The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(41)

“What do you mean?”

“A mir isn’t allowed to speak to a citizen of the city. Doing so will result in a beating. Technically, I can’t even look you in the eye. That, too, is forbidden, although rarely enforced. We can’t take water from wells or fountains, can’t fish or hunt for food. We can’t beg. Renting property is prohibited; so is sleeping on the streets or in alleys. We are banned from the bathhouses and denied the ability to clean ourselves in the river or bay. We mustn’t start fires to warm ourselves, have to speak in whispers so as to not disturb the better folk, and are forbidden to teach our children to read, write, or learn numbers.”

“How do you live?”

“That’s just it, we aren’t supposed to.”

“What did you ask of my husband? What did you demand.”

“We begged for the privilege to work, to buy and sell, and to rent land the same as anyone else. We asked to be made citizens of the city and be granted the same privileges, opportunities, and security granted to everyone else.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. Your husband could fix everything with a signature, but when it comes to granting even basic dignity to the Pitifuls, even the life of his new wife isn’t enough to make him do what is right.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Neither can I, but here we are.”





Mercator hated crying. Knowing the duchess was peering out, seeing her moment of weakness, made it worse. At this point, all she had was her dignity, and the duchess was stripping away even that.

“You know you’re being foolish,” the duchess said. “Kidnapping me was about as stupid a thing as a person could do.”

“So is calling me stupid if you ever want to eat again.”

“You don’t understand. I was trying to help you.”

“By calling me stupid?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Silly and stupid, I guess you really don’t like food, do you?” Mercator picked up a rag and wiped her face.

“You misunderstand. Let me explain. The night you abducted me, do you know what I was doing? Where I was coming from?”

“I heard you were on a shopping spree. Checking out a blue vest to give to your husband.”

“That was a momentary stop on my way back from a meeting with the Merchants’ Guild.”

“Merchants’ Guild?” Mercator stared at the closed door. She couldn’t see the duchess but guessed the woman was peering through the slats the way Mercator often did when trying to tell if the duchess was asleep. “What business does a duchess have with the guild? Are they not importing the fashions you desire?”

“I was trying to persuade them to grant membership to the Calians.”

Mercator let out an absurd laugh. “Why would you do that? Because you anticipated being kidnapped and thought it might be a good way to—”

“Because this city is a financial mess!” the duchess burst out with enough indignation to overpower the bells of Grom Galimus.

She sounded so sincere that Mercator forgot her sarcasm. She forgot her indifference as well, her shield against sympathy. Instead, she listened.

“An absolute disaster and I’m just the woman to fix it. I wasn’t always a duchess, you understand. Before coming here, I was a merchant. I helped run one of the most profitable businesses in the most successful mercantile city in the world. I may not know why the sun circles Elan, but I know how to make money. When you look like I do, it’s a necessity. Believe me when I say I love Leo, but the man knows nothing about finances. I asked to see his books and he showed me his library of poetry! Ha! Can you believe it? This city possesses tremendous untapped potential. Most people don’t see the downtrodden as valuable, but then they don’t think much of me, either, and I helped turn an illegal moonshine operation into a respected distillery. Other people’s ignorance is always a moneymaker, remember that.”

Mercator wasn’t certain she’d be capable of accurately remembering any of the duchess’s ramblings but didn’t doubt the truth of what she said.

“We are a port city with unique access to the exotic eastern trade routes, but we refuse to embrace our best resources. Instead, we force them to deal illegally, which not only denies the duchy tax on their profits, but it also lowers the income of legitimate businesses, depriving us of even more income.”

Genny’s blood was obviously up; Mercator could hear her walking back and forth in her little cell. “The situation is even more dire with the dwarves. Their neighborhood of Littleton should be a gold mine for this city. Raw goods arriving from Calis and Galeannon should be shaped into works of art by their hands. The results would be triple the profit when those finished goods are exported. With its wealth of natural talent and geographic position, Rochelle should be the crown jewel of the east, the powerhouse producer of Alburn. Instead, we flounder in debt.”

She paused, perhaps to catch her breath, then went on, “This is why I screamed at all those pasty-faced shopkeepers who were too locked in their traditions and too blinded by intolerance and idiocy to see that they would stand to double their profit as well. A rising sea lifts all boats. I demanded they grant acceptance to all Calians interested in doing business in our city, or I would triple their taxes—for the good of the people, you understand.”