The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(49)

“Tell me you aren’t serious.”

Hadrian chuckled. “About the yellow polka dots? Of course not. You’d look ridiculous, and you might attract children, which would be a mistake on an epic level.”

“And the unicorn stuff?”

“You brought unicorns into this. I have no idea where that came from. It’s like you have a demented recipe book or something. Which if you do, please don’t tell me.”

“Are you two always like this?” The guard behind the desk had stopped his scribbling and was staring at them with an expression of utter bewilderment.

“He is,” they both said in unison.

“You’re hilarious.” The guard smiled. “I sure hope you’re not guilty. I’d hate to have to hang the two of you.”

“Good,” Hadrian said. “At least, we can agree on something.”

“Sounds like unicorn-believer talk to me.” The guard grinned. “Personally, I’m with dark-clothes guy. Living is anguish and then you die.”

“Wow, that’s uplifting,” Hadrian said. “You should start your own church.”

He shook his head. “Not the religious type.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“The problem with the world,” the guard went on, “is that too many people don’t see it like it is. They want it to be something it just isn’t. I think everything would be better if folks stopped believing in fantasies and dealt with the way things are. We might actually improve things then. I mean, there aren’t any unicorns, or fairies, and there certainly isn’t an Heir of Novron who’s going to appear and save us all. That’s just stupid.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Royce pointed at the guard. “I really hope you don’t try to hang me. I’d hate to have to kill you.”

The guard looked confused again, then, assuming Royce was making a joke, he laughed.

Royce laughed, too.

Hadrian didn’t, and this served to remind him he didn’t have his swords. They were by the door. He could see them, and that made him feel better because the truth was that Royce and the guard had a point. Sometimes things didn’t work out the way they should. They certainly hadn’t for that little girl in the alley.

The door to the guard post opened, and a familiar face entered.

“Blackwater?” Roland asked, puzzled. “My, aren’t you making the rounds.” He looked to the desk guard. “Drake, what are they doing here?”

“We picked them up in the alley where the mir was killed,” the soldier said with a salute. “The big one had those three swords, and the other looked, well . . . suspicious.”

“It’s the color of his clothes,” Hadrian offered. “Makes him look sinister.”

“You know them, sir?”

“Yes. This is Hadrian Blackwater, an old friend. Not the sort to murder children, believe me.” Roland turned his gaze on Royce but hesitated to add any clarification.

“Apparently, I need to wear polka dots,” Royce said.

“What were you two doing in Little Gur Em?”

“Having our midday meal,” Hadrian said. “I was introducing Royce here to Calian cuisine. We were at an outdoor café when we heard the shouts and went over to investigate.”

“Still the soldier, eh?” Roland chuckled. He turned to the guard. “Is that really all you have on them, Drake? They were there and looked suspicious?”

The guard nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Give them back their belongings, then.”

The guard moved to the door and gathered Hadrian’s swords.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Roland told them. He glanced down at the desk, pivoted the top page so he could read it. “Looks like we’ll have to add this one to the pile.”

“What’s that mean?” Hadrian asked, taking the spadone first and slinging it over his shoulder.

Roland, who didn’t appear to have had time to shave in a week, scrubbed his growing beard and sighed. “I told you about the murders we’ve been having. Mir tend to be the targets, and we can be thankful for that. If it had been the child of a citizen—a guild merchant or tradesman or, Novron forbid, a noble—I’d have the constable crawling all over me.”

“But because it was a mir, you’ll ignore it?” Royce asked.

“No, not ignore. There’s really nothing I can do in any case. But there would be more pressure.” Roland looked to the guard, who handed Hadrian’s other two swords over. “No witnesses, right?”

The soldier shook his head. “As usual, no one knows anything.”

“It’s always the same,” Roland said. “No one sees them. No one knows a thing. Then the next victim turns up in the river, or pit, or an alley—each one ripped open, heart missing.”

Roland checked on the contents of the pot near the fire and grunted when he found it empty.

“Don’t you think that’s a little odd?” Royce asked.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But no, not anymore. I may have mentioned that life is cheap down here on the east side. Even cheaper next door in the Rookery, which is where most of the killings have occurred.”