The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(34)
Woffington & Sons was located not far from the river, in an area where everything, even the carriage shop, was built of old stone, a material normally reserved for castles or churches. Royce felt certain it hadn’t always been used for building coaches. The architecture was too sophisticated, too decorative for a business, even one that catered to nobles. Fluted pillars held up an arched, engraved transom, and over the big door crouched one of the town’s many stone gargoyles. This one was endowed with a barbed tail curled around its feet as it perched vulture-like, peering down menacingly on all who entered.
Hadrian had followed Royce without a word, hanging back a step, and Royce was still deciding whether to admonish him. The problem stemmed from the fact that Hadrian might not have made a mistake. On a purely objective level, his partner had committed a monumental blunder. They were there to commit murder, probably more than one, and he’d just declared their association with the events to come—to a high-ranking officer of the city guard, no less. As ridiculous as that was, though, Royce had to admit Hadrian’s direct approach had resulted in a bounty of information that might have required weeks to obtain by less direct methods, and Royce was starting to suspect that time might be a factor. And there was also one more restraint on Royce’s rebuke, one more reason to suspect that Hadrian’s knack for dumb luck might have turned out okay, but he needed more information to be sure.
The shop wasn’t far from the plaza, so it was obvious why the carriage had been brought there. From the shop’s entrance, Royce could see the cathedral. The massive edifice with its soaring bell towers dominated the eastern bank. Central Plaza itself hosted numerous shops, statues, and fountains. The river’s early-morning fog had yet to burn off, but the square was already filling with pedestrians and hawkers.
That’s where it happened.
Despite Captain Wyberg’s assurances about the habits of Rochelle’s residents, Royce found it an odd locale for a murder. Killing in a place so conspicuous generally meant the perpetrator was trying to send a message.
That’s what I would do. He caught himself. Have done. He thought again. More than once.
This realization was both intriguing and disturbing, leaving Royce as curious as he was concerned.
Who are we dealing with?
A kid that Royce guessed to be about thirteen spotted the pair lingering at the shop’s open doors. Brushing himself free of sawdust, he trotted over. A wide belt with tools hanging from loops, most of them chisels and wooden mallets, hung from his waist. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” Over the boy’s shoulder, Royce spotted four men working in a large open space held up by old stacked-stone pillars. Suspended from the ceiling or piled on shelves was a plethora of wheels, raw lumber, and metal poles. Royce counted eight carriages in various states of production.
“Officer Roland Wyberg of the city guard informs me that this is where the duke’s carriage is being repaired,” Royce said with a dash of aggressiveness.
The boy straightened up. “Oh, ah, yes, sir. Are you from the Estate, sir?”
Royce folded his arms slowly, studying the boy with a dismissive expression that wasn’t too difficult for him to conjure up. The kid was fresh-faced enough to have been a spring lamb. “I’m investigating the events of that night. Let’s just say that, shall we?” He gave the boy a sly smile. “You’d be one of the Woffington sons, is that right?”
“Ah, yes, I’m Brian Woffington, sir.”
“And, Brian, are you working on the carriage?”
“My father and brother Steven are, but they’re not here just now. They went to get material for the interior. They’re over at Handon’s place on the west bank.”
“That’s fine; we don’t need to talk to them. We only want to take a look at the coach. Can you take me to it?”
“Um, yes, sir.”
Brian led them around tables, racks, bolts of leather, and massive spools of thread. The other sons looked over, but no one said anything.
“Working on a lot of wagons,” Hadrian mentioned. “Business must be good.”
“Rochelle has over three hundred carriages for hire,” the kid told them. “Keeping them in good order sometimes requires replacing the whole rig.”
They dodged around a few more tables, and in the back of the shop, Royce and Hadrian came across the gaudiest coach they had ever seen. It appeared to be made entirely of gold, right down to its wheels. The door panels were the only exception. There, the surface had been painted to depict a man on a rearing horse, his mantle flying in the wind as a beautiful woman watched in awe. The interior was gutted, the seats removed and lying on the shop’s floor, their skin stripped bare, revealing the wooden frames. Royce went over to the window and peered in for a closer look. Tufts of padding, and the remains of regularly placed tacks, indicated the carriage had once been upholstered from floor to ceiling. All that remained was the skeleton of bare wood.
Royce stepped back and continued examining the carriage’s exterior.
“Mind if I . . .” Royce pointed toward the driver’s berth.
“Hmm? Oh, go ahead,” Brian replied. “It’s not real gold, by the way. Just painted to look like it. If it were real, the horses would die trying to pull it. Oh, and we’d need a troop of soldiers to guard the shop at night.” The boy laughed.