The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(77)
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell him what we talked about; ask him to do what is right; and mention something that only you two share, so he’ll know the message came from you.”
“Wait. What? Leo doesn’t know I’m alive?”
“There’s a rumor to that effect.”
“A rumor? You don’t know? Why don’t you know? By Mar, are you serious?”
Mercator opened the door and set the parchment and quill before Genny. “We think the duke never received our first note and that’s why he hasn’t done anything. But if you can convince him . . .”
If that’s true . . . does that mean . . . could Leo love me after all?
Genny’s heart leapt as she took the paper and quill. Then she hesitated.
No . . . she thought. It doesn’t explain everything else: him keeping his distance, our separate beds, his failure to defend me.
“Leo doesn’t love me,” she told Mercator, an admission that brought tears. “He married me so he could be king. This won’t change anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
Genny bowed her head and sniffled. “Yes, I do. I pretended he cared, but it’s not true.” She set the quill down and wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Mercator sat down opposite her. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he doesn’t love you, and only married you to better his chance for the crown. Makes sense. But he still needs you if he’s to become king. And if he’s crowned, then you’ll be a queen.”
“I don’t care about that. Never have.”
“You should.”
“Why? Why should I care? If he doesn’t love me, if this has all been a charade, if all he wanted was a crown—”
“It could save your life.”
“I’m not sure I want it saved. If the only person who ever said they loved me, doesn’t . . . I’m not sure life is worth living.”
Mercator’s tone lowered, her eyes growing stern, nearly angry. “It’s not just your life at stake.” She changed from hectic jailor to disapproving teacher scolding a petulant student. “If the duke doesn’t agree to reforms, there will be an uprising followed by a retaliation. Hundreds will die, maybe thousands.” Mercator picked up the quill. “I don’t care if the duke doesn’t love you, and right now you shouldn’t, either. You have the power to save lives. Your Ladyship, isn’t that worth pretending he loves you for at least one more day?”
Genny looked down at the parchment and sniffled. “As pathetic as it sounds, you’re the closest thing I have to a friend in this city. Call me Genny.” She sniffled again and reached out and took the quill. “I need ink.”
“I don’t have ink.” Mercator said, then smiled and looked at her arms and hands. “But, Genny, I think I can manage something.”
Chapter Twenty
Jiggery-Pokery
Royce waited in the shadows between two stone giants, torturing himself.
Standing in the dark, narrow street dividing the imposing Imperial Gallery from the immense Grom Galimus, he watched people carrying lanterns and moving through the sprawling riverfront plaza, celebrating a festival of rebirth. The populace danced and sang in joyous abandon as they said goodbye to winter the way a squirrel waved farewell to a frustrated dog thwarted by high branches. They wore bright colors and waved streamers of green, blue, and yellow. Giddy as children, they were oblivious to the dangers around them. They were prey. He’d grown up in a city like this: old, dark, and decrepit. Royce was a panther in the grass, gazing out at a watering hole after a drought, but he wasn’t there to hunt. He was waiting for Mercator.
As unpleasant as it was to ignore the temptation to act when the revelers were such ripe pickings, they weren’t the source of Royce’s agony. What needled him was the way the stakes of their job had risen while the payout hadn’t. What Royce suffered was the contradiction that was Hadrian Blackwater.
While he hoped that his friend survived the night, he also felt, in a purely theoretical way, that Hadrian deserved to die. The fool had willingly surrendered to a mob of revolutionaries. A group that believed he had killed one of their own. That was stupidity taken to an art form, like giving up higher ground or leaving an enemy alive. And yet, this was only a symptom of a larger, more perplexing issue, that irritated Royce like an infected splinter. He couldn’t ignore that their lives had been saved by a random act of kindness that Hadrian had once shown to a total stranger.
From Royce’s perspective, the best insurance for a long life was murder. Potential threats—even remote or indirect—had to be eliminated. Not broken, not reduced, but burned out of existence. Royce left no hatred to smolder, never granted revenge the potential to return to roost. He wouldn’t have violated the blond mir, either—the very idea was repugnant—but given the circumstances, he imagined he would have seen her dead. When you’re part of a force that wipes out an entire town, you don’t leave anyone alive. Not even a young girl.
Back in his Black Diamond days, when Royce was a member of the infamous thieves’ guild, he had been one of three assassins the BD employed. The other two were his best friend, Merrick, and Jade, Merrick’s lover. Jade had been a young girl, too, and just as sweet as Seton, but she had become one of the most feared assassins in the known world. Not despite her gender, but because she was female. Men always underestimated her.