The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(35)

Royce hopped up and made a quick study of the seat. “Has this bench been repaired?”

Brian shook his head. “No, sir. Didn’t touch nothing. Weren’t no damage. The bloodstains were inside.”

As on most coaches, the footboard was adjustable. Royce positioned himself on the bench as if he was driving, and with his feet on the board, his knees came to his chest. “No one changed anything up here? Adjusted the seat?”

“Nope.”

“When they brought the carriage over, someone must have driven it, right?”

Brian shook his head again. “Happened just down by the river, not far at all. The horse was led.”

“Did you know who was driving the carriage the night of the attack?”

“Driving?” the boy asked, and thought for a moment before shaking his head. “Probably Ickard Wimbly.”

“Probably? You don’t know?”

“He’s the duke’s coachman. So, I think it was him. I can’t remember exactly if—”

“Wasn’t Wimbly,” one of the other sons of Woffington paused in his work to chime in. This son was at least a couple of years older than Brian, having the start of a narrow beard. “He never drives the duchess. Steven has been down there a lot. Talks to Wimbly all the time. The man refused to drive her. Called the duchess the Whiskey Wench.”

Hadrian gave them both a skeptical look. “How does the duke’s coachman refuse to drive the duke’s wife?”

“And how did he still have a job after calling her a wench?” Royce added.

“Wimbly used to drive the duke’s father. He’s a fixture at the Estate and very well respected. And he’s not the only one who felt that way, trust me. The duchess wasn’t exactly admired.”

“And the duke put up with it?”

All of the sons of Woffington exchanged looks of agreement. “Not sure if he actually knew, but don’t know how he couldn’t.”

“So who drove?”

The sons all either shook their heads or shrugged. “Wimbly’s not picky when it comes to finding someone to drive her, so it coulda been anyone at the Estate.”

“And it happened at night, yes?” Royce turned back to Brian.

“Yep, was dark.”

“And do you know which route the carriage took from the Merchants’ Guild?”

“Went right by this shop down the hill, past Grom Galimus, then over toward the bridge.”

Grom Galimus? Royce wasn’t an expert in languages, but knew a fair amount of Old Speech, elvish, and even a handful of dwarven words learned from Merrick, who had taught Royce to read and write. Of course, a lot of the elvish, and all the dwarfish terms, were various forms of profanity. Grom galimus was Old Speech, or elven, Royce couldn’t remember which, but he did recall what it meant: his glory.

The kid nodded. “That’s where it happened. That’s where she was killed.”

“You think the duchess is dead?”

“Of course. Nobody survives a Morgan attack. My guess is she got scared and tried to run. Big mistake. When they find her body, it’ll be a mess. The Morgan has been busy these days. Just the other night a little elven boy was ripped apart, and a Calian girl was found the same way near the harbor.”

“What makes you think the duchess ran?” Hadrian asked.

“’Cuz she would’ve been safe if she just stayed inside. But the duchess is new to these parts and probably didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“That monsters are repelled by the color blue, the color of purity, like the clear sky or clean water. Can’t tell now, but the whole inside of the carriage was covered in plush blue velvet. If the duchess knew that color drove away evil spirits, she would have known that she’d be safe as long as she stayed inside.”

Royce nodded, pretending to agree, but he was certain that the duchess’s fate would have been the same no matter the color of the carriage’s upholstery.





“No one ever notices the driver,” Royce told Hadrian as they walked downhill toward the bridge, and Woffington & Sons became just one of many doors along a stone edifice. “I discovered that years ago. Servants are invisible except to one another. A baron can always tell you his horse’s name, but he rarely knows the name of the groomsman who cares for it. They’re the perfect blind spot for attacking the aristocracy. You saw how well it worked with Lord Exeter.”

Royce was speaking quickly. He wasn’t the sort to think out loud, but he was onto something. Wheels were turning, and he was either bouncing ideas off Hadrian to gauge their accuracy or educating him in the finer points of intrigue. Most of their lengthier conversations were along one of those lines. Hadrian rarely knew which was which and suspected Royce didn’t, either.

“So you think the driver was involved?”

“If he wasn’t, he’d have been found dead next to De Luda.”

“Maybe he was dragged off like the duchess.”

“Taking her is one thing, but there’d be no reason to go to the extra trouble for a no-account driver. If all the bodies were missing, you might have a point. But since De Luda was left behind, the killer or killers weren’t concerned about cleaning up after themselves. No, the driver isn’t dead.”