The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Royce urged his horse ahead.

  “Oh, and tell me, Sir Genius, why is it you can’t remember your own name when she’s around, but you haven’t dared to kiss her?”

  The hood came up again.

  “That’s still not an answer.”

  The city of Rochelle proved to be a congested hive of activity. Carts, wagons, and carriages packed cobblestone streets trapped between tall buildings. The soaring stone architecture, with its pointed arches and ornate façades, made Hadrian feel small, and not merely in size. Like the cathedral in Medford, the grandeur here left him feeling unworthy and unwanted, which was one of the reasons Hadrian never had much interest in religion.

  The sun hadn’t quite set, and yet the shadows of the buildings created a premature night on the streets below. Crowds moved through pools of radiance cast by illuminated shop windows. Among the men with walking sticks and ladies in gowns strolling the sidewalks, Hadrian spotted dark-skinned laborers in eastern garb and dwarven crafters bustling along the gutters. A man on stilts and a boy with a spitting torch cut through the mob, lighting streetlamps. A lady in a lavish cloak walked a tiny pug-nosed dog on a leash, making Hadrian think of Lady Martel and Mister Hipple. A pair of men in red-and-blue military uniforms moved casually up the street while a matching pair moved down the other side, eyes watchful and suspicious.

  The smell of woodsmoke, roasting meats, and baked pies filled the air. Throngs stopped to peer into the bright shop windows or surrounded peddlers’ carts, waving hands over their heads to catch the merchants’ attention. Horses’ tacks jingled; hooves clapped stone; bells rang; fiddlers played jaunty tunes; and barkers shouted about cheap shoes and shows about to start. “Come see the lizard-man shed his skin on stage!” Conversations poured over one another such that words were lost in the exchange, and yet Hadrian still managed to notice the accent. More lyrical and sophisticated than western dialects, the sound of the east was one of music and mystery. All of it served to remind him of a time he’d rather forget. He’d found such sights and sounds intoxicating as a youth, back when he was arrogant and stupid. Royce would argue he still was stupid, but his partner didn’t know the pre-Calian Haddy, the boy-soldier with the skill of a man. What a cruel and absurd joke: The more ignorant you realize you are, the smarter you become.

  He glanced at Royce, whose hood panned left and right as he struggled to take everything in. Being overwhelmed was a common reaction for those who hadn’t traveled in these parts. When it came to the east, there was always too much—too much and yet never enough.

  A light rain began to fall as they entered the city—more a nuisance than a problem, but Hadrian suspected that might change as the drops multiplied, the sun set, and the air turned colder. This was something else he remembered: The weather was as unpredictable as the people. According to the stars, spring was less than a week away, but the cool air had a different opinion. Pulling his own hood up, Hadrian tightened the collar as he and Royce waited atop their horses, caught in the traffic of a busy street.

  “Any idea where we should go?” Royce asked as the two waited side by side just to the rear of a carriage, which was stopped behind a wagon being unloaded.

  “I’m thinking an inn or at least a tavern of some sort. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

  “A lot of these stands sell food,” Royce pointed out. “That one is selling lamb, I think.”

  “It’s nearly spring, most vendors will have lamb, but let’s get indoors. I’d prefer not to get soaked on a night that’s already turning cold.”

  Hadrian looked down the street at signs for potential havens: ABERNATHY’S ANTIQUE APOTHECARY; BOOTHMAN & FULLER GLASS; HINKEL’S HEART-STOPPING HATS; FISKE & PINE TALISMANS, AMULETS, AND WARDS. “Lots of shops, but no inns that I can see.”

  The wagon finished its delivery and rolled on. With no clear idea where to go, Royce and Hadrian followed the flow of traffic, trusting it the same way they sometimes relied on their horses to lead them to water. Much to Hadrian’s amazement, the streets became even more congested as they reached a stone bridge. Wide as it was, the span across the Roche River was choked with traffic. Off to their right, a forest of ships’ masts marked the location of the city’s harbor, while ahead and up on a hill stood a grand estate behind a wall. Crossing the bridge, they discovered they were on an island. Traffic urged them around the walled manor and to another bridge. Crossing this second one, they found a large plaza bordered by a huge cathedral and more shops. Although it didn’t seem possible, this plaza was even more packed with people. A sea of heads bobbed along in a slow-flowing current.

  The architecture throughout the city was unusual and more pronounced near the center. Most buildings were constructed from stone and elegantly designed. Not only were they taller than the houses at the edge of town, but they had a grand quality expressed in the many subtle flourishes and unnecessary accoutrements: cupolas were numerous, as were spires. Even the smaller shops had an excess of fanciful gables. Doors were elaborately carved, as were supporting structures and the borders around windows. In towns like Medford, decorations of this sort would depict grapevines or flowers, but in Rochelle, grotesque, twisted faces peered out. Ornamental rainspouts were fashioned so that fantastic monsters, monkeys, lions, and nightmarish creatures belched forth the rain that ran from the slate-tiled roofs. Everything appeared ancient, worn, and weathered from centuries of storms. And everywhere was statuary.

  One statue literally stood head and shoulders above the rest. In the grand plaza on the far bank of the Roche River, a monumental figure of a man loomed. Chiseled of pristine white marble, it stood seventeen feet tall and was as perfect a specimen of humanity as any Hadrian had ever seen. Lean, muscled, and youthful, the figure was carved with one shoulder down and a knee locked—a casual stance so life-like it could have been a giant covered in flour. The bare-chested man grasped a sword, point down, in his right hand. Novron, Hadrian guessed and it wasn’t a particularly difficult conclusion seeing as how the statue was positioned directly in front of a massive cathedral. The figure sported all the traditional tropes of the demi-god: long hair, perfect physique, and the unmistakable sword. If it wasn’t Novron, the Rochelle chapter of the Church of Nyphron had some explaining to do.

  “There!” Royce pointed to a signboard: BLACK SWAN HOSTELRY.

  They steered to the side, working their way out of the flow of people. Hadrian waited with the animals while Royce went in. He came back out only a few minutes later. “No vacancy. Place is packed.”

  They moved on to the Gray Fox Inn and then the Hound’s Tooth, and finally The Iron Crown. Every room was taken.

  “They have a waiting list,” Royce explained after returning with the bad news. “A bunch of people are hoping that someone might leave.” Royce climbed back aboard his saddle and in a quiet voice said, “Fella inside told me our best bet is a place called the Dirty Tankard. Says it’s up this way.”

  Having drifted out of the more populated areas, Hadrian was both pleased and dismayed—happy to be away from the press of the crowd but uneasy as options ran out. He’d hoped to find someplace soon, especially since the rain was coming down harder. Crossing another smaller and less distinguished bridge, the two entered a neighborhood of equally narrow but darker streets. Shops were scarce, barkers and vendor carts completely absent. The Dirty Tankard lived up to its name: a dingy shack that reminded Hadrian of The Hideous Head before Gwen took it over and turned it into the much-improved Rose and the Thorn. Despite the Tankard’s run-down appearance, a line of people stretched out the door and wound down an oily street.

  Dismounting, Royce tied their mounts as Hadrian took a place in line. He could hear the rain on the inn’s roof growing louder.

  “Is de festival,” the woman in front said to the man ahead of her. She pronounced the word fest-e-vole, forcing Hadrian to puzzle it out. “Always busy dis time o’ year.”

  “Yes, but dis is a special year, taint it? Every-von coming.” />
  “Don’t know why. Not going to make no difference to most of dees folks here, now is it?”

  “Why you here?”

  “Same as you. To see how much a difference it doesn’t make.”

  Royce rushed up, his hood taking on the shine it did when wet.

  “When is the festival?” Hadrian asked the group ahead of him.

  The woman turned. Middle-aged and dark-skinned, she had bright almond eyes. She gave the pair a puzzled look as she studied their clothes. She glanced at the horses tied to the nearby post. “You looking for a place to stay?”

  Hadrian and Royce both nodded.

  “You don’t want dis place.” She spoke with the same conviction as if they were all waiting in line before an executioner’s block.

  More heads turned. Hadrian saw the face of the man she had been speaking to and another woman looking back—all Calians. Ahead of them stood a pair of dwarves in traveling clothes holding satchels over their shoulders.

  “She’s right, you don’t belong here,” one of the dwarves said. “You should be in the Merchant District or Old Town. This place—” the dwarf hooked a thumb at the Dirty Tankard—“is awful.”

  “We tried,” Hadrian replied. “They’re all full.”

  “There’s a room on Mill Street.” The person who said this wasn’t in line. She sat on the side of the road, her back up against the wall, wrapped in a sheet of worn sail canvas. She looked young, and Hadrian might have considered her a girl except that in her lap lay a bundled child. Hadrian hadn’t even noticed her until she spoke.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you in line?” Hadrian apologized.

  “No,” she replied. “I’m not in line.” She said the words hesitantly, as if unsure whether he had been making a joke.

  “Where is that room?” Royce pressed.

  She pointed. “An old woman lets it out. There’s no sign, but it’s available. Down there. The one with blue shutters and matching door, just up the hill from the bookbindery, back toward the Merchant District.”

  Royce looked the way she gestured. “If you know about this place, why are you sitting in the rain?” He glanced at the child. “Why don’t you take it? Is it expensive?”

  This made several people in line laugh.

  “Where you two from?” the Calian ahead of them asked.

  “Not from here,” Royce said pointedly.

  “Of course not. Wouldn’t be talking to her if you were. Or me, I suppose.”

  “Wouldn’t be waiting to get into the Tankard, either,” one of the dwarves said.

  “The lady who lets out the room on Mill Street is from here,” the mother with the baby said, as if this explained everything. When she saw it didn’t, she added, “I could knock on her door all day, and she’d never open for the likes of me.”

  “Why not?” Hadrian asked.

  The woman pulled back the sail canvas she’d used as a hood, revealing a pair of ears that narrowed dramatically at the top. “No place in this city would rent me a room.” She put a hand on the back of her sleeping child. “Not even the Dirty Tankard. Their bedbugs are too good for us.” She said this last part as a joke; she even laughed a little.

  A man came out of the shack waving his arms over his head to get everyone’s attention. “We’re full!” he shouted. “Go look someplace else.”

  The line let out a communal groan as they broke formation.

  “And it’s gonna be a wet one tonight,” the dwarf grumbled.

  “And cold,” said the Calian woman.

  Royce looked at Hadrian, who shrugged. “What’s this woman’s name on Mill Street?”

  “Dunno,” the mother said, pulling her sailcloth back over her head, covering her ears. “Husband used to be a tax collector, which didn’t make her popular. He died a few years back. Now she lets out the room. Not a friendly sort.”

  “That makes two of us,” Royce said.

  Mill Street was a narrow paved track with a series of brick-and-stone buildings so closely butted together that they formed an irregular pair of walls. Narrow balconies cast shadows on cobblestone where rainwater had been trained to hug the curb. No trees, bushes, or grass broke the uniformity. This was a serious street; a proper humorless precinct that didn’t simply frown, it scowled. Even in that crowded city, Mill Street was vacant, an empty stretch of blinds and closed doors. Only one building had blue shutters. Near the center of the block, it stood three stories high and had a pair of narrow framed windows marking three floors, each endowed with a barren flower box, painted blue. An old-fashioned black iron candle-lantern illuminated the front door, which had also been painted the same sapphire hue. A brass knocker in the shape of a woodpecker perched in the center above a large grated window, its beak pressed against a plate.

  Just as the mother had mentioned, there was no indication of a room for rent.

  “You should let me do the talking,” Hadrian said as he grasped the woodpecker. It made a surprisingly loud clack! clack! clack!

  “You? You’re an awful negotiator,” Royce replied, using the stoop to scrape mud off the edge of his boots. “And far too generous. You’ll let this old hag fleece us out of every copper.”

  “See, that’s just the sort of thing I think we ought to avoid. ‘Old hag’ isn’t the best way to approach a woman who might be willing to share her home with us.”

  Royce frowned. “I wasn’t going to say it to her face.”

  “But that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “She can’t hear my thoughts.”

  “Actually, it’s sorta in your tone.”

  “I don’t have a tone.” Royce directed his attention to the woodpecker. His hood was still up, and rain beaded on the surface, glistening with the lamplight. “Besides, I’m a professional thief. I make a living by lying convincingly.”

  “You scare people,” Hadrian said. “This old widow lives alone. She’s not going to take chances renting to anyone who frightens her. She—”

  The door itself didn’t open, but the brass-grated security window slid back. Behind, a thin and withered gray-haired woman appeared, her lips pursed. She clutched the collar of a shawl about her neck and peered out with trepidation. She spotted Royce first.

  He studied her for only a moment, then sighed and stepped aside, granting Hadrian the audience.

  “By the Unholy Twins,” the old woman cursed. She glared at both of them. Her eyes were large—sunken and bulbous—accentuated by arching brows that glared in judgment. “If you’re looking for handouts, this isn’t the door. If you’re selling something, the Merchant District is in the city center. If you’re spreading news, I assure you I’ve already heard it. If you’re dispensing trouble . . . believe me, I’ve all I need, stocked full, I say.”

  Hadrian blinked, stunned.

  “Oh, my apologies,” she softened her voice, her brows drooping in understanding. “I see. You’re nothing but a pair of idiots. Off you go. Play in the rain. Leave the pretty bird on my door alone. It’s not real; it can’t fly.” She shooed at them with frail fingers. “The river is that way. If you fall in, odds are good that all your troubles will be over in short order. Goodnight and goodbye.” With a smile, she clapped the little window grate shut.

  “We’re here for the room,” Hadrian shouted, his voice descending in volume with each word, accepting the defeat.

  “Well done,” Royce said. He clapped slowly. “I must admit she didn’t appear the least bit frightened.”

  The entire door jerked back, making the woodpecker clack. “Did you say you want to rent my room?”

  “Ah, yes,” Hadrian replied. “We heard you have one to let. Is that true?”

  “It is.” She looked them over anew, and a frown developed. “Do you have any money?”

  Royce sneered at her.

  “We do,” Hadrian said, and followed this with a big smile. He poured all his charm into it.

  “I see,” she said, still frowning. Her eyes adding a cloud of disappointment to the mix.
She promptly turned to address Royce. “I charge four silver a night—that’s tenents, mind you.”

  Royce narrowed his eyes. “Unless this room comes with running water and its own staff, you’re dreaming. I’ll give you three silver dins.”

  The woman sniffed. “Forgive me, did I say four silver? I meant five. And I only deal in tenents. I’ll have nothing to do with that worthless din fiddle-faddle. That funny money is nothing but painted metal. And the room comes with a pot and a bed. I, young man, comprise the entire staff, but don’t expect me to lift a finger on your behalf.”

  Royce shook his head. “We’ll pay three silver.”

  “No, if you want to stay here, you’ll pay six.”

  “Six? But . . .” Royce glanced at Hadrian, perplexed and irritated. The thief had never shown much capacity for patience with children or the elderly, or indeed any living thing. “You’re supposed to reduce your price. It’s called haggling.”

  “And you’re supposed to be polite to your elders. I’m not a hag.”

  Royce sighed. “That’s not what haggling means.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She glared at him with a look that could wither the most resilient weed.

  “I think she was listening earlier,” Hadrian explained.

  Royce glowered. “Yeah, I got that.”

  “The price is six silver. Would you like to try for seven?” The old woman folded her arms stiffly, her lips pursing into a sour expression. And while she and Royce were close to the same height, she somehow managed to look down on him, waiting for the inevitable answer that her face declared she knew all along.

  “You drive a hard bargain for a non-hag.”

  “It’s also raining, and the city is packed.” She held her hand out, palm up. “You pay in advance. I’ll kick you out with no refund if you don’t obey my rules.”

  “Which are?”

  “You be quiet, respectful, and clean up after yourself. No women. No animals. No drinking. No smoking. No nonsense. Breakfast is at dawn. There is no dinner. Do not be late for breakfast. I don’t like wasting food.”