The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “He’s no criminal, not a murderer or even a thief. I mean, technically, he’s accused of giving rather than taking.”

  Royce raised a brow. “Lord Hildebrandt would disagree. Virtue and chastity, these are the things that have been taken from his daughter.”

  “Oh please!” Puck erupted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Have either of you seen Lady Hildebrandt? She didn’t receive the name Bliss from her lovers, I can assure you of that. She’s forty-three going on eighty-nine, with the face of a savagely carved jack-o’-lantern and the figure of a two-ball snowman. And don’t get me started on her acidic personality and that grotesque cackle of a laugh. I’m absolutely positive she retains her virtue the same way a bruised and rotting melon avoids being eaten. No one who has actually met Bliss Hildebrandt of Sansbury could possibly imagine crawling into bed with her. I’d personally rather curl up with a diseased monkfish. Maybe if there had been a knife at my throat, I might . . .”

  His pause caused Royce to look back.

  Virgil Puck’s misshapen nose was off center and sported a bulbous tip like the knob on the end of a walking stick. Beyond that, the man was tall, thin, and endowed with long, curly blond hair, the sort to evoke sighs from women of every rank and class. He wore only a heavy tunic, breeches, and boots. The tunic was covered in vertical white-and-blue stripes, and the boots were yellow as a canary’s breast. Hadrian was right about one thing. Virgil didn’t have the look of a normal run-of-the-mill criminal.

  But criminal is such a relative term, and what is normal, anyway?

  Puck looked at the ground, shaking his head with a grimace. “No, no, I can truthfully say not even that would be enough. I’m telling you for the third time, you have the wrong man. The true culprit must be either deaf and blind or depraved to the point of utter insanity.”

  Hadrian turned around, shifting the tip of the sword strapped to his back and resting a hand on the rump of his mount. “Are you noble?”

  “If you mean, do I have highborn blood in my veins, the answer is no. Why do you ask?”

  “The way you talk is . . . clever . . . complicated. You use odd words like culprit and depraved.”

  “That’s because I’m a poet,” Puck declared with dramatic flair. He tried to follow the remark with a sweeping bow, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope to execute it successfully. “I make my living going from great house to great house entertaining my hosts with songs and stories. Tales of woo and woe. From the epic love affair of Persephone and Novron to the tragic courtship of Lady Masquerade and Sir Whimsy. I make them laugh; I make them cry; I inspire, educate, and—”

  “Seduce?” Royce provided. “Women have a weakness for poets. Did you beguile Bliss Hildebrandt with words?”

  Puck expressed his indignation by stopping, and he was jerked forward by Hadrian’s horse. “You aren’t listening. I didn’t seduce her. I wouldn’t do that for all the gold in Avryn. I’d rather fornicate with a rabid ferret. I’m telling you, when we get back to Sansbury, you’ll see her and understand. And I hope she gives you both hugs and wet kisses for your efforts. Then you’ll realize the true depths of your mistake. She’s like an ugly old hound that still thinks it’s a puppy, even while drooling those long elastic strands of goo. And when she opens her mouth to thank you, you’ll see her tongue, an organ that’s far too long for any reasonable living thing.”

  “Lady Hildebrandt is with child,” Royce said. “Had to happen somehow.”

  Puck smirked. “I’ve seen baby porcupines, too—don’t know how that happens, either.”

  “He just sounds so . . .” Hadrian struggled. “You know, sincere.”

  “By all the gods! That’s because I’m telling the truth!” Puck shouted to the sky. “The two of you are . . . you’re . . . what exactly? I have no idea. Sheriffs? Bounty hunters? No matter, whatever your profession, you must do this often, right? You’ve surely captured dozens of suspected wrongdoers and brought them to justice. You must know what nefarious men are like. How they act. When you dragged me out of that tavern in East March, did I act guilty? I’m assuming most criminals run, isn’t that so? Did I? Did I resist at all? No, I didn’t. What did I do instead?”

  “You called for a sheriff,” Hadrian replied, and glanced at Royce with a tiny nod of acknowledgment.

  “Yes! Yes! I did that because I thought you were accosting me. Only thugs would drag a person out of a public house and tie him up. And if a sheriff had heard, it would be the two of you on the end of a rope—and a shorter one than this, I suspect.”

  Hadrian shifted his sight between Puck and Royce with a ruminating expression.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Royce interjected, attempting to preempt the thought forming in his partner’s head.

  “But if he’s innocent, should we really be turning him over to Lord Hildebrandt? If he’s convicted, he won’t have the shield of noble blood. The baron will kill him.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It certainly matters to me,” Virgil chimed in.

  “Why? Why doesn’t it matter?” Hadrian asked.

  “All I care about is the eight gold Hildebrandt is paying us.”

  “That’s cold, Royce,” Hadrian said.

  “No, that’s life. Don’t complain to me. Take it up with Maribor, or the universe, or nature. The same rules that starve a sparrow in winter will see Puck hang for a crime . . . even if he didn’t commit it. But that’s not our problem. We don’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Excuse me?” Puck spoke up. “I feel obligated to point out that it’s you who tied this rope to my wrists, and it’s you who is dragging me incessantly toward a fate I don’t deserve. It’s your horse, not Maribor’s, not the universe’s, not nature’s, and it certainly has nothing to do with any ruddy, bloody sparrow!”

  “Eight gold tenents.” Royce looked hard at Hadrian. “Say those three words out loud. Repeat them over and over until it drowns out the little ferret bugger behind us.”

  Hadrian didn’t look convinced.

  “Okay, how’s this. Remember that we promised . . . we gave our word to Lord Hildebrandt that we would fetch Puck and bring him back.” Royce struggled to get the words out with a straight face.

  When Hadrian replied with a solemn nod, Royce had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. The two had been together for three years, two working officially as the rogues-for-hire enterprise called Riyria—and still Hadrian thought a promise was something that must be kept. Hadrian was young, in his early twenties, but the man had been to war more than once, and it baffled Royce how he could remain so unworldly.

  Puck focused his attention on Royce. “So, that’s all my life is worth? Just a few gold coins? What if I offer you more than Lord Hildebrandt is willing to pay? Would that balance the scales in your maladjusted world, a place where you claim to play no part even though you hold the leash?”

  Royce frowned. “You don’t have that kind of money. If you did, we would’ve reached a deal back in East March.”

  “I could get it.”

  “No, you can’t. You’re a poet. Poets make little money, and they certainly don’t save for a rainy day. You throw your coin away on ridiculous things—your clothes, for example.”

  “True enough, but I wasn’t talking about my money,” Puck said. “While I swear I never touched Bliss, I have dallied with a few ladies in my time. Some of them are quite fond of me. I’m sure Lady Martel would pay ten to save my life.”

  “Lady Martel? Are you referring to Lord Hemley’s wife?” Royce asked.

  “The very same.”

  Royce smirked. “I doubt your prowess between the sheets could possibly be worth ten gold.”

  “You misunderstand me. My relationship with Martel Hemley isn’t like that. I mean, I could have slept with her. She’s no great looker, either, but at least she’s intellectually stimulating, and she finds me equally so. I’m sure ten gold would seem like a small price to ensure our continued conversations. Our kinship
is based on a mutual love of the written word. Why, just last summer I spent a whole night, in her bedroom no less, doing nothing but drinking and exploring her library.”

  “Is that a euphemism, or are you actually talking about books?” Royce asked.

  “Oh, so you’ve heard of them! Yes, books. The woman has a wide range of interests and has a little library right off her private chambers. She has copies of the Song of Beringer and The Pilgrim’s Tales, which is impressive but not atypical. The most interesting thing on her shelves is a bizarre little diary.”

  Royce reined his horse to a stop and pivoted in the saddle. “She showed you her diary?”

  Puck looked up, concerned. Royce hadn’t intended to be threatening, but it was an attribute difficult to control.

  “Well, yes, but it wasn’t her diary. The memoir belonged to a fellow named Falkirk de something, who had excellent penmanship and an archaic writing style. Lady Martel mentioned she stole it, although I doubt that. I mean, who ever heard of a noble thief? She was fairly drunk at the time, so I didn’t take what she said seriously.”

  “Did she mention where she met this Falkirk guy?” Royce asked.

  “Oh no, she didn’t get it from him. Lady Martel obtained the diary from a monk she’d been having a tryst with. One night while he slept, she came upon the diary and took it because she wanted to learn about his true feelings toward her. Wasn’t until later that she realized it was the writings of this Falkirk fellow. She tried to return it, but the monk had disappeared before she could. She never saw him again.”

  “You said the style was archaic. So, you read it?”

  Puck nodded. “Tried to. To be honest, it bored me. Why are you so interested?”

  When Royce didn’t answer, Hadrian said, “We do odd jobs for people. One was getting that diary from Lady Martel. After we did, she claimed it hadn’t been taken. Things like that needle Royce; he sees conspiracies and nefarious intent wherever he looks.”

  Royce focused on Virgil. “What can—”

  The sound of horses drew Royce’s attention. Eight men rode toward them, white tabards covering chainmail shirts, swords clapping thighs. They slowed upon approach but showed no signs of aggression. Royce and company had passed, or been passed, by a dozen groups of travelers that morning: farmers, tradesmen, merchants. These were the first with swords, and the tabards looked official. Usually, a patrol like this signaled trouble, but for once Royce and Hadrian weren’t breaking any law. They were acting in service of a respected baron of Melengar. And yet Royce still tensed.

  “Pardon our intrusion,” the lead rider said, bringing his mount to a stop. The man’s helm was off, only a single day’s growth of beard on his face, and he was smiling. Royce didn’t know what to make of him. The rider continued, “Might I ask your names and inquire as to why you are dragging this man along the King’s Road?”

  Royce hesitated for a dozen reasons, not one of which he could pin down as good or even sensible. He just didn’t like being stopped. He liked answering questions even less.

  In that momentary vacuum, his partner jumped in. “My name is Hadrian. How are you?”

  “I’m great,” the man replied. “What’s this fella’s name?” He pointed at the prisoner.

  “My name is Virgil.”

  “Is it?” The rider nodded and climbed down off his mount to face Puck. “Got a last name?”

  “Puck. Perhaps you gentlemen can offer me some assistance. These two fellows seem to be under a misconception. They accuse me of taking advantage of Lady Bliss Hildebrandt—which I absolutely did not do. I’ve been wrongfully charged. If you could—”

  Without warning, the tabard-clad man pulled out his dagger and stabbed Puck in the chest. Virgil didn’t even have time to cry out before falling to the ground.

  Royce and Hadrian drew back, their horses shuffling and nickering. They each pulled weapons. Hadrian produced his bastard sword, and Royce freed his white dagger, Alverstone. The shift in Hadrian’s horse dragged Puck’s bleeding body away from his attacker, leaving a bloody trail. The man who’d stabbed Virgil showed no signs of concern. He merely took out a handkerchief and wiped the mess of blood off himself and his blade.

  Virgil gasped, gurgled, and convulsed for only a few seconds. The poet was dead the moment the blade hit his heart, but it took a little time for the message to reach all quarters of his twitching body.

  Royce and Hadrian waited, but none of the others so much as touched their weapons. The man who had killed Puck put his dagger away and climbed back up on his horse.

  “Why did you do that?” Hadrian demanded, holding his sword at the ready.

  “King’s orders,” the killer replied matter-of-factly. He wore an amused smile as he noticed Hadrian’s sword. “Nothing to do with either of you.”

  Hadrian shot a look at Royce, and then he looked back at the patrol. “King Amrath ordered the death of Virgil Puck?”

  The man looked down at the sad crumpled body on the side of the road still tethered to Hadrian’s saddle. He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” Then he kicked his horse and the entire troop rode away.

  Royce and Hadrian arrived back on Wayward Street just before dark.

  They would have returned sooner, but Hadrian had insisted on arranging for Puck’s burial. Royce, who had littered and in some cases decorated many a landscape with corpses, had difficulty following the logic. Puck wasn’t their mess to clean up. His body—once it had been disconnected from Hadrian’s horse—was nature’s problem. They had nothing to do with his death, so why waste time, let alone money, to dispose of the remains? But Hadrian and logic weren’t always on a first-name basis, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Hadrian had his own version of logic. Royce didn’t understand it, and after three years, he’d given up trying.

  Wayward Street was still a muddy mire festooned with a dozen stagnant pools and scarred with the deep tracks from wagon wheels. A filthy patch of stubborn gray snow remained clutched in the shadowy armpit between the tanner’s shop and The Rose and the Thorn tavern. But the roofs were clear, and like a spring flower, Medford House blossomed with fresh blue paint. The last rays of sunlight illuminated the front porch of the grand house of prostitution, which was looking more like a luxurious inn as of late.

  “Not much on patience, is she?” Hadrian said. “Thought she was going to wait for warmer weather.”

  The front door opened, and Gwen DeLancy stepped onto the porch. She was wearing her blue dress, and the color very nearly matched the paint on the house. Royce guessed that was the point. He’d always liked that dress, and the color had nothing to do with it. Gwen smiled and extended her arms in proud presentation. “Well? What do you think? They just started today. Didn’t get too far, just this one wall, but isn’t the color wonderful?”

  “It’s blue,” Hadrian said. “Wouldn’t a different color be better for business? Shouldn’t it be pink or something?”

  “Of course it’s blue!” she scolded. “Medford House was always going to be blue. Just took me a while to raise the funds.”

  Hadrian nodded. “Looks expensive.”

  The two climbed down. They didn’t bother tying up their horses. The animals knew the routine and patiently waited to be unloaded.

  “It is expensive.” Gwen pulled her arms in tight and half spun to admire the place she’d built. The skirt of her dress flared with the movement and her shoulders squeezed close to her neck, battling the chilly breeze. She was barefoot, one leg bent, her weight on the other, a hip tilted.

  Royce stared and cursed time for insisting on moving.

  “Royce?” Hadrian said.

  “What?”

  “Your pack.”

  “What about it?”

  “You set it down in the mud. It’s getting filthy.”

  Royce looked around. His bag had somehow found its way into the slurry that was known to be a mixture of manure and sludge. “Gah!” he uttered his disgust, grabbing it and hoisting it to the steps. “How did
that get there?” He glared at Hadrian accusingly.

  “Don’t look at me. That was all your doing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that?”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Kinda why I mentioned it.”

  Royce scowled at the pack as if it were somehow responsible.

  “Maybe you were distracted by how beautiful the new color is,” Gwen said, turning back. Her skirt did that flaring thing again. The sunlight caught her face and highlighted eyes outlined in dark paint. Her lips glistened, pulled up in a modest smile.

  Hadrian snorted. “Yeah, that must have been it.” He placed his own saddlebags on the porch steps and took Royce’s reins. “Go on in. I’ll take the horses over.”

  Gwen shook her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll have Dixon take care of them. Albert’s waiting inside.”

  “Is he?” Hadrian exchanged a look of confusion with Royce.

  Gwen nodded. “He’s all smiles. Says you got paid.”

  “Paid? For what?” Royce asked.

  Gwen shrugged, rolling mostly bare shoulders, making Royce want to ask For what? again. “The job you just finished, I would expect.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Royce turned to Hadrian. “Does that make sense to you?”

  “Maybe you should talk to Albert,” Gwen coaxed.

  Hadrian started up the steps, but Royce didn’t move. Days had passed since he’d seen Gwen, and he just wanted to look at her—to be with her. Such behavior wasn’t normal, not like him at all. Royce felt awkward and uncomfortable. Gwen, it seemed, was a much better thief. She’d managed to steal an entire person; She’d pinched his old self, stealing it away like a poorly guarded purse. When she was around, everything was different. Mostly, it was confusing, both exciting and peaceful, which left Royce pondering the change. Was he better off or crippled? Had he lost his way or found a better one?