The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(5)
“We have mir in Colnora, too, Devon. The boy’s heritage doesn’t change a thing. He’s still a destitute, starving child. It’s as simple as that.”
“Simple, you say?” Devon struggled to keep as civil a tongue as the baker had. He would have preferred to point out that it was she who was being a simpleton, but that would be going too far. The duchess often rubbed his fur the wrong way, and as a result, he usually said too much. Fortunately, he’d gotten away with comments that most people in her position would find disrespectful. With anyone else, he might have lost his tongue by now, and it was not without a sense of irony that Devon realized the same attitude which had saved the mir child had worked in his favor as well. “You haven’t been with us very long, Your Ladyship. You don’t understand Rochelle. How things work, I mean. This isn’t Colnora. Nothing is simple here. We have the problems of any major city, but we’re packed closely together, and this is home to four separate and distinct races.”
“The Calians aren’t another race, just another nationality.”
“Regardless, Rochelle is unique in its collision of diversity, and added to that are the rigid trappings and traditions of a bygone era. This city is resentful of changes that have occurred over the centuries. We are a lake with layers of sediment. At the bottom are the mir, and they’re down there for a reason.”
“You disapprove of my intervention on behalf of that child?”
“That mir.”
She frowned. “I guess you don’t think I should have added the pork and cheese, either? Would you have preferred that I send him on his way with a pat and a wave? Better yet, I should have just let him be mutilated, yes? You believe that because the mir are unattractive and unsophisticated . . . because they don’t fit in . . . that they should be shunned? Is that it?”
The duchess wasn’t speaking about the child anymore, and Devon wasn’t about to step into her trap. “I think you should have just bought that horrible vest and given it to your husband.”
The duchess folded her arms across her massive bosom and let out a humph. “Why? Why was saving a child so wrong?”
Devon shook his head. “Mir aren’t like us, my lady, and neither are the dwarves or Calians. They’re creations of different gods, lesser gods, and it’s wrong to grant them the same privileges enjoyed by the blessed of Maribor and his son Novron.”
“You’re wrong; they are the future of this city!” she declared with conviction. “If golden wheat grew wild on your farm, you’d cultivate it in the hope of profiting from a natural crop. That’s just common sense. When one is desperate as we are, one must leverage every asset . . . not merely the pretty ones.” She scowled so that her lips appeared squeezed by full cheeks. “So, I’m guessing you also don’t approve of what I just told the merchant guild. A little late to make your opinion known, Devon. Care to weigh in on my marriage to Leo? It’s only been three months; perhaps you will change his mind, and he’ll ask the bishop for an annulment.”
De Luda sighed and rubbed his temples. “I’m simply trying to point out that you are inexperienced and na?ve.”
“Inexperienced? Na?ve?” The duchess let out a deep chuckle. “I’ve hammered out deals on a pirate ship in a storm while downing shots of Black Dog. Back in Colnora, I have a neighbor who is one of the most renowned thieves in the world, a man rumored to toss rivals off Amber Falls during summer barbecues. But he’s also an excellent customer, and the people he invites to dine aren’t innocent, so I overlook his transgressions. As for na?ve, do I look like a rosy-cheeked debutante?” She waited, but he said nothing. “Of course not. I’m a heifer too old to milk and too tough to butcher. Do you think I got where I am by being blind? I’m not pretty, nor polished, definitely not quality stock as people tend to say. I’m the Whiskey Wench. That’s what the soldier called me, isn’t it? That’s what everyone says, right? I know what they think. I’m not oblivious to the whispers about why Leo chose me. Well, I’ve heard worse, believe me. I’m a woman. We always hear worse. The starched-shirt-and-tight-hosed dandies around here are dandelion tufts next to what I’m used to dealing with.”
Devon took a deep breath, then another. “I merely meant that you are too na?ve about the ways of Alburn, and Rochelle in particular. Ours is a complex and dangerous city. Your Colnora is a free and open municipality where merchants flaunt their independence. Rochelle is old, congested, and choked by tradition and bureaucracy. This city is filled with hidden places and dark secrets. Too many secrets, and it’s unforgiving of mistakes. We still believe in the traditional ways and in ancient-world monsters. I assume from your interest in the blue vest that you’ve heard about our murdering ghost.”
“My hometown has its fair share of bogeymen, as well, Devon. I’ve personally lived a whole summer in a city terrorized by gruesome murders that took low-and highborn alike.”
“The murderer was a man?”
“What else?”
Devon nodded. “In many places, paying heed to superstition is merely a habit. For instance, in Colnora, when someone tosses salt over their shoulder after an accidental spill, they don’t actually expect to fend off a demon creeping up behind them.”
“Are you trying to tell me that Rochelle has literal demons stalking people?” She raised her eyebrows and displayed a lopsided smile. “Do they have fangs and bat wings? Do they spit fire?”