Breakfast the next morning was a surprisingly civil affair. Royce and Hadrian were on time, and Evelyn showed her approval with a slight nod before taking her seat. The meal was every bit as sumptuous as the morning before, but this time with waffles pressed into the shape of elephants. Evelyn didn’t bother asking either of them to do the benediction, but Hadrian and Royce waited patiently for her to do so, and showed respect by bowing their heads.
“These waffles are excellent,” Hadrian said, mostly to break the silence, but also because it was true. Evelyn was an incredible cook, and he was wondering if she did indeed employ an army of fairy helpers.
“Thank you,” she replied. Then, as if in acknowledgment of their fine behavior, she scrutinized Royce, who not only had risen early to wash and shave but had also elected to leave his cloak in their room. “That’s much better breakfast attire. I approve.”
“Thank you,” Royce replied with equal propriety.
Then Evelyn narrowed her eyes at Hadrian. “Is that a new scarf?”
Hadrian sat up and smiled. “Yes, do you like it?”
“It’s blue.”
“Popular color in Rochelle, I’ve discovered.”
“Only among idiots.”
This brought a surprised smile to Royce’s face, but shocked Hadrian.
“Your front door is blue,” Hadrian pointed out.
“I didn’t paint it,” the old woman said. “That was my late husband’s doing. He had some fool notion it would protect us from a monster.”
Hadrian looked down at his scarf, disappointed. He had expected the old woman to appreciate his adoption of the local style. Why he cared remained something of a mystery, but perhaps his desire to please her stemmed from the loss of his mother. Hadrian couldn’t remember much about her. She had died when he was still young, but he imagined Evelyn was what mothers were like, or supposed to be: stern, correcting, fault-finding, and great cooks. Her disapproval, as ridiculous as it was, bothered him more than all of Royce’s scoffing. Her mention of the monster, however, opened a door too tantalizing to let close without a peek. Hadrian gave up trying to win approval for his choice in fashion and asked, “You don’t believe in the Morgan?”
Evelyn’s brows rose as she delicately tore a pastry in half. “Yesterday you didn’t know basic history, but today you’re steeped in local arcane folklore, are you?”
“We’re trying to educate ourselves,” Royce offered.
Evelyn wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, then sniffed. “Well, you won’t do it by listening to gossip and ghost stories, gentlemen. The Morgan is nothing more than a silly old legend. Honestly, I would think two grown men would know better. But of course you aren’t the only ones. Tomorrow, you’ll see. If you go to the Feast of Nobles, the whole lot will be attired in a bewildering spectrum of sapphire, cobalt, ultramarine, navy, turquoise, cyan, cerulean, and azure, all in an attempt to ward off a monster straight out of a children’s tale.” She focused on the scarf. “I think a man who carries three swords ought not fear a ghost.”
“What exactly is this ghost story?” Royce asked.
“You won’t like it. There’s more of that icky history stuff you’re not fond of.”
“Make it short, and I’ll try and stay awake.”
She tilted her head down and peered up at him. “You washed this morning, so I’ll let that go.” Evelyn paused to refill her teacup, set the ceramic pot down with a petite tink, and then picked up her cup with both hands. She sat back, watching the steam rise. “Yesterday, if you recall, I mentioned a fellow by the name of Glenmorgan. He was the brute who, back in the year 2450, conquered all the other petty little mongrel lords and called himself the new emperor, a title the church later changed to steward. He’s also the one who set up his capital in Ervanon and forced the Church of Nyphron to do the same. Well, he had a civilized son, but the boy didn’t live very long. His grandson, Glenmorgan the Third, was different. While still young, the child demonstrated he was just as barbaric as his grandfather, and he ran off to fight the goblins in Galeannon. To his credit, he won that battle, which was thereafter known as the Battle of Vilan Hills. At least it was until recently when another battle was fought, and now that original engagement goes by the less significant title of the First Battle of Vilan Hills.”
“I was in the second,” Hadrian mentioned.
Evelyn lifted her chin and peered at him over her cup. “Under whose banner?”
“Lord Belstrad.”
“You fought under the banner of Chadwick, Warric’s first regiment in the coalition force commanded by Lanis Ethelred? That was the conflict that turned back the Ba Ran Ghazel’s second serious invasion of Avryn. The one where Sir Breckton, Belstrad’s eldest son, had the rightful glory stolen from him by Rufus of Lanksteer. The northman’s ill-advised and downright ludicrous charge into a ravine won him the title of Hero of the Battle despite costing the lives of nearly all his men. Would have killed him, too, if the Ba Ran Ghazel hadn’t been just as dumbfounded by the stupidity as everyone else.”
Hadrian blinked, his mouth hanging in surprise.
“Close your mouth, dear. This is Rochelle, and more than mere goods flow through these ports. Here, we are fond of our history. My late husband was a particular maven of all things antiquated, and his passion became mine.” She took a sip of tea. “As I was saying, Glenny Three won the First Battle of Vilan Hills. The celebration took him across the bay to Blythin Castle, the onetime stronghold of the exiled empire and Nyphron Church—at least until they built Grom Galimus. Glenny spent the next few days drinking and basking in the praise of his nobles. When it came time to leave, they had a surprise waiting for him. The old families didn’t like the idea of a strong emperor who wasn’t sanctioned by the church. They were afraid the true Heir of Novron would be forgotten.”
“They killed him?”
She shook her head. “Heavens, no. Just as they are now, the nobility of that time were notorious cowards. They shied from murder. Instead, they locked Glenny Three in the bowels of Blythin Castle. Rumor says the granite cliff the castle sits on is riddled with ancient tunnels where the Seret have carved out a vast number of oubliettes. They sealed him in, walled him up, and walked away. As you can imagine, betraying your emperor after he’d just saved the empire from disaster generated a fair degree of guilt. So here in Rochelle, the city nestled in the shadow of Blythin Castle, there arose a ghost story to accommodate that shame. The tale tells that Glenny was upset with his fate, and being a bundle of ambition that even death couldn’t squelch, he turned into a monster and found a way out of those tunnels. Now he creeps down here to Rochelle in search of the nobles who betrayed him. They’re all long dead, but Glenny doesn’t know that, you understand, and when it sees someone that looks like one of them, the Morgan has his revenge. And it’s bloody; it’s always very bloody.”
Evelyn took another sip, set her cup down, and reached for her pastry.
“And the color blue?” Hadrian asked.
Evelyn flipped her hand in nonchalant dismissal. “Blue wards off evil, of course. That’s why proper baby boys are always covered in it, to protect them from demons and evil spirits. Superstitious fools are willing to pay the exorbitant cost to protect their precious darlings.”
Hadrian considered this. “What about baby girls? Aren’t parents concerned about them, too?”
“It’s not a matter of concern. They don’t need protection. Evil spirits aren’t interested in them.” Evelyn made no attempt to hide her caustic sneer. “They’re females after all, entirely unimportant. No self-respecting demon would waste its time with a girl, so inexpensive pink is just fine.”
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“Where are we headed today, my faithful hound?” Hadrian asked as Royce, having donned his cloak once more, darted off at a brisk pace up Mill Street, heading away from the river. Once again, Hadrian struggled to keep pace with his partner as he moved swiftly uphill.
While Hadrian maintained his belief that the two had been lucky the day before, there was no denying their efforts had yielded little progress in finding the duchess. They knew the whereabouts of an Estate-employed dwarf who might, or might not, have been the driver of the duchess’s coach. They also knew that the aforementioned dwarf was in nefarious contact with a Calian who was now dead, the victim, it seemed, of the five-hundred-year-old reincarnation of a betrayed emperor. Then there was the phantom who had tried to crush them with a rock, whom Royce had thought was dead, but wasn’t. This elusive mir had survived a high dive from the cathedral roof into the Roche River well enough to pay them a visit, but failed to leave his name or address.
“Back to dwarf-land?” Hadrian asked.
“No,” Royce replied. “Today we’re going to a funeral.”
“A funeral? Whose?”
“That’s what I hope to discover.” Royce stopped when they reached the first cross street. A brisk wind gusted down its length, blowing a tumbling basket past them. “Which way leads to this wonderland of Calian shopping you love so much?”
“It’s down near the harbor, in Little Gur Em, close to where we ate yesterday.”
Royce set off down the street, staying on the walk to avoid the wagon traffic. “I’m betting the Calian with the missing face had a family, and families have a tendency to bury members when they die. If we see a funeral—a procession, a gathering at a graveyard or home—odds will be good that we’ll have found the faceless man.”
Traffic increased as they headed south toward the bay, where the salty air mixed with the smell of fish. Men wheeled laden carts uphill and empty ones down toward the docks. Others carried hods, or toolboxes, or ladders. Several in the loose-fitting dress of sailors staggered out of doors, squinting at the sun as they dragged themselves back toward the ships. Others milled about in a daze with no clear purpose. They wandered without an evident destination, looking with child’s wonder at the buildings, shops, and carts. Hadrian realized that they acted much as he did, and in that instant, he understood that these were visitors to the city, there to witness the historic crowning of the new king.
Hadrian studied the streets and building shapes, trying to recall his trip from the night before. He looked for anything familiar, but it was significantly different in daylight. Recalling a neighborhood of dilapidated houses, he turned down a narrow street and found what he was looking for: an avalanche of busted crates, an open sewer grate, and a familiar clothesline stretching overhead. Clothes had been taken off the cord, and the ladder was missing, but the dollop of manure was still there, complete with the slide mark from his boot.
“Getting close,” Hadrian said. After a wrong turn, he doubled back and found the shabby wooden fence. With no one watching, they jumped it together. Back in the land of dented buckets, Hadrian found the intersection, verifying his memory by looking down the street and seeing the spires of the cathedral. The crossroads, so ominous the night before, was laughably mundane in the daylight. He turned his back on Grom Galimus and walked only a few steps before being rewarded with a stain of blood leading to an alley.
The bells of Grom Galimus were chiming as Royce bent down, studying the ruddy blemish. He scooped up some pebbles, chips, and shards of rock recently scattered. He sniffed them.
“What’s it smell like?” Hadrian asked.
“Gravel,” Royce replied.
“From the box,” Hadrian said. “I probably spilled some when checking it last night.”
Royce nodded and stood up. He looked around and sighed.
“Nothing?” Hadrian asked.
“Other than the fact the body is gone, I have nothing.”
After that, the two proceeded to imitate the rest of Rochelle’s visitors who wandered the maze of streets. Royce and Hadrian explored the back areas—those residential sections where chickens wandered free; where hanging rugs formed all the privacy available for roadside privies; where naked children played in puddles, and gatherings of mothers watched the two of them with suspicious interest. Royce made a methodic search, up one row then down the next, with an eye to the impoverished homes. They looked for crowds, for groups dressed in black, for weeping huddles of those who might be mourning the loss of a loved one.
After hours traipsing through trash and garnering unfriendly glares, Royce stopped. “I suppose it’s possible he didn’t have any family or friends.”
“Someone took his body away,” Hadrian said.
“Maybe the guards or neighborhood elders? Can’t have the children playing with dead bodies, might give them sicknesses and a true understanding of their genuine worth to society. Maybe we should head down to the harbor. That’s where they probably dump bodies. This city looks like the sort to have a cadaver-sluice. Our Calian conspirator is likely halfway to the Goblin Sea by now.”
“He had to have somebody who cared about him,” Hadrian said.
“Why?”
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“Everyone has someone.”
“No, they don’t.” Royce focused on a scraggly little pug-nosed dog that was rummaging through a pile of rotting fish bones and tangled netting. “Think about all the stray dogs out there, the ones like that, the mangy wretches no one wants, the sort that people throw rocks at to drive away. They don’t have anyone, and people like dogs, right? Man’s best friend, isn’t that what they say? There are a lot of stray humans, too.” Royce continued to watch the dog with sympathetic eyes. There was something odd about the mutt. The dog wasn’t a stray. It had a collar. A blue collar that—
“You’re not a stray anymore, Royce.”
“What?” Royce turned with a puzzled look.
“I’m just saying that if you died, I’d bury you. And if not me, Gwen would.” He laughed. “By Mar, Gwen would build a tomb for you and paint it blue.”
“I wasn’t talking about me.”
“Sure. I was just saying.”
“Perhaps you should try not saying anything.”
When Royce looked back, the dog was gone.
The light of another day began to fade as they returned once more to Little Gur Em’s merchant square; the bells of Grom Galimus chimed.
“I don’t know.” Royce sighed. “Maybe we should look for the dwarf. He might not have relocated. If I put a knife to his throat, or better yet his wife’s, he might . . .” Royce paused. Looking around at the crowd, his expression became puzzled.
“What is it, boy? What do you smell?”
Royce glared.
“Sorry.” Hadrian grinned.
Royce nodded toward the people moving around them.
There were three young girls carrying cloth-covered baskets of baked goods. A man with a saw looped over one shoulder walked past and tipped his hat. An elderly couple strolled hand in hand, shuffling along as slowly as a pair of lazy snails, looking both romantic and cute. Most were Calian, a few were dwarves, and several were mir.
At first Hadrian saw nothing odd, then as he watched he saw it. Where earlier, people were going, coming, and milling about, now everyone—every single person, right down to the children—was heading east.
“They weren’t doing that a minute ago?” Hadrian asked.
“The bells.” Royce nodded in the direction of the cathedral. “They just rang.”
“Hurry up or we’ll be late,” a Calian woman said as she ushered children out of her home. She caught sight of them, offered a cautious smile, then looked away and shooed her boys along.
One by one, the shopkeepers and cart vendors closed their doors and covered their wares. After locking their treasures away, they, too, headed away from the setting sun.
“Where do you think they’re going?”
The two stood in the square and watched as it emptied of people, draining like a leaking bucket until only a few stragglers remained. As the light faded and night crept into the city once more, Royce and Hadrian followed.
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Pursuing the parade east, Hadrian noticed they were leaving Little Gur Em and entering a decidedly less inviting part of town. In all his wanderings and late-night chases, Hadrian hadn’t been here. Based on the way Royce was looking about, he hadn’t, either.
Like the fringe of an old coat, the eastern edge of the city frayed. Rochelle had been bigger once; now the forest worked to reclaim stolen land. Grand homes and shops abandoned to decay had been uprooted by trees bursting through foundations, popping roofs, and throwing branches through windows so that the forest appeared to wear the houses. Streets had lost stones; the gaping holes reminded Hadrian of missing molars in an ancient mouth, while the tufts of yellowed grass that spurted in doorways were the unwanted hair of the aging. Wind blew shredded curtains, tattered awnings, and loose boards, which made a hollow, lonesome sound that echoed down the cavity-plagued road.
The procession took several routes, but all of them concluded at a stone ruin that might have once been a warehouse. Large enough to have been used to construct sailing ships, the building had four intact walls and half a wooden roof. None of the windows retained any evidence of glass, and the stone exterior showed only a speckled stain of paint where a mural had once decorated a wall. Conversations had been few, but as the many groups and individuals transformed into one tight crowd, soft murmurs rose. Royce and Hadrian drew their hoods up as they slipped inside. The sun was gone, the land dark. A single bonfire shimmered brightly at the front of the building, casting giant shadows on chalk walls.
Hadrian had no idea what he was seeing or was about to see. In many ways, the confluence of people reminded him of a church service, but he couldn’t understand why a religious meeting would be held at night in such a fearful place. Something seasonal like a Wintertide or Summersrule observance, he guessed, as a cold wind shook the branches of a tree, clacking a branch against the broken roof. This was winter’s last night, and the season thrashed with a spiteful anger.
Royce clapped Hadrian on the arm, and with a slight tilt of his head, he indicated a small figure near the fire. With the dwarf’s hood pulled back, Hadrian recognized Griswold, who stood on a wooden crate alongside a taller figure. That person wore his hood up, his face hidden.
“Seventeen days,” the hooded one next to Griswold said loudly. He turned halfway around and then repeated it. “Seventeen days ago your leaders embarked on an ambitious plan on your behalf. The disappearance of the Duchess of Rochelle was our doing. We took her to apply pressure on the duke, to get him to grant rights for those who have none. Our demands were reasonable, easily granted, and completely ignored. For seventeen days we sought a peaceful solution, but tomorrow is the Spring Feast, and we can’t wait any longer.”
Even the low murmuring stopped. The interior of the ruined building grew silent.
“We all wanted a peaceful solution, but injustice cannot be defeated by good intentions. Prejudice cannot be reasoned with. It cannot be beaten back without a cost. We must rise. Blood! That’s what it takes. Blood must be spilled. The noble houses wear blue, but they should fear red. The crimson of their own lives. We need to show them we will no longer silently withstand their degradations. Seeing the color splattered on the walls, on the cobblestones, and on their pretty blue jackets will get their attention.”
“Oh, it will certainly do that!” a mir said. Dressed in a deep-blue kirtle, the woman had equally dark skin, her hair nappy as any East Calian. She walked up to stand next to Griswold and the hooded speaker. A full head shorter than the one she interrupted, she was small and slight, but she stood tall, chin-high, eyes bright. “It will also terrify them. And not just the aristocracy of Rochelle, or even the three great houses of Alburn. I’ve already spoken to Villar about the folly of his proposal. If you listen to him, if you take up arms, you’ll be declaring war and gain the very fervent attention of both the nobility and the church. And I’m talking about not just here, but all across Avryn. Not one of those kings, dukes, earls, or marquises will abide such a filthy house. They’ll scrub the streets clean and use gallons of our blood for the washing. For every drop of theirs we draw, they’ll demand a barrel of ours.”
“Mercator Sikara, everyone,” the tall one said, holding his hands out and introducing her to the crowd, but his tone wasn’t inviting or welcoming. Hadrian suspected everyone already knew who she was. Villar shook his head. “What would your grandfather think of you? Of your fears? Of your willingness to abase yourself. Would he approve of you offering your people the illusion of safety through complacency? I don’t deny that sacrifices will be made, but anything worth having comes at a price. We have had our heritage stolen from us. All of us.” He pointed at Griswold. “Once proud Belgriclungreians have been shuttered into ghettos, locked in on festival nights, and forced to lock themselves in during their own celebration days to avoid being victims of violence. Calians, once the noble merchant-citizens of the imperial province of Calynia, whose city of Urlineus was the last to surrender its imperial banner, are now forced to beg for the right to buy and sell on the streets of a city that considers itself the last echo of the imperium. A city that should welcome them the most! And the mir . . .” He paused, shaking his head.
He took a breath as if it was far too much to go on, but somehow he managed to continue. “Mir . . . that was once a term of respect, a title of an honorable heritage. Those of us who can trace our lineage back to the imperial province of Merredydd know that we were once proud and admired members of the Novronian Empire. Mir Sikar sat on the Imperial Council beside Mir Plymerath, both of whom personally knew, and fought beside, the living Novron. But now . . . now . . .” He faltered and gestured up at the walls around them. “Now we barely exist, denied even the right to dwell in a house, the freedom to conduct a business of any kind, and the dignity to provide for ourselves and our loved ones.”
“That voice is familiar,” Royce whispered.
“The one in the hood?”
Royce nodded.
“Living in the past is no way to create a future,” Mercator said.
“It’s from the past that we find our future,” Villar declared.
“I wish he’d lift his head high enough so I could see his face,” Royce said, peering up.
Hadrian was acutely aware that all the people in attendance, other than the two of them, were dark-skinned Calians, short dwarves, and easily identified mir. Anyone getting a good look under either of their hoods would know they didn’t belong. Given that they had stumbled into something akin to a pre-revolution rally, Hadrian preferred not to be noticed. Spies were always given the same reward, whether it was handed out by kings or insurgents, and three swords wouldn’t be enough to fight off hundreds of furious people.
“You’re asking us to commit suicide.” Mercator threw up her hands, her voice growing shrill in frustration.
“I’m asking for us to stand up for ourselves, to be brave,” Villar countered. “We outnumber our oppressors. We can defeat them. We can take control and make our own rules.”
“Our numbers are greater only in Rochelle,” Mercator argued. “Outside this city are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people who would like nothing better than to see every one of us dead, and they’ll respond to this attack. Well-equipped and well-trained armies will have no qualms about putting down our little insurrection. And do you think it will stop there? No! The aristocracy of every kingdom will purge their homes of the unwanted. Today we are seen as merely a nuisance, but after tomorrow we’ll be a threat. If you do this, you doom not just ourselves, but every mir, Belgriclungreian, and Calian across the face of Elan. You’ll launch a universal war that we have no hope of surviving, much less winning.”
Villar’s voice showed disgust and an end of patience. “You have all heard Mercator’s words before. And as I said, I tried things her way, and at great personal risk. I was the one who kidnapped the duchess. And what did the duke do? Nothing. He has ignored our demands. So many of you have suffered, so many have asked why we don’t stand up for ourselves, why we don’t fight. Tomorrow we will. On the first day of spring, the nobles from every corner of Alburn will be at the feast. It’s our best chance, a perfect opportunity. They’re not expecting a revolution, and they won’t be protected by thick breastplates, nor will they be carrying swords. But we will! The dwarves have secretly prepared nearly a hundred weapons, ready to be handed out. The Calian soothsayers have confirmed that tomorrow is a turning point for this city, and it will be if the mir, the Belgriclungreians, and the Calians all join forces and attack the Feast of Nobles tomorrow at midday. Listen to me now, and we won’t ever have to listen to the nobles again. I ask for your support, by a show of—”
Villar finally lifted his head high enough that the light splashed his features, and both Hadrian and Royce got a good look at the person beneath the hood. A triangular face, black hair, angled brows—a mir, and an angry one. There was a cold hate in the pull of his lips and an intensity in his dark eyes as he scanned the crowd, seeking to speak directly to everyone gathered. Royce had also tilted his head to get a better look, and in that same moment the two recognized each other.
Lowering his head, Royce whispered, “It’s him. The guy I chased last night.”
Villar shouted, “Grab that man!” and pointed at Royce.
“Time to go,” Royce said. They struggled to retreat but ran into a mass of bodies.
Villar continued to shout. “Get him! Both of them! They’re spies for the duke!”
The phrase spies for the duke did the trick, and instantly Hadrian felt uncountable hands.
Royce reached under his cloak.
“No, Royce, don’t!” Hadrian yelled.
His partner hesitated and in that moment was equally besieged by a dozen men who swarmed until they had him in a firm grip. Royce glared.
The crowd was filled with innocent people, the elderly, women, and children. Any hope they had to get free would require killing—lots of killing, and even then they might not get away. That sweet old couple Hadrian had seen on the way to the rally stood four rows back, still arm in arm, looking upon them with fear. Beside them, a beautiful blond girl, a mir, stared at him wide-eyed in shock. The rest of the crowd was confused and frightened. These people weren’t soldiers. They were a host of Griswolds. People who came home from a long day with nothing more than a miserable excuse for a chicken. And even so, their meager offering garnered a kiss from a grateful wife. None of this would matter to Royce.
“There’s too many,” Hadrian said.
“What are you talking about, Villar?” Mercator asked, “Who are these men?”
“They have been searching for the duchess. Asking questions and hanging out with the captain of the duke’s guard. Just last night I came upon them spying on Griswold and Erasmus. I chased the little one. And the large one murdered Erasmus Nym.”
“Nym’s dead?” someone asked, but was ignored.
Hadrian tried to pull free, but it was hopeless with so many pressing in from all sides. Someone put an arm around his neck, tilting Hadrian backward and off balance. He felt them take his swords.
Hadrian and Royce had been turned to face the front of the room. Mercator, whose arms were two-toned as if she were wearing black gloves to her elbows, stepped forward. “Is what Villar says true?” Hadrian was encouraged by the sincerity of the question. She, at least, hadn’t made up her mind.
He looked to Royce, who refused to answer. Hadrian offered as charming a smile as the chokehold allowed and focused on her. “Yes and no.”
Mercator wasn’t amused.
“No, I didn’t kill anyone. Yes, we have been looking for the duchess. No, we aren’t spies of the duke; we’ve never even met the man. Yes, I know the captain of the guard, we served together years ago.”
“I was there,” Griswold said, “I saw you chase Nym last night, and now my friend is dead.”
“Well, yes, I did chase him, but we got separated, and when I found him again, he was dead. But I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“He’s lying, of course,” Villar said. “I’d lie, too, if I were in his place. He’s only trying to save his own skin.”
“And why are you looking for the duchess?” Mercator asked.
“My friend and I were hired by her father, Gabriel Winter, who’s worried about the disappearance of his only daughter; he feared for her life.”
“See! He admits it,” Villar said. “They know we kidnapped her. They know what happens tomorrow. Let them live and we die. We need to kill them; throw their bodies in the Roche; let it take their stink to the sea.”
“No!” a voice in the crowd yelled, the girl with blond hair and blue eyes. “Leave him alone.” She pushed through the crowd to face Hadrian. “I know this man, and I won’t let anyone hurt him.”
Royce looked at Hadrian and Hadrian looked back, his face mirroring the confusion.
“Seton?” Mercator asked, pushing forward toward the girl. “What are you talking about?”
“This is the rasa!” The blonde pointed at Hadrian and stared at Mercator with big eyes.
Mercator continued to appear puzzled. “The rasa?” Her eyes widened. She studied Hadrian closely. “Are you sure? How can you be . . . how could he be . . .”
“I’m positive,” Seton said. “I could never forget his face, his three swords, those eyes.”
Hadrian, on the other hand, had clearly forgotten hers. She was vaguely familiar but only because he thought she looked a bit like Arbor, the shoemaker’s daughter from Hintindar whom he’d been in love with at the age of fifteen. But this girl was a mir, and Arbor must still be living in Hintindar, married and with children by now. Hadrian had no idea why this young woman was defending him, or why she called him a rasa. Given his position, he wasn’t about to deny anything she said.
Villar pivoted. “What’s this all about?”
“This is Hadrian Blackwater,” Seton said. “Seven years ago, he saved my life.”