The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “And their horse?” Hadrian asked. “I really said that?”

  Seton nodded. “You did.”

  Hadrian started to remember now. It was seven years ago, not long after he had joined Reinhold’s army. Most of the memories from that night had been mercifully washed away with beer, but some returned to him in nightmares or came in flashes triggered by fire and screams. The last time was when Queen Ann of Medford died, when Castle Essendon went up in flames.

  “The next day,” Seton went on, continuing to look at Hadrian. “I was alone. Just me and the ruined castle walls. The army of the king had gone, and so had the rasa who had protected me. I searched. I looked everywhere. Not a single person was left except me. I later heard folks who said the king was teaching his nobles a lesson. I only learned one thing—that I, too, would have died if it weren’t for this man. This man who scared me so much that I vomited out of fear. He protected me. I’m the only survivor of the infamous Sacking of Aleswerth Castle, and I walked out with my life, dignity, and virtue all intact. And all because of him. Now, for whatever reason, fate has seen fit to swap our places, and so help me Ferrol, I’ll fight anyone who tries to harm him.” She peered into Hadrian’s eyes, and added, “And their horse.”

  Seton took Hadrian’s hand, kissed the back of it, and rubbed it along her cheek. “Thank you,” she told him, and lifting his fingers to her lips, gently kissed each one. “Thank you, thank you.”

  Hadrian couldn’t imagine that a young mir, even given her gift for storytelling, could dissuade a mob bent on killing two outsiders threatening their existence, and yet the demeanor of the crowd had markedly changed. Whoever this girl was, she held significant status in this underground society of theirs, one that exceeded her apparent age.

  “They still must die,” Villar demanded. “Seton, you’ll have to step aside.”

  The blonde, who had appeared so shy and gentle until then, sharply spun to face him. “You want him dead? Fine, but don’t ask others to do it for you.” Seton pushed one of those holding Hadrian aside. “Let go!” She pulled on the fingers of another man. The others released their grips, and she pushed them back.

  “There! Go ahead, Villar. You kill him, but by your own hand. Show us the way to your bloody revolution. Be the first to draw blood. Go ahead. Don’t let my foolish little story worry you. The man is unarmed. Surrounded. Go on!”

  Villar stared at her, not Hadrian. In his eyes smoldered a seething hatred.

  “Do it!” The girl’s voice rose to a shout.

  “We don’t have to kill them,” Mercator said. “We only need to keep them from informing the duke or his guards of our intentions. If we vote for revolution, our actions will make what they learned here moot. If we take no action, then there is no crime, and no one will believe a crazy story of murderous plots from two foreigners.”

  “They know about the duchess,” Villar reminded them. “The duke will kill us for that.”

  Mercator nodded. “Yes, us. You and me. No one else. Her abduction was our doing and our responsibility. Even so, they have no proof, and it’ll be our word against that of outsiders.”

  “But if we kill them, then we—”

  “He’s right here, Villar!” Seton exploded again. “No one is stopping you. Go ahead.” She took a step toward him, staring him down. “You tell us that we must fight. You say we have to stand up for ourselves, but what you really mean is we have to die—to die for you, for your pride, your hate. You want us to sacrifice ourselves so you can have a better future. That’s not leading, Villar, that’s exploitation. You want any of us to listen to you? To follow you? To risk our lives for your vengeance? Then give us more than words. Risk your own life first. Take his life yourself—or shut up.”

  Villar was shaking. Sweat glistened on his face in the torchlight. Hadrian thought he would attack her, hit the girl, make her stop. Instead, without a word, Villar turned away, pushed through those watching, and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Griswold, can you get some rope?” Mercator asked. “We can—”

  In the drama, nearly everyone had forgotten about Royce, who hadn’t said or done anything. Those holding him had relaxed their grip, likely believing they were in charge of the quiet one. They discovered their mistake when one cried out in pain and another doubled over as the thief twisted free of all the rest. In a flash, Alverstone appeared, followed by gasps and a sudden retreat of those closest to him. “Sorry, don’t like ropes.”

  “Royce.” Hadrian spoke in a measured voice, the same one he would use when calming a spooked horse. “Don’t . . . don’t do anything that you’ll . . . I mean . . . that I’ll regret.”

  “Would be more productive if you told them that.” Royce spun, blade out, and everyone took another step back.

  “We aren’t going to hurt you,” Mercator said. She was one of the few moving toward him, but not quickly.

  Smart woman, Hadrian thought.

  “Not going to tie me up, either.”

  “We can’t just let you walk out. If you were to tell the duke—”

  “Who said anything about walking out?” Royce fanned the dagger as he moved closer to Hadrian. “We came for the duchess, Genny Winter. You’re going to give her to us.”

  Mercator stopped and folded her arms, staring at him. “Or what? You’ll kill us all with your dagger?”

  Royce frowned, glanced at Hadrian, and sighed. “Why does everyone jump to that conclusion with me?”

  Polka dots, Royce, Hadrian thought. Polka dots.

  “Look,” Royce told her, “I don’t care for being locked up or killed. Big surprise there, right? And I’m guessing you’d prefer that we don’t reduce your gathering’s population by even a single life, true? Given her story”—he indicated Seton—“I suspect you understand it’ll cost you at least that if you force the issue. So, let’s try something else. How about a trade?”

  “We have the duchess, I get that,” Mercator said. “But what do you have that we could want?”

  Royce smiled. “The duke.”

  No one returned Hadrian’s swords, but neither did they attempt to tie the two up. Mercator left the crowd in the main meeting hall with a promise to update everyone before morning. Then she sent a runner to fetch someone named Selie, convinced Griswold to come along, tried in vain to discourage Seton from doing the same, and chose a dozen of the larger Calians and mir to act as guards. Then the entire entourage escorted Royce and Hadrian across the street.

  They entered a small dilapidated building with a partial roof, broken windows, and a mostly intact wooden floor. A well-worn path had been cleared through the debris down the stairs to the cellar. Four stone walls without a single window, six wooden chairs surrounding a rickety table, and the stub of a candle melted onto an overturned cup made up what Hadrian suspected to be the headquarters of the revolution.

  Mercator took a seat and gestured for Royce and Hadrian to join her.

  Seton looked at the dozen men and mir who were trying to look as tough as possible. “You don’t need them.”

  “Not all of us share your unwavering faith,” Mercator told her.

  “It’s not faith. I’m just saying . . .” Seton smiled shyly at the guards. “No offense, but if Hadrian wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t be able to stop him.”

  “He doesn’t have his swords,” Griswold said.

  “I know.”

  Mercator puzzled on this a moment. As she did, an older, dark-skinned woman entered in a rush. “Mercator? I was told you needed me.”

  “We do.” Mercator motioned to the open chair. “This is Selie Nym, Erasmus’s widow. She will be acting in her husband’s stead as a representative to the Calians, agreed?” She looked to Griswold, who nodded. “I’m sorry to impose on you at a time like this, Selie, but we have an emergency.”

  The widow shook her head. “Don’t go to worrying about me. This is bigger than an old widow’s problems. Erasmus would never forgive me iffen I didn’t pick up his part in this.�
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  Mercator folded her hands on the table and took a breath. “Okay, we’re listening.”

  Royce straightened up and faced the three. “Hadrian was telling the truth. We were hired to find and, if possible, rescue Genevieve Winter, the Duchess of Rochelle. If she’s still alive, we can help each other.”

  “She is, but it doesn’t matter; her husband doesn’t care what happens to her. Or he does, but not enough to meet our demands.”

  “Or there’s a third explanation.”

  “Which is?”

  “That he doesn’t know anything about your requests, and he thinks his wife is dead.”

  Mercator’s brows knitted, her eye shifting in thought. “That’s not possible . . . is it?” She looked to Griswold, who only shrugged.

  “How were your demands relayed?” Royce asked.

  “We wrote them down and left a note in the carriage the night she was taken.”

  Royce shook his head. “Maybe it got lost in the debris, or it blew away, but in any case, the duke knows nothing about the note.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “We’ve been investigating her disappearance, remember? And Villar was right about us meeting with Captain Wyberg of the city guard, but he didn’t say anything about finding a note. And Leopold had the guard searching the city, and none of them knew about any demands. In fact, Wyberg thinks she was most likely killed by some rival for the crown.” Royce leaned in. “If you could prove to the duke his wife is alive, and make your case for reforms, he might agree in exchange for her return. Your original plan can still work, which means there would be no reason for the revolt tomorrow. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Mercator’s eyes showed a momentary glimmer of hope, but then it vanished. “Except there’s absolutely no way to get to the duke. I can’t enter a shop to buy a loaf of bread at midday, so there’s no way anyone is going to let me into the Estate at night, especially to have an audience with the duke.”

  Royce looked at Hadrian. “I’m guessing the captain could get us an audience, right?”

  He nodded. “Wyberg could manage it, and he owes me favors much larger than this.”

  “So, all we need is proof that his wife still lives. If we had that, I think he would listen to what you have to say. Then, if I could persuade him to agree . . .”

  “Royce can be very persuasive,” Hadrian explained.

  The thief nodded. “I have a lot of money riding on this job, so trust me, I’m motivated.”

  “You want me to speak face-to-face with the duke?” Mercator gave a little laugh. “That sounds incredibly risky. What’s to stop you from handing me over and saying, ‘This is the kidnapper!’”

  Royce shook his head. “If we did that, you’d have the duchess executed, right? The duke would lose his wife, and I’d be out a fortune. Where’s the benefit in that?”

  Technically, Royce could make even more money if he let them kill her, then gathered up the heads of those responsible and carried them back to Gabriel Winter, but Hadrian imagined such a debate was for another day and a different crowd.

  Hadrian watched Mercator. She was no fool; nor was she one of the typical meek elves he so often saw on the streets of Medford. While appearing not quite middle-aged, she had a demeanor that suggested otherwise. Her eyes surveyed them with a careful judgment born of wishful thinking but tempered by years of disappointment.

  Mercator looked to the widow Nym and Griswold, both of whom shook their heads.

  “These boys have no skin in the game that they’re setting up.” Selie said. “We’re betting the house and they’re tossing in a copper din.”

  Mercator nodded. “She’s right. Your fortune doesn’t stack up against the gamble we shoulder in this proposal. I need greater assurance. Lives are at stake, mine being the least of my worries. But the two of you—the architects of this grand plan—have no serious risk.”

  Royce faltered, searching the ground for ideas.

  Hadrian noticed Seton was still watching him. She wanted a solution almost as much as he did. His time in the east had always been a dirty stain on his life, but she’d showed him there had been at least one pinprick of light. Another one would be nice.

  “I’ll stay,” Hadrian declared.

  “What?” Royce and Mercator asked together.

  “I’ll spend the night here, under guard, as insurance. Royce can escort you to the duke. If he betrays you, has you killed or whatever, then your people can kill both me and Genny Winter.”

  Griswold pointed at Seton. “According to her, that’s not too easy.”

  “But unlike Royce, I’ll let you tie me.”

  Mercator looked surprised at the offer and nodded. “I could agree to that.”

  “Yes,” Griswold nodded. “That seems fair.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Royce said. “In fact, that sounds really stupid.”

  “Why?” Hadrian asked. “Do you plan on betraying anyone?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t like working under pressure, okay? And what guarantee do we have that they won’t . . .”

  “Won’t what?” Hadrian asked.

  “Won’t kill you anyway?”

  Hadrian looked at Seton. “I have a protector.”

  The blonde smiled. “Yes, you do.”

  “I’d be happier if it were someone a little taller,” Royce said.

  “Does everyone agree?” Hadrian asked.

  Griswold nodded.

  “Selie?” Mercator turned to the Calian. “What do you say?”

  “Old Eras, he never did like the idea of fighting. Couldn’t even bring himself to argue with me. Just said, ‘Selie, there’s no reason to be that way,’ and he was usually right, too.” Her lips shifted as tears slipped down her cheeks. “People got the wrong impression because he was always haggling, but he just liked the sport of it. Couldn’t understand why folks refused to get along. He would’ve wanted to find a peaceful solution.” She looked around to nodding heads. “We agree to this.”

  Mercator gave a single nod. “So it’s decided. Let’s pray to each of our gods that this will work. We’re going to need all the good fortune we can get.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Living Proof

  The key was done.

  Genny finished it more out of habit and a sense of accomplishment than anything else. She had no idea if it would work, and only a mild desire to test it. Curiosity was the only driving force now. Escaping felt almost counterproductive. Better to be killed and retain a thread of hope than live and discover the truth. In a choice between the murder of her body and a murder of her spirit, she suspected the former might be best. At least she wouldn’t be forced to suffer needlessly. Besides, if it worked, the key would only open the collar. The shackle around her throat was held fast by a warded padlock, but the door’s lock was a tumbler, and she didn’t know anything about those.

  She rubbed the key with her thumb. “You did a good job, old girl,” she said aloud, and she wasn’t just referring to the key.

  She was alone again. Mercator and Villar were both off to the meeting, which meant that Genny didn’t have long to live. If they decided the way Villar wanted, Mercator would return to perform her final task. Genny wondered if she would follow through with it. While she’d never killed anyone, Genny imagined it wouldn’t be an easy thing to do, but it was clear that no point in Mercator’s life had been easy. The mir hadn’t said a word, but that last argument with Villar, how he looked at her, and what he didn’t say told Genny everything she needed to know.

  Mercator would kill her. She wouldn’t like it, wouldn’t want to, would probably apologize and possibly cry as she dragged a knife across her throat, but she’d do it. Mercator was a survivor, and her sort did what they had to.

  Genny looked at the key. She thumbed it, feeling where the rest of the teeth had been, noting how smooth it was. Her old trunk key was now a skeleton key. The problem with war
ded padlocks, like the one that held the collar, was that they only had a few configurations for the obstructions, or “wards,” that made it impossible to turn any but the correct key inserted in the hole. With so little space in each mechanism and so many unique locks to make, some were bound to be identical, which meant keys for one could open others that used the same design. Worse, almost all warded locks left the first notch unobstructed so that a universal key—a skeleton key—could be used. This was handy for when a key was lost, or when someone had hundreds of locks to deal with and didn’t feel like carrying hundreds of keys.

  Genny had learned this after discovering a consistent discrepancy in her inventory. Her warehouse in Colnora had a fine-looking warded lock, big and new, but a locksmith explained how useless the thing was to anyone who knew the first thing about how locks worked. This was bad news in a city that was home base to the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. She replaced the lock with a far more expensive and elaborate version, and the thefts stopped. Genny thought nothing more of the matter until she woke up with a collar locked on her neck and an old chest key in her purse.

  How many noble duchesses know how to pick a lock? How many have potential skeleton keys in their wrist purses? So what are the odds Mercator and Villar used an irregular ward lock? Genny felt her odds were good, but getting the collar off was only half the battle. The other was the door.

  Mercator opened it for every meal. The mir wasn’t very big, but Genny had never been in a brawl. She didn’t know how well she would fare, and she honestly didn’t want to find out. That’s where the sharpened coins came in. If she could . . .

  But why bother? I gave all my love to a man, and received only lies. What do I have to look forward to now?

  Genny decided to stop looking away and face the unpleasant truth that some people, no matter how hard they try, never get what they desire the most.