The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Go! Go! Go!” Hadrian shouted.

  Royce clawed up Hadrian’s body, and caught the edge of the steps. Then reaching back, he pulled Hadrian to the stairs. The two scrambled onto the bottom step and collapsed, panting in the dark, listening to the rush of water. A loud clank echoed as Hadrian set the big spadone blade down on the stone. Unable to lie down, Hadrian pushed his back against the wall and stretched out his legs along the step’s length. His head was back, and he groaned while laboring to breathe. Royce crouched, head between his knees, spitting sewer swill from his mouth and swiping his hair back.

  “That was refreshing,” Hadrian said between breaths. His voice quavered.

  A faint light spilled down from an opening at the top of the stairs, providing just enough illumination for Royce to see his partner’s face. Hadrian’s breath was misting, his body shaking. The night had always been cold, but walking in the rain had been one thing; being soaked to the bone was another. No wind at least, but that would change the moment they went topside. Royce gritted his teeth in anticipation.

  “What just happened?” Hadrian asked. “I’d like to believe a horse was accidentally spooked and ran in our direction.”

  “Down an otherwise deserted street?” Royce said, sounding skeptical. “A street that lacks windows and doors?”

  “I said I’d like to believe that.”

  Together they pushed to their feet and climbed up a few steps, where they paused to wring out the worst of the wet.

  “Someone just tried to kill us, didn’t they?” Hadrian asked.

  “Sure seems like it.”

  Hadrian returned the spadone to its place on his back. “But we just got here.”

  “I know. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Royce squeezed his cloak, letting the water drizzle down the steps. “You might be right. I think we got ourselves into something bigger than a simple case of a man killing his wife for her money.”

  “But why would anyone—I mean, how could anyone even know what we’re doing here? Or do you think they treat all visitors this way. Hey, welcome to town. Here, have a scalding-hot mouthful of lamb, some incredibly weak beer, and don’t forget your free runaway cart!”

  “We asked about the duchess.”

  “We asked about . . . wait . . . are you serious? This is because of that?”

  Royce nodded. He looked up at the damp, dripping walls of the sewer. “This city reminds me a lot of Ratibor—a lot more crowded, far more embellished, and no brothels, but it harbors the same mentality. Bald dockworker and company didn’t run away from us, they ran to someone, maybe several someones.”

  “But why did those someones try to kill us? All we did was—”

  “I’m guessing they don’t want people inquiring about the duchess.”

  “Because she’s dead?” Hadrian asked. “Or because she’s alive?”

  Royce pondered this and realized he didn’t have the slightest clue. After nearly an entire night in the city, he had more questions than when he’d arrived.

  Chapter Seven

  Breakfast

  Royce and Hadrian were on time for breakfast.

  Evelyn Hemsworth presided at a table covered in three cloths—blue upon yellow, with pristine white on top—and on this lay a vast collection of tableware. Porcelain creamers, cups, plates, and spice towers had been placed with such precision that Hadrian wondered if the woman had used plumb lines and T-squares. Crystal glasses lorded over the silver forks and knives, which guarded napkin-covered plates. Great silver serving trays with ornate lids were set with equal precision in a circle around a two-foot silver sculpture of a palm tree, at the base of which three men in turbans and Calian garb stood holding candelabras. While no food was visible, the entire house smelled of fresh pastries and sizzling bacon.

  At the head of the table, Evelyn sat. She looked exactly as she had the night before: hair in a bun, formal dress, high tight collar that made Hadrian swallow in sympathy. She stared at the two of them with large piercing eyes and judgmental brows, her lips drawn up like a tight purse.

  Royce looked at Hadrian, who stared back, both unsure what to do next: sit, offer a morning greeting, or ask permission to join her?

  “Good morning,” Hadrian ventured as lightheartedly as he could.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Hadrian glanced at the window. The morning sun had only just pierced the glass, replacing the illumination of the diminishing fire and making the crystal stemware sparkle in rainbow hues. “You said dawn.”

  “I did. Dawn was eight minutes ago.”

  “But the sun—”

  “The sun doesn’t reach this house until eight minutes after dawn because Lardner’s Cabinet and Wardrobe Shop, on the hill at the intersection of Cross and Howell, is a full four stories tall and traps my home in shadow.”

  Hadrian opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing to say.

  “Sit,” she ordered.

  They both complied. Hadrian sat in the middle. Royce took the seat farthest away.

  “It smells wonderful,” Hadrian said, reaching out to peek under the silver lid directly before him.

  “Tut, tut!” Evelyn said, and clapped her hands sharply, stopping him. “What’s wrong with you people?” She glared accusingly.

  Once more Hadrian glanced at Royce, mystified. The truth was he could answer that question a dozen different ways.

  “Have you no sense of propriety? No piety?”

  Hadrian still hadn’t a clue what she was getting at, and apparently it showed. She frowned his way.

  “We need to give thanks to Our Lord, Novron, for this meal.”

  “Oh,” Hadrian replied.

  “Oh?” Evelyn intensified the disappointment in her eyes. “What sort of comment is that?”

  Fearful of another verbal blunder, Hadrian shrugged.

  “Now he’s acting like a monkey,” she said to Royce, as if he would understand and agree. Royce sat rigidly, staring back. Hadrian imagined he was entertaining himself ticking through all the ways he planned to kill her, mentally trying each out.

  Evelyn turned to Hadrian, waiting. A long minute passed, and her brows rose with the passage of time. “Well?”

  “Well what?” Hadrian asked.

  Evelyn looked dumbfounded. “Are you telling me that you . . . am I correct in my assumption that you’ve never offered thanks to Novron for your good fortune? How is that possible? Were the two of you hatched in a cave somewhere such that you don’t understand the basic concepts of civilization and devotion to our god?”

  Hadrian looked to Royce for help, and he wasn’t surprised to see his partner lifting his hood.

  “We do not wear hoods at the table.” Evelyn’s words were so firm that the declaration came out as an indisputable fact.

  Royce froze like a raccoon caught in a trash bin.

  “Honestly, the two of you . . . it’s like living with animals.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hadrian said. “We’re not from around here.”

  “Obviously. The two of you live in a forest, most likely in some worm-filled burrow.”

  “If it’ll get us closer to eating, we’re all for whatever thanks giving you have planned. Right?” Hadrian looked at Royce, who remained stationary with his hood partway up, watching Evelyn with a menacing fixation.

  “Fine.” Evelyn sighed with abundant disappointment. Then she bowed her head. “We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food before us. May we prove worthy of your kindness.” She lifted her head and looked at Hadrian.

  “Am I supposed to say that now, too?”

  Evelyn gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Just—just eat. Please.”

  Lifting the lids, they found a steaming feast of eggs, pork, cheese, whitefish, shellfish, honey, almonds, pastries, and whey. For a moment, Hadrian was overwhelmed. “Did . . . did you prepare this all yourself?”

  “Of course not. Didn’t you see the army of fairy-cooks that filed out while you were insulting Our Lord? I parti
cularly like their tiny aprons, don’t you?”

  “I—” Hadrian wasn’t certain she was mocking him.

  “Eat,” she ordered.

  They passed trays, loading up plates. Hadrian felt horribly selfish and decadent while piling up so much, but Evelyn insisted she’d cooked it for them and they had best eat it.

  “I don’t recall hearing you come in last night,” Evelyn said, pouring herself tea from an elaborate pot made in the shape of an elephant.

  To Evelyn Hemsworth and Royce, the pot was likely the whimsical design of a creative artist, but Hadrian had firsthand experience with the animals. He’d seen them during his years in Calis, where they were used as both beasts of burden and war machines. Much of the tableware setting was inspired by, or likely came from, Calis. The port of Rochelle was perhaps the first stop in the trans-Goblin Sea trade route. Even the spice shakers had monkeys on them.

  “But I noticed you left quite a puddle on my rug and a nasty trail of wet up the stairs. I’ll ask you to please remove your boots in the future. I’m an old woman and have more than enough to do. I don’t need you providing me with extra work. And be aware, I lock the door promptly with the third chime of the bell tower after sunset.” She reached for the sugar and paused. “You’re not up to anything shady, are you? I won’t stand for any higgery-jiggery or jiggery-pokery for that matter. Not in this house. Understand? While you’re here, I’ll expect the both of you to conduct yourselves properly. And you”—she indicated Royce with a tilt of her head and the raise of a brow—“don’t wear a cloak to the meal table. And wash your hands before coming down. Who were your parents? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  They ate for several minutes in silence. The food was wonderful, but Evelyn didn’t eat much at all.

  “Might I ask, what became of King Reinhold?” Hadrian ventured and received an apprehensive look from Royce. Both of them visibly cringed in anticipation of the response. Talking to Evelyn was like searching for wayward eggs in a dark henhouse.

  Evelyn sighed.

  “I’m sorry if that’s not a polite thing to discuss over breakfast,” Hadrian added.

  “What? Oh, no, that’s fine, but well, His Majesty . . .” Evelyn frowned over her plate, which consisted of only a single small roll and a slice of orange cheese. “It was quite the tragedy, you understand. His ship, the Eternal Empire, sank in a storm off Blythin Point about five months ago. The entire royal family was aboard, along with most of the royal court. That’s why stewardship of the kingdom has fallen to Bishop Tynewell.”

  “Why the bishop?” Hadrian asked.

  “Tradition mostly. When the last emperor of the Novronian Empire died, the Bishop of Percepliquis was the one who assumed the mantle of steward to the empire.” She peered at both of them for a moment expectantly. “Neither of you has any clue what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Not really,” Hadrian said.

  She sighed. “It’s like talking to children. You’re like a pair of five-year-olds dressed up in big people’s clothes. I’m afraid to let the two of you wander the streets alone. You might accept candy from strangers and be whisked off to darkest Calis.”

  “He would.” Royce pointed at Hadrian.

  “Don’t point,” she said. “It’s not polite.”

  Royce rolled his eyes.

  “Watch yourself, young man. You’re treading on thin ice, you are.”

  Royce smiled at her malevolently. “I’m actually quite good at that.”

  Hadrian didn’t like the look in his friend’s eye, which had changed from surprised raccoon to hungry panther. “I think you were going to tell us more about the death of King Reinhold?”

  “Actually, no. I was explaining common history, of which you and your friend are as stunningly ignorant as you are lacking in suitable personal hygiene and proper manners.”

  “Right,” Hadrian said. “That was it. Go on.”

  “Oh, yes, well, history is something of a passion in Alburn, you understand. The people here are quite proud of their heritage—we are, you see, unique in the world. It’s our claim to the past that defines us as a people. Which is why it’s so disappointing to encounter the likes of you two, who appear so nescient of that which is so important to us.” She paused either to take a breath or to allow Hadrian the opportunity to prove her point, perhaps by asking what nescient meant. He didn’t take the bait.

  “Well, what I was going to impart was that after the death of the last emperor, his family, and the destruction of the capital city of Percepliquis, Bishop Venlin stepped in and took over. It was the bishop who officially moved the empire from somewhere in the west to here. At that time, this was the Imperial Province of Alburnia. The bishop—that’s what the patriarch was back then—actually ruled the remains of the empire out of Blythin Castle until he finished his cathedral.” She gestured, but didn’t point, toward the east. “Even back then, Rochelle was a thriving port city. You need to understand that at that time, everywhere west of the Majestic Mountains was locked in complete and utter chaos because petty warlords were grabbing land and power.”

  Hadrian wanted to point out that not much had changed, but he wasn’t about to interrupt. He hoped that Evelyn’s ramblings would shed some light on more recent events. Royce didn’t appear to be listening at all as he scraped eggs off his plate with a knife.

  “Everyone loyal to the emperor’s banner came here. The Calders, the Killians, the Hargraves—they had all been prominent families in the court of the last emperor. Alburn became home of the empire in exile. Everything that could be salvaged was brought here for safekeeping: artifacts, books, statues, paintings. So you see, Alburn in general, and Rochelle in particular, has very strong links with the traditions of the Novronian Empire. So when the king and his entire family sank in the Goblin Sea, the bishop naturally stepped in to act as steward. Simple as that.”

  “That was simple?” Royce asked and licked his knife clean.

  “It’s called thinking, dear,” Evelyn told him. “If you work at it, the mind gets stronger.”

  Royce shifted his grip on the knife, taking hold of the blade.

  “So what happened?” Hadrian quickly asked. “Why isn’t this still the empire in exile? Why isn’t the patriarch still here? How did Reinhold become king? He isn’t a Calder, Killian, or Hargrave, is he?”

  “No. That was all Glenmorgan’s doing. He was the big winner of the monarch sweepstakes. The biggest thug of the west, if you will. When Glenmorgan invaded Alburnia, the patriarch avoided being sacked by anointing him the almost-emperor, otherwise known as a steward. Then when Glenmorgan set himself up at Ervanon in the north, the patriarch was obliged to join him. Still, while the church’s head may have gone to Ghent, its heart remains here. For example, the Seret Knights are still headquartered in Blythin Castle, just as they always have been.”

  “And Reinhold?”

  “His great-great-great-grandfather, or something, was appointed governor of Alburn by Glenmorgan. He set up his government at the westernmost city, Caren—as far away from all the traditional imperialists as he could. After good old Glenny the Third was executed at Blythin, the governor—by then it was his son—just kept on running things, but now as king.”

  “Because they were all lost at sea, there are no more descendants of that bloodline. Is that right?” Hadrian asked.

  “Indeed, and the bishop will be making his choice during the Spring Feast.” Evelyn looked down her nose at Royce and scowled. “You’re not eating. For Novron’s sake, you’re thin as a brittle bit of last year’s grass. That’s why you wear that big cloak, isn’t it? You’re embarrassed at how little you are. Well, eat. You won’t grow big and strong like your friend unless you do.”

  “We need to find a new place to stay,” Royce said the moment they were clear of the house and moving with unusual speed down the street.

  The rain had stopped, the weather warmer, and aside from a bit of fog and some puddles, it was a relatively pleasant day.<
br />
  “There isn’t any other place. Remember?” Hadrian replied, stretching his legs to keep up with Royce, who was practically trotting. “We spent forever searching yesterday.”

  “We looked for a couple of hours.” Royce gave his third glance back, as if Evelyn Hemsworth were fast on their heels.

  Mill Street was alive with activity. Carriages rolled by; a girl sold early spring flowers from a handcart; a man with a wagon delivered milk and cheese door-to-door; a tiny dog with a pug nose begged for scraps; and pedestrians with canes and overcloaks dodged street traffic, standing puddles, and one another. Everything was so different from the night before.

  “What are you griping about?” Hadrian said. “Do you remember what the Dirty Tankard looked like? The Hemsworth house is really nice. And the food! That may have been the best meal I’ve ever had.”

  “The woman is insane.”

  “I actually kind of like her.”

  Royce stopped walking. He stood in the middle of the street between two separate but equally sized piles of horse droppings, glaring at his partner with a shocked expression that bordered on disturbed.

  Hadrian continued walking two steps before noticing. “What?” He looked back with equal parts innocence and guilt. “She’s nice . . . in an authoritarian, priggish, self-important sort of way. Think of her as the mother you never had.”

  Royce made a bitter face. “If my mother was anything like that, I’m glad I never knew her.”

  They resumed walking, moving clear of the milk wagon coming their way. The flat bed of the dray was laden with a half a dozen barrel-sized covered pails that cried white tears.