The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(70)
Royce clapped Hadrian on the arm, and with a slight tilt of his head, he indicated a small figure near the fire. With the dwarf’s hood pulled back, Hadrian recognized Griswold, who stood on a wooden crate alongside a taller figure. That person wore his hood up, his face hidden.
“Seventeen days,” the hooded one next to Griswold said loudly. He turned halfway around and then repeated it. “Seventeen days ago your leaders embarked on an ambitious plan on your behalf. The disappearance of the Duchess of Rochelle was our doing. We took her to apply pressure on the duke, to get him to grant rights for those who have none. Our demands were reasonable, easily granted, and completely ignored. For seventeen days we sought a peaceful solution, but tomorrow is the Spring Feast, and we can’t wait any longer.”
Even the low murmuring stopped. The interior of the ruined building grew silent.
“We all wanted a peaceful solution, but injustice cannot be defeated by good intentions. Prejudice cannot be reasoned with. It cannot be beaten back without a cost. We must rise. Blood! That’s what it takes. Blood must be spilled. The noble houses wear blue, but they should fear red. The crimson of their own lives. We need to show them we will no longer silently withstand their degradations. Seeing the color splattered on the walls, on the cobblestones, and on their pretty blue jackets will get their attention.”
“Oh, it will certainly do that!” a mir said. Dressed in a deep-blue kirtle, the woman had equally dark skin, her hair nappy as any East Calian. She walked up to stand next to Griswold and the hooded speaker. A full head shorter than the one she interrupted, she was small and slight, but she stood tall, chin-high, eyes bright. “It will also terrify them. And not just the aristocracy of Rochelle, or even the three great houses of Alburn. I’ve already spoken to Villar about the folly of his proposal. If you listen to him, if you take up arms, you’ll be declaring war and gain the very fervent attention of both the nobility and the church. And I’m talking about not just here, but all across Avryn. Not one of those kings, dukes, earls, or marquises will abide such a filthy house. They’ll scrub the streets clean and use gallons of our blood for the washing. For every drop of theirs we draw, they’ll demand a barrel of ours.”
“Mercator Sikara, everyone,” the tall one said, holding his hands out and introducing her to the crowd, but his tone wasn’t inviting or welcoming. Hadrian suspected everyone already knew who she was. Villar shook his head. “What would your grandfather think of you? Of your fears? Of your willingness to abase yourself. Would he approve of you offering your people the illusion of safety through complacency? I don’t deny that sacrifices will be made, but anything worth having comes at a price. We have had our heritage stolen from us. All of us.” He pointed at Griswold. “Once proud Belgriclungreians have been shuttered into ghettos, locked in on festival nights, and forced to lock themselves in during their own celebration days to avoid being victims of violence. Calians, once the noble merchant-citizens of the imperial province of Calynia, whose city of Urlineus was the last to surrender its imperial banner, are now forced to beg for the right to buy and sell on the streets of a city that considers itself the last echo of the imperium. A city that should welcome them the most! And the mir . . .” He paused, shaking his head.
He took a breath as if it was far too much to go on, but somehow he managed to continue. “Mir . . . that was once a term of respect, a title of an honorable heritage. Those of us who can trace our lineage back to the imperial province of Merredydd know that we were once proud and admired members of the Novronian Empire. Mir Sikar sat on the Imperial Council beside Mir Plymerath, both of whom personally knew, and fought beside, the living Novron. But now . . . now . . .” He faltered and gestured up at the walls around them. “Now we barely exist, denied even the right to dwell in a house, the freedom to conduct a business of any kind, and the dignity to provide for ourselves and our loved ones.”
“That voice is familiar,” Royce whispered.
“The one in the hood?”
Royce nodded.
“Living in the past is no way to create a future,” Mercator said.
“It’s from the past that we find our future,” Villar declared.
“I wish he’d lift his head high enough so I could see his face,” Royce said, peering up.
Hadrian was acutely aware that all the people in attendance, other than the two of them, were dark-skinned Calians, short dwarves, and easily identified mir. Anyone getting a good look under either of their hoods would know they didn’t belong. Given that they had stumbled into something akin to a pre-revolution rally, Hadrian preferred not to be noticed. Spies were always given the same reward, whether it was handed out by kings or insurgents, and three swords wouldn’t be enough to fight off hundreds of furious people.
“You’re asking us to commit suicide.” Mercator threw up her hands, her voice growing shrill in frustration.
“I’m asking for us to stand up for ourselves, to be brave,” Villar countered. “We outnumber our oppressors. We can defeat them. We can take control and make our own rules.”
“Our numbers are greater only in Rochelle,” Mercator argued. “Outside this city are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people who would like nothing better than to see every one of us dead, and they’ll respond to this attack. Well-equipped and well-trained armies will have no qualms about putting down our little insurrection. And do you think it will stop there? No! The aristocracy of every kingdom will purge their homes of the unwanted. Today we are seen as merely a nuisance, but after tomorrow we’ll be a threat. If you do this, you doom not just ourselves, but every mir, Belgriclungreian, and Calian across the face of Elan. You’ll launch a universal war that we have no hope of surviving, much less winning.”