some food, and gather some information. As soon as the rain lets up a bit, we’ll visit the news center.”
“Huh? What makes you think Rochelle has such a thing?”
“Every city does.”
“A tavern?”
Royce shook his head. “A brothel.”
The rain never entirely stopped, and while they did find a place for their horses, they failed to spot a single brothel after almost two hours of searching. In a city as heavily populated as Rochelle, that was just strange. As far as Royce could determine, Rochelle was only a bit smaller than Colnora, which supported no less than thirty-two houses of comfort—three more than the number of certified taverns, eight more than the number of inns. Even Medford—a provincial village in comparison—provided twelve. Yet after crisscrossing both sides of the river, they found nothing of the sort.
Hunger, the wet, and the smell of cooking meat finally proved irresistible, and Hadrian dragged him into something called The Meat House—a small, smoky, congested shack off one of the narrower side streets. The weather-warped shack sold one-pound chunks of lamb or pork on small planks of grease-stained wood. “Freshest meat in the city. We get it from the slaughterhouse next door,” the cook told them. They each bought a slab of lamb from the man who worked the spit. Then, helping themselves to a pair of pre-poured beers lined up on the counter, they elbowed spots at the long, narrow shelf that served as a communal table. With a row of men standing and chewing on steaming meat while staring at a wood wall decorated with years of grease splatter, the Meat House had all the ambience of a bovine food trough. The only light came from the open spit as drools of grease hit the coals and set off brilliant flares. Still, awful as it appeared, the no-nonsense eatery was warm and dry, and the meat—if nothing else—was hot.
A beefy, baldheaded thug dressed in a stained blue work shirt, smelling of fish and lacking so much as a scarf to shield him against the cold, struggled to rip a mouthful of meat free from the bone without burning his fingers.
“Might want to let it cool,” Royce offered.
The bald man barely turned his head, just shifted his eyes to focus suspiciously on Royce. Dogs did that, too, when eating.
“Only got a few minutes before the next trawler comes in,” the man said, and licked his fingers. “I can work with burnt hands, but not an empty stomach.”
“Ugly night to be working outdoors.”
“Any night’s a good night if you’re getting paid.”
Royce didn’t like the prospect of blisters, so he used Alverstone to cut a bite-size chunk. Popping it into his mouth, he still needed to suck in air or risk burning his tongue. He was shocked to find the meat tender and flavorful, but Royce, of all people, ought to know better than to judge anything based on appearance.
Hadrian stood on his left, talking quietly with a small fellow in a gray hood. Royce had a keen sense of hearing, but at times it worked against him. With so many conversations, it was difficult to focus on just one. He and Hadrian needed information, but while Hadrian was friendly and liked to talk, he was also likely to give out unnecessary details. Believing the job would eventually take a violent and unlawful turn, Royce preferred to monitor his friend’s conversation. Best to make certain Hadrian didn’t advertise their real names, where they came from, or the fact that they were very likely going to murder the Duke of Rochelle.
After a while, Royce relaxed. Despite Royce’s many comments to the contrary, Hadrian wasn’t an idiot. They wouldn’t still be together if that were the case. While his friend might retain the asinine belief that most people were basically good, he had at least learned not to trust everyone who smiled his way. Because two hooks in the water could catch more fish than one, Royce turned his back to Hadrian and focused on the bald man to his right.
Adopting the local manner, Royce slumped against the shelf, resting on his elbows, and asked, “If a fella was looking for something to keep him warm tonight besides a blanket, any idea where he might look?”
“You want whiskey?”
Denser than expected.
Royce shook his head. “I was thinking more along the lines of a woman, the sort you pay for.”
The bald man’s face turned toward him. Lit by the fire, it glistened with a thick coat of slathered grease. “Ain’t got that here. Illegal.” He tore another mouthful of lamb from the bone, actually ripping it with a turn of his head, then chewed with his mouth open. “Church don’t approve.”
“Church doesn’t approve of a lot of things,” Royce said. “That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Don’t exist here.”
“Where you two from?” asked a lean, swarthy fellow on the far side of the bald man, who also had grease dripping from his chin.
“Maranon,” Royce answered. “Little place called Dulgath.”
“Un-huh.” The dark man nodded, displaying what Royce had hoped for: total ignorance. “Well, Tom’s right. Don’t know how they do things in Dulgath, but Rochelle is a pious place.” He said the word pie-us as if demanding a dessert.