The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(29)
Hadrian wanted to point out that not much had changed, but he wasn’t about to interrupt. He hoped that Evelyn’s ramblings would shed some light on more recent events. Royce didn’t appear to be listening at all as he scraped eggs off his plate with a knife.
“Everyone loyal to the emperor’s banner came here. The Calders, the Killians, the Hargraves—they had all been prominent families in the court of the last emperor. Alburn became home of the empire in exile. Everything that could be salvaged was brought here for safekeeping: artifacts, books, statues, paintings. So you see, Alburn in general, and Rochelle in particular, has very strong links with the traditions of the Novronian Empire. So when the king and his entire family sank in the Goblin Sea, the bishop naturally stepped in to act as steward. Simple as that.”
“That was simple?” Royce asked and licked his knife clean.
“It’s called thinking, dear,” Evelyn told him. “If you work at it, the mind gets stronger.”
Royce shifted his grip on the knife, taking hold of the blade.
“So what happened?” Hadrian quickly asked. “Why isn’t this still the empire in exile? Why isn’t the patriarch still here? How did Reinhold become king? He isn’t a Calder, Killian, or Hargrave, is he?”
“No. That was all Glenmorgan’s doing. He was the big winner of the monarch sweepstakes. The biggest thug of the west, if you will. When Glenmorgan invaded Alburnia, the patriarch avoided being sacked by anointing him the almost-emperor, otherwise known as a steward. Then when Glenmorgan set himself up at Ervanon in the north, the patriarch was obliged to join him. Still, while the church’s head may have gone to Ghent, its heart remains here. For example, the Seret Knights are still headquartered in Blythin Castle, just as they always have been.”
“And Reinhold?”
“His great-great-great-grandfather, or something, was appointed governor of Alburn by Glenmorgan. He set up his government at the westernmost city, Caren—as far away from all the traditional imperialists as he could. After good old Glenny the Third was executed at Blythin, the governor—by then it was his son—just kept on running things, but now as king.”
“Because they were all lost at sea, there are no more descendants of that bloodline. Is that right?” Hadrian asked.
“Indeed, and the bishop will be making his choice during the Spring Feast.” Evelyn looked down her nose at Royce and scowled. “You’re not eating. For Novron’s sake, you’re thin as a brittle bit of last year’s grass. That’s why you wear that big cloak, isn’t it? You’re embarrassed at how little you are. Well, eat. You won’t grow big and strong like your friend unless you do.”
“We need to find a new place to stay,” Royce said the moment they were clear of the house and moving with unusual speed down the street.
The rain had stopped, the weather warmer, and aside from a bit of fog and some puddles, it was a relatively pleasant day.
“There isn’t any other place. Remember?” Hadrian replied, stretching his legs to keep up with Royce, who was practically trotting. “We spent forever searching yesterday.”
“We looked for a couple of hours.” Royce gave his third glance back, as if Evelyn Hemsworth were fast on their heels.
Mill Street was alive with activity. Carriages rolled by; a girl sold early spring flowers from a handcart; a man with a wagon delivered milk and cheese door-to-door; a tiny dog with a pug nose begged for scraps; and pedestrians with canes and overcloaks dodged street traffic, standing puddles, and one another. Everything was so different from the night before.
“What are you griping about?” Hadrian said. “Do you remember what the Dirty Tankard looked like? The Hemsworth house is really nice. And the food! That may have been the best meal I’ve ever had.”
“The woman is insane.”
“I actually kind of like her.”
Royce stopped walking. He stood in the middle of the street between two separate but equally sized piles of horse droppings, glaring at his partner with a shocked expression that bordered on disturbed.
Hadrian continued walking two steps before noticing. “What?” He looked back with equal parts innocence and guilt. “She’s nice . . . in an authoritarian, priggish, self-important sort of way. Think of her as the mother you never had.”
Royce made a bitter face. “If my mother was anything like that, I’m glad I never knew her.”
They resumed walking, moving clear of the milk wagon coming their way. The flat bed of the dray was laden with a half a dozen barrel-sized covered pails that cried white tears.
“She’s right, you know,” Hadrian said. “You should eat more if you want to grow up to be big and strong like me.” He grinned.
Royce pulled up his hood. “Don’t talk to me.”
They climbed a hill that granted an expansive view of the city, most of it dominated by roofs and smoking chimneys. Yet with the rain gone and the fog restricting itself to the area around the harbor, Hadrian was finally able to form a mental map of the place. Rochelle straddled the Roche River as it poured into Blythin Bay—most of which was lost to the fog. Split in two as it was by the waterway, the city had been built with one half on either bank, the big harbor dominating the mouth of the river. In the middle of the Roche, a long thin island was joined to the two banks by a pair of stone bridges.