The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(68)
Evelyn took another sip, set her cup down, and reached for her pastry.
“And the color blue?” Hadrian asked.
Evelyn flipped her hand in nonchalant dismissal. “Blue wards off evil, of course. That’s why proper baby boys are always covered in it, to protect them from demons and evil spirits. Superstitious fools are willing to pay the exorbitant cost to protect their precious darlings.”
Hadrian considered this. “What about baby girls? Aren’t parents concerned about them, too?”
“It’s not a matter of concern. They don’t need protection. Evil spirits aren’t interested in them.” Evelyn made no attempt to hide her caustic sneer. “They’re females after all, entirely unimportant. No self-respecting demon would waste its time with a girl, so inexpensive pink is just fine.”
“Where are we headed today, my faithful hound?” Hadrian asked as Royce, having donned his cloak once more, darted off at a brisk pace up Mill Street, heading away from the river. Once again, Hadrian struggled to keep pace with his partner as he moved swiftly uphill.
While Hadrian maintained his belief that the two had been lucky the day before, there was no denying their efforts had yielded little progress in finding the duchess. They knew the whereabouts of an Estate-employed dwarf who might, or might not, have been the driver of the duchess’s coach. They also knew that the aforementioned dwarf was in nefarious contact with a Calian who was now dead, the victim, it seemed, of the five-hundred-year-old reincarnation of a betrayed emperor. Then there was the phantom who had tried to crush them with a rock, whom Royce had thought was dead, but wasn’t. This elusive mir had survived a high dive from the cathedral roof into the Roche River well enough to pay them a visit, but failed to leave his name or address.
“Back to dwarf-land?” Hadrian asked.
“No,” Royce replied. “Today we’re going to a funeral.”
“A funeral? Whose?”
“That’s what I hope to discover.” Royce stopped when they reached the first cross street. A brisk wind gusted down its length, blowing a tumbling basket past them. “Which way leads to this wonderland of Calian shopping you love so much?”
“It’s down near the harbor, in Little Gur Em, close to where we ate yesterday.”
Royce set off down the street, staying on the walk to avoid the wagon traffic. “I’m betting the Calian with the missing face had a family, and families have a tendency to bury members when they die. If we see a funeral—a procession, a gathering at a graveyard or home—odds will be good that we’ll have found the faceless man.”
Traffic increased as they headed south toward the bay, where the salty air mixed with the smell of fish. Men wheeled laden carts uphill and empty ones down toward the docks. Others carried hods, or toolboxes, or ladders. Several in the loose-fitting dress of sailors staggered out of doors, squinting at the sun as they dragged themselves back toward the ships. Others milled about in a daze with no clear purpose. They wandered without an evident destination, looking with child’s wonder at the buildings, shops, and carts. Hadrian realized that they acted much as he did, and in that instant, he understood that these were visitors to the city, there to witness the historic crowning of the new king.
Hadrian studied the streets and building shapes, trying to recall his trip from the night before. He looked for anything familiar, but it was significantly different in daylight. Recalling a neighborhood of dilapidated houses, he turned down a narrow street and found what he was looking for: an avalanche of busted crates, an open sewer grate, and a familiar clothesline stretching overhead. Clothes had been taken off the cord, and the ladder was missing, but the dollop of manure was still there, complete with the slide mark from his boot.
“Getting close,” Hadrian said. After a wrong turn, he doubled back and found the shabby wooden fence. With no one watching, they jumped it together. Back in the land of dented buckets, Hadrian found the intersection, verifying his memory by looking down the street and seeing the spires of the cathedral. The crossroads, so ominous the night before, was laughably mundane in the daylight. He turned his back on Grom Galimus and walked only a few steps before being rewarded with a stain of blood leading to an alley.
The bells of Grom Galimus were chiming as Royce bent down, studying the ruddy blemish. He scooped up some pebbles, chips, and shards of rock recently scattered. He sniffed them.
“What’s it smell like?” Hadrian asked.
“Gravel,” Royce replied.
“From the box,” Hadrian said. “I probably spilled some when checking it last night.”
Royce nodded and stood up. He looked around and sighed.
“Nothing?” Hadrian asked.
“Other than the fact the body is gone, I have nothing.”
After that, the two proceeded to imitate the rest of Rochelle’s visitors who wandered the maze of streets. Royce and Hadrian explored the back areas—those residential sections where chickens wandered free; where hanging rugs formed all the privacy available for roadside privies; where naked children played in puddles, and gatherings of mothers watched the two of them with suspicious interest. Royce made a methodic search, up one row then down the next, with an eye to the impoverished homes. They looked for crowds, for groups dressed in black, for weeping huddles of those who might be mourning the loss of a loved one.