The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(47)
Without a word, a barefoot man in a long, unadorned tunic delivered a communal bowl of rice and vegetables, which was accompanied by a plate of piled flatbread and dark tea. The food was so hot it steamed. Hadrian knew the dish as fried kenase. Royce sniffed it dubiously then waited until Hadrian took a bite before joining in.
“How come you didn’t ask me about Mandalin?”
“You mean all that stuff the guy said about the queen and a tiger and arena fights?”
“Yeah.”
“The truth?” Royce asked.
“Sure.”
“Not interested.”
“Really?” Hadrian set down his tea, surprised. “A man tells you this fantastic story about bloody battles and a notorious queen of Calis, and you aren’t even mildly curious?”
“If our pasts aren’t our present, there’s likely a reason.”
“So you won’t ask me, and I shouldn’t ask you?”
“Something like that. Besides, I’m sure in a contest of bygone horrors, I’ve got you beat.”
Hadrian peered across the lip of his steaming cup. “You think so?”
“You don’t?” Royce appeared genuinely surprised. “A whole city still has nightmares about me.”
Hadrian nodded, then hooked a thumb back in the direction of the merchant. “You weren’t paying attention. An entire country knows about my murderous past.”
“Maybe. But they like you. No one is making carvings of me.”
“In Calis, they also craft the likenesses of Death and Pestilence. They’re an odd people.”
“He didn’t talk about you like you were a scourge.”
“Because all he knows is the myth. Have you ever wondered how a soldier of fortune could be so . . .” Hadrian paused to take a sip of his tea.
“Na?ve?” Royce offered.
Hadrian swallowed. “I was going to say optimistic.”
“Really? I suppose it could be described like that. Yeah, I’ve puzzled over that one for some time. Most mercenaries are a bit more—”
“Jaded and cynical?” Hadrian offered.
“I was going to say realistic and practical.”
“Really? I suppose it could be described like that. But what you might not be considering is that maybe I’m on the return trip.”
“Huh?”
“Do you have nightmares of people you killed?”
“No.”
“There you go.”
“There I go, what?”
Hadrian took the clay pot left on their table and poured tea into his cup until it overflowed. “Every cup is different, but each can only hold so much. Eventually you either stop pouring or make an awful mess. Make a big enough mess and you have to clean up; you have to change.” Hadrian looked at the pool of tea dripping through the slats of the wobbly table. “I made a really big mess, and it wasn’t tea I spilled.”
They were both looking at the puddle of tea when the screaming started.
Chapter Twelve
Unicorns and Polka Dots
Up the street where an alley divided a makeshift livestock shelter from an old stone building, a crowd began to form.
The animal pen was nothing more than rope strung between driven stakes hemming in a score of sheep. Out front, alongside a hastily assembled stage, was a hand-painted sign that read: SUNSET AUCTION. With its white marble blocks and pillars, the three-story stone building opposite the alley gave the impression of having once been a place of importance—a counting house or a court. Now the upper windows were laden with drying clothes, and the balconies brimmed with spinning wheels, jugs, baskets, and pots. A number of families roosted in the vacuum of cracked-marble neglect. Most of them had rushed to balconies and peered down; several pointed at the alley below.
Hadrian swallowed the last of his kenase and stood up. His height allowed him to see over the crowd but granted him no further insight.
“What’s going on?” Royce asked, not bothering to stand.
“Dunno. Something happening in the alley.”
“Nothing good, by the sound of it.”
The screams had stopped but were replaced by a chorus of wailing.
“Where are you going?” Royce asked as Hadrian pushed forward.
“To see what happened.”
“Whatever it is, they have plenty of people to deal with it. And screams and cries are never portents of good fortune. I’d stay away.”
“Of course you would.”
What ability Hadrian lacked in deftly dodging his way through a shifting populace, he more than made up for in cutting through a dense crowd. People moved clear for a man of his size. Those who didn’t, he could move. Any resistance to a gentle push was instantly stifled when they spotted his swords. The city’s residents didn’t carry steel. Most couldn’t afford it, and few had the need. Farmers, merchants, and tradesmen rarely faced violence beyond the occasional drunken fistfight. Theirs was a life of endless repetition, where if they stayed in their place and hoed their given row, nothing of great note ever happened. Men of steel were different. A man with a trowel and hod sought to lay bricks; a man with a sword sought to lay men low; a man with three swords—you quickly avoided. It was in this manner that Hadrian worked his way forward until he was at the mouth of the alley. That was where the crowd stopped. While everyone was eager to see what the noise was about, few cared to get close. Content to view from a distance, the mob hung back, leaving a corridor open.