The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Hard heels echoed. A robed figure moved through the gallery pillars. The bishop approached.

  When he came into view, he silently waved Villar to a corner. They were still not past the knights, but Villar was also not near the doors.

  “Is there a problem?” Tynewell whispered. The bishop positioned himself between Villar and the door, blocking the view of everyone except the boys cleaning up.

  “No, everything is perfect.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “A Calian named Erasmus Nym will need access to Grom Galimus the morning of the feast.”

  Tynewell looked puzzled. “I have an early service. People will—”

  “After the service. Midday is fine. He doesn’t need long to prepare.”

  The word prepare made the bishop wince. “What exactly will this Erasmus person be doing? I won’t allow him to desecrate the church. He’s not going to sacrifice a goat on my altar.” Tynewell’s eyes widened. “Or a child.”

  Villar paused a moment, wondering where that had come from. He hadn’t told the bishop everything. Villar didn’t think it wise, and the bishop didn’t want to know the details. The only thing Tynewell cared about was that every Alburn noble at the feast would die.

  “Nym won’t do anything other than what I have.”

  Tynewell thought a moment then asked, “And where will you be?”

  “Someplace else. A place that I don’t want Erasmus to know about.”

  “And what does this Erasmus fellow know about me and my involvement? Is having him use my church such a good idea? Will it point a finger my way?”

  “No, this cathedral is huge, and you can’t be expected to know what occurs in every crook and corner. I’ve already shown him where to go, and he didn’t ask anything about others involved. I just wanted to let you know it would be him rather than me in case you happened upon each other.”

  “And no one else knows anything, right? You haven’t bragged, have you? Gone off in some tavern about how the bishop has promised you a favor in return for arranging a murderous riot?”

  “Mir aren’t welcome in taverns.”

  “Be that as it may, the point is still valid. You haven’t been drunk under some forsaken bridge boasting about how you’ll be Duke of Rochelle when the bishop crowns himself king for lack of options, have you? If anyone discovers I’m involved, neither of us will get what we want.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  Tynewell studied him carefully, then smiled. “Good. You know, I had my doubts about you. Relying on a mir—such a thing doesn’t come easy, but I’m a man of faith. I believe that if you show faith in someone, that someone will prove themselves worthy. This is your opportunity. Succeed and you’ll earn my trust and the rule of this city. Imagine that. You’ll be a hero to your people. You’ll live in the Estate and govern this region on my behalf. I will be king of Alburn—a bishop-ruler just like Venlin—and you’ll be the first mir noble since the fall of Merredydd. You and yours will get their due, trust me.”

  Villar didn’t trust him, but this was the only chance he, or any of them, had. The whole affair was a terrible gamble, and there was no way to be certain the bishop would honor his pledge to appoint him duke. But it didn’t matter. Left to itself, nothing would change. Villar would rather die than face another day of eating the Duke of Rochelle’s trash and watching the mir people beg for scraps thrown in the street. And either way, at least Villar would have the chance to fight back. The ability to kill those who had humiliated him and his people for generations would be a worthy reward. This was something Mercator could never understand. She had become domesticated, but Villar’s heart was still free.

  Leaving the cathedral, he stood upon the steps to watch the last of the daylight fade. He had plenty of time to reach his second appointment. He would, in fact, be incredibly early. Perhaps he should get something to eat first. He considered rummaging through the duke’s garbage for dinner, something he’d have to do just one last time. He looked down at the Estate, a place that would soon be a place of honor rather than one of humiliation. That’s when he saw them, the two strangers. The foreigners who had been asking questions about the duchess and poking around where they shouldn’t. One was perched high up on the pediment at the far end of the bridge watching the Estate as if waiting for something.

  Villar realized what it was, and he knew he wouldn’t be getting dinner that night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Driver

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Hadrian asked, shifting his position again. The capstone he sat on was cold.

  “The driver,” Royce replied.

  The two were on the west side of the East Bridge, where Royce hadn’t taken his eyes off the front gate of the duke’s estate since they’d arrived. Hadrian sat on the bridge parapet out of the way of traffic, looking like a lost boy who’d foolishly let go of his mother’s hand and hoped she’d come back. Royce was above him, perched high on the massive end-pediment that announced the start or end of the bridge, depending on which way one was walking. He stood behind the statue of a winged beast, a giant, ugly bat-thing with horns and fangs. Royce and the sculpture made quite the diabolical pair as he clung to a wing, peering over the stone monster’s shoulder. Occasionally the gate to the Estate opened. Someone would exit, or enter, and each time Royce became still and attentive. Then the gate would close, and he would settle back, disappointed.

  They never did find a new place to stay. All livable spaces were occupied, even the open-air patches of dirt under bridges and behind stables. Royce had continued to search until the sun threatened to set, then he insisted on a hectic race to the Estate. They’d been there for more than an hour, and, so far, nothing had warranted the rush. Except for his two-word statement, Royce hadn’t responded to any inquiries about their current vigil.

  The day had remained reasonably warm, continuing the rumor that spring was just a few steps down the road. The morning had been sunny, but afternoon had invited clouds to the party, and more were showing up all the time. A variety of boats passed beneath them. Professional fishermen hauled in nets, heading upriver after a day on Blythin Bay. The waterway also played host to a series of trows that ran up- and downriver, dropping off one load of cargo at the harbor and picking up another to haul back upstream. Along the bridge, the flow of foot traffic, wagons, and carriages was picking up. With slumped backs and bowed heads, servants, traders, and laborers returned home, their way lit by a fading sun.

  “There he is!” Royce said with urgency as he leaned forward, leering with the same malevolent expression as the statue to which he clung.

  A small figure stepped outside the front gate of the ducal estate, gray-haired, partially balding. With his protruding brow and long beard, the dwarf looked like the quintessential depiction of his race. He glanced both ways before crossing the street and then entered the flow of traffic coming toward them.

  “The dwarf?” Hadrian said.

  “Shh!” Royce scolded as he climbed down. “Yes, that’s the driver.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s the only dwarf to come out of the duke’s residence, and I doubt His Lordship employs many.”

  He didn’t look like a carriage driver. If Hadrian were to guess, he would’ve pegged the little guy as a gardener or a stable hand or, given the sack slung over one shoulder, perhaps a bearded child who was running away from home. The dwarf was dressed in a no-frills worker’s tunic and belt, with wool pants and worn boots. He held a mud-stained cloak and a small sack tied at the mouth with twine. He struggled to work his way into the flow of the bustling people who jostled him as if he weren’t there.

  “I know you don’t like dwarves, Royce, but that doesn’t mean every—”

  “The carriage’s footboard was ratcheted up for someone his size, so, the driver was either a child or a dwarf. Everyone would have noticed a child driving a carriage, but look how people ignore the dwarf like he doe
sn’t exist. Everyone blocks out what they don’t want to see. And honestly, who wants to lay eyes on the likes of him?”

  The dwarf walked past, and Royce slipped into traffic a few pedestrians back.

  “He works at the Estate,” Royce said quietly as they followed the dwarf across the bridge toward the plaza. “Not full-time, I don’t think. Probably hired for some temporary task, stonework most likely. And when they needed a driver for the duchess, guess who volunteered?”

  “That sounds like a lot of guesses.”

  “Either that, or an eight-year-old was hired to drive the duchess.”

  Hawkers took advantage of the evening migration by shouting invitations and waving welcomes to the mob. Their efforts were stymied by the bells in the tower of Grom Galimus, chiming six times. When the ringing finally ceased, the dwarf was through the plaza and heading up an alley that divided the cathedral from another large stone building. This sister building had a flight of steps leading to an imposing colonnade of marble pillars above which IMPERIAL GALLERY was chiseled into the entablature. Both buildings had gargoyles, none of which were missing.

  The alley between the cathedral and the gallery was wider than the one in Little Gur Em, but it was congested. This helped their pursuit. Royce kept two rows back from their prey, which required slowing down to let others pass. Moving on little legs, the dwarf wasn’t speedy. The sun was on the horizon, its dying light already lost to them in the stone canyons of the central city, where the buildings were so close Hadrian thought he might be able to touch the walls on both sides of the street with his sword tips.

  The crowd began to thin as they followed a street that curved northeast. The buildings here were residential, shorter, less ornate. Hadrian spotted women on small wrought-iron balconies beating rugs, and numerous chimneys pouring smoke. The stone houses gave way to wood with stucco and timber uppers, and the number of stories lowered with each successive block. By then, the sun was gone, the hazy afterlight competing with streetlamps.

  The street they followed spilled out onto another, where a long wall ran along the one shoulder. Eight feet high, the barrier was made of brick and topped with metal spikes. When the dwarf reached it, he turned and followed along its length until he reached a gate. The wooden double door was open, and the dwarf passed through. Royce paused to study the latch and hinges for a moment. They were simple iron drawbolts. The oddity was the presence of latches on both sides. The doors could be used to lock people in or out. With a hesitant glance at Hadrian, Royce continued after the dwarf.

  Within the confines of the wall was a completely different world of tightly packed wooden shacks. The widest streets inside were the size of the narrowest alleys outside. Here, too, were cart vendors, but narrow as the streets were, the vendors nearly blocked them, causing pedestrians to squeeze around wagons and barrels. Royce and Hadrian had only traversed one block when Royce stopped. With concern, he looked up and down the street.

  “What is it?” Hadrian asked.

  “We’re in trouble.”

  Hadrian looked around. They were on the cobblestones of a narrow block gripped between shabby shacks where laundry hung from the sills of open windows. Residents gathered in small groups, some in front of doorways, others at intersections around trash fires, warming themselves. The alleged driver of the ducal carriage had stopped at one of these and talked with those huddling around it.

  “What’s wrong? What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you see?”

  Hadrian looked again but couldn’t find a threat. “See what?”

  “We stand out,” he declared. “Literally. Everyone here is short.”

  Hadrian looked again. Royce was right. All along the street, not a single person was more than four feet tall, and nearly all the men had beards of considerable length that were frequently braided or bound with ribbon.

  “What do we do now? Walk on our knees?”

  Royce shushed him, guiding Hadrian into the shadow of a porch. The thief focused on the group at the intersection’s fire, where the driver had paused to chat with five other dwarves. They mostly stood with arms folded across their chests, but on occasion, they would hold out their hands to the heat.

  At that distance, Hadrian couldn’t hear what they said, but he suspected Royce could. “What are they saying?”

  “Arguing about the weather,” Royce replied.

  “How can you argue about weather?”

  Again, Royce motioned him to silence, and Hadrian leaned against the grayed wall of the building where they sheltered. In the window, a sign hung. Maybe it said HELP WANTED or ROOM TO LET, but Hadrian couldn’t tell. It wasn’t written in any language he recognized. The window itself was oddly low, and the pair of rocking chairs on the porch looked to be for children.

  This is like a miniature version of the world.

  “I feel like a giant,” he told Royce. He turned back to the ring of dwarves around the fire, where a heated argument was growing; two of the dwarves gesticulated wildly, thrusting fists over their heads. Even Hadrian caught the occasional shout of “Don’t tell me what is and what isn’t!”

  “These people really take their weather seriously.”

  “Not arguing about the weather anymore,” Royce reported.

  “What are they talking about?”

  “Don’t know. Something to do with the Calians, mir, and the coming of spring. Our guy isn’t too popular, either. Nor is he happy with them. And nobody likes the duke. And—” Royce tilted his head to listen. “They’re holding a meeting, an important one in the Calian Precinct. Sounds like it has something to do with an alliance.”

  The streets were emptying, and windows shuttered as the night erased the day’s earlier promise of coming spring. The cold of winter had returned, reminding everyone it wasn’t yet finished. The driver hoisted his sack and bid a less-than-fond farewell to those around the fire. He headed off into the darkening streets. Royce waved at Hadrian, and together they followed.

  The dwarf stopped at a tiny butcher shop. There he haggled in an unfamiliar language over one of three chickens that hung from the porch rafters. A great deal of pointing, scowling, and foot stomping accompanied the conversation. The bird under debate was so small and scrawny that Hadrian questioned whether it was a chicken at all. If not for the white feathers, he might have guessed a crow. In the end, the driver reluctantly handed over coins and took the pair of legs, swinging the chicken as he walked. Then he stopped at a wheelbarrow where what appeared to be an elderly husband and wife sold firewood. The driver picked out three splits as if he were choosing produce in a market. Burdened as he was with an armload of wood, his sack, and a scrawny chicken that he continued to heedlessly whip about with the swing of his arm, the dwarf continued until he came to a tiny shack. The wood siding had been weathered to a dark gray. The upper story jutted out over the lower, creating an overhang that shadowed the door. A light shone from inside, and without a knock, the driver entered.

  The shack had two glassless windows. Tattered cloth covered both, but one covering was ripped, and through it Royce and Hadrian spied on their suspect. To Hadrian’s shock, more than a dozen people were within. Children and elders, male and female, they all crowded into the small space of one room. The light came from a cook fire where a surprisingly cute dwarven lady took the bird from the driver. With children pulling on her apron, she held up the chicken, made some comment, and then kissed the driver on his nose. The two laughed.

  Instantly feeling guilty for spying, Hadrian left Royce to monitor the dwarf while he found an abandoned crate to sit on near a rubbish pile. After Royce’s commentary, he’d expected that the dwarf was on his way to some nefarious hideout, a creepy tower, or ancient ruin where Genny Winter was chained to a wall or suspended over alligators. Instead, he was snooping on the hard-working provider for a warm and loving family. Their poverty made the act of spying even more distasteful. Hadrian hadn’t been invading merely a gathering but an event as sacred as a funeral.
Most of the garbage pile he waited in consisted of wood chips and strips of bark, which made Hadrian think it might not be rubbish at all. In a household so picky about buying firewood, he couldn’t imagine them discarding anything that burned.

  Hours went by before Royce approached Hadrian. The thief had something small in his hands. “Not a stoneworker,” he said, holding up an exquisitely carved wooden figurine of a rearing horse, polished and lacquered to a honey finish. Every muscle and the individual strands of hair in its mane and tail were rendered in startling detail.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Royce nodded. “There’s a shed around the other side filled with things like this.”

  “Why doesn’t he sell them?” Hadrian looked over at the house. “I don’t know what they pay him at the Estate, but I would think such craftsmanship would pay well. This is better than what I’ve seen in the shop windows.”

  Royce nodded while still looking at the carving.

  “We spending the night?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce shrugged, then pivoted abruptly.

  Hadrian heard it, too. The front door of the shack clapped. The woodcarver, and alleged driver of duchesses, was on the move again.

  With cloak on and hood up, the dwarf appeared significantly more sinister than before as he slipped out of the shack and set out into the night. This time he clutched a bread-loaf-sized box in his arms and presented the image of the quintessential villain of a hundred children’s stories: Gronbach, the little bearded dwarf bent on evil. As the driver scurried through the shadows, Hadrian had no trouble believing the tales of a nefarious dwarf. The scene was fable-perfect, except he had also seen the earlier moments when a tired worker dragged himself back to his impoverished family and provided them a miserable excuse of a chicken. Kisses from a loving wife were never part of the Gronbach myth. He didn’t even have a wife or children. In the fairy tales, he was a monster, and his reputation cast a shadow over all dwarves.