The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(65)

“At least I made an impression.”

“You did,” Mercator said. “So why hasn’t the duke agreed? Why hasn’t he demanded the guilds alter their charters? Doesn’t he care about his people? Doesn’t he care about you?”

Genny didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She honestly didn’t know, and not knowing hurt so badly the tears came again. She cupped her face, trying to muffle any sounds, pushing them inward so that her body jerked with the agony.

“I’m sorry,” Mercator said. “That was an insensitive thing to say.”

A key turned in the lock, and the door to the cell opened. Normally, Mercator set her meals carefully, never coming close. This time she took a step into the room and handed her a bit of bread. “Eat it. Don’t eat it. I don’t care.” She left, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

“Thank you,” Genny said.

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

Genny bit into the bread. This was the first real food she’d had in days. “Thank you just the same,” Genny muttered softly.

“I can still hear you!”

“Sorry.”

Mercator groaned.





Mercator looked up. The cloth drape that hung over the arched entrance in lieu of a door drew back. Villar had come to bother her again.

He was soaked and paused just inside to shake the water out of his hair. Slipping off his cloak, he snapped it twice to shake the wet off.

“Is she still alive?” he asked, looking at the closed door to the little chamber. This had become something of a ritual, being the first thing he said each time he entered.

Every church needs its rituals, Mercator thought.

“Yes,” the duchess responded. “I’m still alive. And how goes your search for proof that you aren’t the accidental love child of a whorish werebat and a horse’s ass?”

This made Mercator chuckle. She put a blue hand to her face, trying to hide it.

Just as Villar always asked the same question, their captive always replied with a new retort—some of her responses quite creative. The woman had a surprisingly inventive mind.

Villar glared at Mercator. Then his sight shifted to the fresh dye on her arms, and his expression of disgust deepened. Mercator hated herself for it, but she pulled her sleeves down just the same. “Is it raining again?”

“No,” Villar said, throwing his soaked cloak on the only stool in the room.

Mercator looked at him, puzzled, but he refused to explain.

“The feast is in two days, and the duke hasn’t taken any action or uttered a public word concerning the demands. He’s not going to concede. Humans don’t care about anything except keeping others down so their position at the top is maintained.”

Mercator toggled a finger between them. “We’re both at least half human.”

“Our lesser half, certainly. And you’re—” He stopped himself and stared at her. An awkward moment lingered.

Mercator did nothing to help. She didn’t say a word and stared right back, daring him to say more. Villar was less a book to be read and more a clear window one hoped the owner would drape out of common decency.

He turned aside. “The point is, compromise doesn’t work. You can’t say I haven’t tried to be reasonable. I’ve given them a chance to avoid blood. But time has run out, and now we have to do things my way.”

“You can’t.”

“We have to.”

“You’re suggesting suicide, and not just for those of us in Rochelle, but for all of Alburn, all of Avryn maybe. Even if we succeed, the backlash will be a generational tidal wave of hate and persecution.”

“Are we not persecuted now? We’re already drowning. What difference is a wave to those trapped at the bottom of the sea?”

She pointed at the duchess’s door. “She agrees that things need to change. Maybe if we let her go, she could talk to—”

“She’s lying, saying what she knows you want to hear.” Villar threw up his hands. “You’re so stupid! Do you hear yourself? Let her go? We kidnapped her, held her for weeks in a filthy cell. Do you honestly think that once she is safely back within the Estate’s walls she’ll lift a pinkie finger to help us? And don’t forget, a man has died. Do you think they grant pardons for murdering the ducal cofferer?”

“You should never have killed him.”

“She will point us out and cry for revenge.”

“She’s not like that.”

“Maybe it isn’t stupidity, maybe you’re so indoctrinated into accepting their views that you’ve forgotten who you are. Ours was once a proud and respected people, and we can be that again. I’ve called for a meeting tomorrow, and I expect you to attend . . . and support my plan. You’re the head of the Sikara family. Your great-great-grandfather was Mir Sikar and mine, Mir Plymerath. It’s time that those who currently rule accept the truth about this region’s past and give us the respect we deserve.”

“Things will change, but not all at once,” Mercator said. “You can’t obtain respect at the point of a sword, not from people who despise us. Respect needs to be earned. Trust needs to be built up over time, over generations.”