The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(30)

The island, aside from its role as the only means of traversing the river from one bank to the other, appeared to be reserved entirely for the duke. This was evident by the imposing wall that ringed the palatial estate. The areas nearest the bridges on both banks were the most affluent. The farther away from the river, the more destitute and neglected things became. The area just on the east side included the cathedral and its huge plaza. Hadrian suspected this was what people referred to as Old Town. Just east of there was another square surrounded by shops. Hadrian guessed it was the Merchant District—although the far side of the river had just as many shops, so he couldn’t be sure.

Royce headed south toward the foggy bay and into narrower, dirtier streets. Hadrian remembered the area from the night before, and daylight only made the neighborhood worse. The Meat House was just ahead on the right.

“What are we doing back here? We just ate.”

“Not looking for food this time. Need to find . . . there!” Royce pointed at the building next to the Meat House.

A ghastly looking two-story structure of gray mottled wood was fashioned in the general shape of a barn. A tall double door was stained with red handprints near the edge and along the latch. A row of wagons was parked in a line out front. They rocked and jiggled from hosts of restless passengers—mostly pigs that snorted and squealed.

“It’s a slaughterhouse.”

Royce nodded. “The cook said they got their supply fresh from next door. The wagon that nearly killed us yesterday was a livestock wagon, just like those.”

“Royce, I’m sure there are hundreds of wagons like these in and around the city.”

“But none as conveniently available to someone who overheard our conversation.”

Royce approached the wagons and began walking up and down the row, studying them. They were old and worn. The sides were tall and bleached by the sun. The big spoked wheels had manure and straw stuck to the rims. Hadrian imagined what it might have felt like having one, or perhaps two, roll over him. Death by slaughterhouse wagon wasn’t on his list of best ways to go.

“Is there a problem with my wagons?” A man came out of the building wearing a blood-splattered apron and a dingy leather skullcap. He held a bloody rag in one hand and a dripping hatchet in the other.

“Yes,” Royce said. “I think there is.” He pointed to the third in line. “That one’s axle hub—see it? The metal looks raw, like it was recently filed, or perhaps scraped against a brick wall.”

The butcher didn’t bother to look. “That’s not a problem.”

“It is for me.” Royce took a single step toward the man. “Was it stolen? Did it disappear last night? Did you have to search for it this morning?”

The butcher mused a moment with his lips then spit on the ground between them. “Nope. Been there all night. Hasn’t moved. How is that a problem for you?”

“You’re right. It’s not.” Royce smiled as he took another step closer. “But it just became a problem for you.”

Hadrian was fascinated by just how catlike Royce became when preparing to kill; his eyes became dilated, his pupils growing with his excitement. Hadrian didn’t know for certain if Royce would kill the butcher. He generally didn’t murder in plain sight on a busy street in daylight, but the body language was unmistakable.

“Someone tried to kill me with that wagon last night, and since it wasn’t stolen”—Royce took another step—“I’ll have to assume it was you.”

While the butcher processed the accusation, Royce rushed forward.

With Royce, half seconds mattered. Luckily Hadrian had seen the attack coming even if the butcher was oblivious, and he stepped between the two. The butcher finally realized his peril and shuffled backward.

“Out of my way!” Royce snapped as Hadrian extended his arms, blocking the thief from dodging around him.

“Keep him away from me!” the butcher shouted. “That guy is crazy. I didn’t do anything.”

“He’s not crazy,” Hadrian tried to explain. “He thinks you tried to kill him . . . err . . . us, actually.”

“Help! Help!” the butcher shouted, backing up.

Royce shifted left then right, but Hadrian blocked him both times. To the butcher—to anyone watching—it would have appeared that Royce was doing his best to get past. He wasn’t. Royce could dance with an angry rattlesnake and never get bitten. He once boasted about his ability to dodge arrows; Hadrian had never seen him do that but believed he could. If Royce really wanted to get around, Hadrian probably couldn’t stop his lithe partner.

“Step aside,” Royce snapped. “I’m going to kill him.”

The butcher’s eyes widened, and his pleas became frantic, “Somebody . . . anybody . . . help me!”

“Calm down, both of you,” Hadrian said.

A number of people on the street had stopped and were staring. An elderly man and two women took the most interest but posed no danger. Two laborers stacking bags of feed farther up the street, on the other hand, were worth keeping an eye on. They, too, had paused and turned. At that moment, everyone’s expressions displayed puzzlement, but it wouldn’t take long for that to change.

Hadrian addressed the butcher, “Look, we just want to know who tried to run us down last night.”