The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(80)
Mercator grinned. “I’m older than I look, a lot older. That’s one of the things about mir. We live a long time. Not so much as elves, I suspect, but longer than humans. My mother lived to be four hundred and fifty. She could remember Glenmorgan and his Second Empire. Age gave her the wisdom to conclude that our long life was a gift turned into a curse by a world filled with ignorant hate and bad timing. My grandfather Sadarshakar Sikara was born in 2051 and lived for five hundred and sixty-seven years. Can you imagine that? He remembered the birth of Nevrik, the Heir of Novron, and the appointment of Venlin as the Archbishop of Percepliquis, and he witnessed the fall of that grand city. He was in Merredydd at the time, a province established for the myr who chose not to live with humans.”
She leaned in, placed a hand to the side of her face, and whispered, “Rumor has it the myr were a bunch of bigots.” She laughed as if it was a joke, but Royce couldn’t tell if it was ironic or just silly.
“If you’re the descendant of such an esteemed family, why do you look so . . .” Royce hesitated.
“Calian?” Mercator glanced at her hands and nodded as if she’d expected the question. “When Merredydd fell to barbarians, Sadarshakar brought his family here to what was then called Alburnia. Few survived, and Sadarshakar took a Calian woman as his wife. The situation didn’t improve, and my mother married a Calian man.” Mercator drew back the shawl off her head and pulled on her nappy hair. “Which makes me arguably more Calian than mir. A highly respected combination, I must say.” She laughed again, managing to find humor in every tragedy.
Royce could understand that, at least.
“Fact is,” she said, “I learned history from someone I trust . . . my grandfather, who witnessed the events firsthand. That’s how I know. Tell me … Royce, is it? How do you know about the history of your people?”
“I actually don’t care,” Royce said. “All of this clearly means a good deal to you, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. Doesn’t matter whether your version is true or not. I’m here to do a job, not debate ancient history. Now, if you want to talk about something, I’d love to hear where the duchess is.”
Mercator shook her head. “Sorry. She’s the only good card I still hold. But she’s safe and unharmed, as this letter attests. I’d like to keep it that way. I’ve grown to like her. She’s . . . different.”
“It was worth asking,” Royce said. He gazed out at the plaza once more, trying to decide if he was pleased or irritated with the number of celebrating people. They complicated everything, which was both good and bad. “We probably—” Royce saw movement where there shouldn’t have been any.
The plaza was still a swirl of activity—dancers spun, acrobats tumbled, jugglers tossed, spectators clapped, and children ran—but overhead, nothing should have moved. Too dark for a bird. Too big for a bat. Royce looked up at the front of Grom Galimus. The great doors were huge but dwarfed by the massive bell towers on either side. Above those doors stood a row of sculpted figures of robed men. Then came the oculus of the great rose window. Next, a colonnade of pillars and arches, and above that, and still only halfway up, was a pediment upon which perched a series of gargoyles.
“What’s wrong?” Mercator asked, craning her neck, trying to see what he saw.
“Thought something mov—”
They both spotted it then. The third gargoyle from the left flexed its wings.
“I’m not from here,” Royce said. “Is that normal?”
“Of course not. It’s—oh no!”
The gargoyle’s head turned. Like so many others, this figure was monkey-like with powerful hunched shoulders, the wings and face of a bat, and saber-like fangs. As it looked down at them, Royce noticed that the eyes had been sculpted to look decidedly evil, but he guessed that was how he’d have seen them, regardless of what the artist had carved—because the gargoyle looked right at him.
Royce expected it to shove off the side of the cathedral, spread its wings and dive. Instead, the beast began to climb down the front of the church, moving awkwardly at first but gaining balance and skill as it descended, until it moved with monkey speed, leaping from pediment to column.
“Run!” Mercator shouted at Royce.
“Why did you kill Nym?” Griswold Dinge asked Hadrian. The dwarf sat across from him in the little room.
With Nym dead, Selie preparing for his funeral, Villar gone, and Mercator off to meet with the duke, the dwarf—the last of the civic leaders—had apparently pulled guard duty. Hadrian was glad Erasmus Nym’s widow wasn’t there, as he was certain Seton’s story didn’t absolve him of that accusation. If anything, it cast more doubt, and he’d preferred to deal with an angry dwarf rather than a grieving widow.
“He didn’t kill Erasmus,” Seton affirmed faithfully.
The three sat cozy and close in the stone cellar, which was littered with rat droppings. Griswold had bound Hadrian’s hands behind his back. As an added precaution, he held a naked dagger. His manner wasn’t overtly threatening, but the menace was there.
“She’s right. I didn’t kill the Calian.” Hadrian smiled, but his charm had no effect on the dwarf.
“Oh yes, even though you were right on his heels during your pursuit, someone else came out of nowhere and took his life. Do you expect me to believe that?”