When Hadrian came out of the coach house, rubbing his hands on his pants to get the last of the bacon grease off, he found that Royce had taken the spot on top of the coach. He sat up there like a crow on the peak of a roof, hood up, his cloak fluttering in the rising wind. As Hadrian approached, the thief glanced over but didn’t say a word, and Hadrian didn’t need to ask. The answer was obvious. If it had been anyone else, Hadrian might have suspected the underlying reason to be compassion, decency, or even straight-up friendship. Since Hadrian had suffered the cold wind and wet snow for hours, it was only fair that he be granted time inside the coach. But this wasn’t anyone else?—?this was Royce?—?and Hadrian’s welfare had nothing to do with the crow being on the roof. He was up there because of Gwen.

  Being near Gwen DeLancy had always confused Royce. Watching him was as entertaining as witnessing a drunk trying to navigate a familiar room. There were times when the man seemed to forget his own name. Hadrian knew all too well what that was like. At the age of fifteen, he’d fallen for Arbor, the shoemaker’s daughter, and he had been so smitten that he’d nearly killed his best friend. Such feelings were bewildering for anyone. But for Royce, who was already as twisted as a corkscrew, it must be a nightmare. The man rarely drank, for fear it would impair his ability to fend off the multitude of hazards?—?some real, others imagined?—?that he believed life constantly thrust at him. This trip must be frustrating beyond reason, so Royce wanted to be alone.

  Despite his friend’s distress, Hadrian appreciated the chance to ride inside. He hadn’t slept much. His clothes were still damp from the snow, and a chill resided deep in his bones. He’d previously determined that if he sat in the cold long enough, the cold felt welcomed to stay. The lack of food contributed. The Hansons had provided eat-as-we-go provisions in the way of nuts, raisins, and such, but that was like wearing a hat in a rainstorm?—?it helped, but not much, and after a while, not at all. Briar Rose’s eggs and bacon had provided the foundation for recovery, but what he really needed was a warm place to sleep. He took the seat vacated by Royce, next to Gwen and across from Albert.

  “Well, isn’t this nice,” Arcadius said. “Royce is heroically giving up his coveted spot to poor Hadrian. What a fine act of gallantry?—?wouldn’t you say so, Gwendolyn?”

  She nodded. “If he hadn’t, I would have.”

  Hadrian smiled at her.

  “Here, take my blanket.” Gwen draped her woolen cover around his shoulders.

  Hadrian thanked her, and as the coach rolled out, he slouched down and laid his head against the soft, tufted leather padding that ran all the way up the walls of the interior. The coach resumed its rocking rhythm, which he found soothing. The others talked about the food, the family, and the true chances of Copper becoming a coachman?—?which started an amiable dispute between the practical-but-inexperienced Albert and an idealistic-but-veteran Gwen. Hadrian never heard how it turned out. He fell sound asleep and remained so, even through the rest of the horse exchanges.

  When he awoke, the world had changed.

  The interior of the carriage had shifted from not so cold to a little too warm. Hadrian had been damp from snowmelt, but now, buried beneath his layers of wool, he was wet from sweat. Opening his eyes, he saw the coach’s windows were open, the drapes thrown wide. Bright sunshine flooded the interior, along with a pleasant breeze that carried the rumor of flowers and a salty ocean.

  “But what exactly is a republic?” Gwen was asking as the coach continued to rattle and roll along. She spoke in a soft voice as if not to wake him.

  “Simply put, it is a political system in which the supreme power lies in a body of citizens who elect?—?that is, choose by the greatest number of votes?—?the people to represent them,” Arcadius replied just as quietly. The rocking of the coach caused his long beard to sway.

  “So, there’s no king?” Gwen asked.

  The professor shook his head. “Nope?—?no nobility at all. In the case of Delgos, the government is a bit of a mix. They started as a democracy?—?that’s a type of regime where all the people have an equal say in the rules and laws. But over time, it slipped into a mix of democracy and oligarchy, as most republics tend to do.”

  Gwen looked out the window as if trying to see this remarkable republic firsthand.

  “Having everyone vote on everything was a bit of a nightmare, as you might imagine,” Arcadius went on. The professor was one of those lucky people who loved his job. His was teaching, and it didn’t take much encouragement to get him started. Getting him to stop was the challenge. “Everything was accomplished about as fast as a group of men trying to decide which of them was the smartest. As it turned out, those were the most successful business owners who, by virtue of their wealth and ability to provide others with jobs, convinced the citizenry that the tycoons ought to shoulder the awful burden of making decisions on their behalf. In theory, the people still get to vote on who makes the decisions, but in reality, it’s always the same three. Not surprisingly, they are the most powerful business owners in the region.”

  “You make it sound bad,” she said. “But I think there’s a bit of sense in that approach. More, certainly, than getting to run everything just because you’re born to the right family.”

  Arcadius nodded. “That’s true, and I agree that it’s a step in the right direction, but as wealth is passed on from father to son, it’s not all that terribly different, either.”

  Gwen thought about this a moment, then asked, “Who are the three?”

  Arcadius held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. “The shipping magnate, Ernesta Bray; metal manufacturer, Oscar Tiliner; and of course, the biggest of them all, both figuratively and literally”—?and for this he used his thumb?—?“financier and banker, Cornelius DeLur. Together they are more commonly known as The Triumvirate.”

  “Ernesta? Is that a woman?”

  Arcadius smiled. “Indeed, and she holds an iron grip on just about everything that enters or leaves the country.”

  Gwen scowled at Albert. “And you thought Copper couldn’t be a coachman!”

  “Where are we?” Hadrian asked, sitting up to discover his neck ached from the awkward position in which he’d been sleeping.

  “The dead has risen!” Albert exclaimed. The viscount’s dress coat was off, as was his robe, and his doublet was fully unbuttoned to reveal a white shirt. He was eating nuts from a cloth bag on his lap. “We’re in West Echo. We passed the Tiliner Crossroad some time ago. Best estimate, I’d say we’re less than five miles out of ?Tur Del Fur.”

  Hadrian yawned as he looked out the window at a changed landscape. Almost everything was buff-colored rock and scrub. Behind the coach, a cloud of yellow dust rose. In the distance were jagged mountains of inhospitable stone.

  “I thought Tur Del Fur was supposed to be a tropical paradise.”

  “It is,” Albert said.

  “Looks more like a desert.”

  “Most of Delgos is a rocky highland.” The professor couldn’t help himself. “While there are green valleys and fertile fields, down here near the southern tip things get a bit bleak. But along the coast, where springs irrigate the terraces with hundreds of tiny waterfalls, a marvelous transformation takes place. You’ll see.”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” Gwen said. While cloak and hood lay stuffed on the seat beside her, Gwen remained trapped in a long-sleeved wool dress. She pumped her collar, trying to stay cool.

  “Sorry?” Albert chuckled. “It’s about time he opened his eyes. If it wasn’t for the snoring, I’d have thought him dead. You slumbered your way through the morning like a real nobleman, my friend.” Albert offered up a bag. “Nuts?”

  Hadrian shook his head. “Don’t suppose there’s water?” His mouth felt like how the landscape looked. “Got a bit warmer, it seems.”

  The coach abruptly slowed to a walk, then without warning, it tilted sharply downward such that the bag of nuts slid off Albert’s lap and clapped on the floor.

  “Here we go!” the viscount announced, excitedly.

  Apparently alarmed, Gwen put one hand on the seat and another on the ceiling. “Here we go where?”

  “It’s okay,” Albert assured her. “It’s just that Tur Del Fur is built into the side of sea cliffs. The road snakes through a bunch of switchbacks, and the angle is more suited to pack mules than a coach-and-four. But we’ll be fine.”

  “You’ve been here?” Gwen asked, still not sounding convinced. “You’ve done this before?”

  “A couple of times . . . in a carriage, as a guest of friends.” ?The words appeared to conjure a memory as Albert then put his chin on the windowsill, took a deep breath, and sighed. “Honestly, I’d live here if I could afford it.”

  The coach continued at a slower pace than at any previous point in the last two days. Then they came to a complete stop.

  “Are we there?” Hadrian asked.

  Albert shook his head. Before he could answer, the coach began moving again, making a sharp right turn that caused the wagon to rock, tilting out to one side. Once around the bend, the Flying Lady proceeded down the first switchback.

  As it did, Hadrian was granted his first clear view of ?Tur Del Fur. They were high on the side of a cliff descending into a sheltered cove, beyond which was the vast blue of the ocean that ran to the horizon. The cliff was stepped in tiers of lush green vegetation on which were built hundreds of colorfully painted

  stone and stucco buildings. Palm trees and flowers grew in courtyards, small gardens, and along roads. Far below and at the bottom was the bay that appeared as a pool of aqua blue bordered by white sand beaches, where ships of all shapes and sizes bobbed. The bay was sheltered by two rock promontories, stony arms that reached out and formed a natural breakwater, with a gap that served as a gateway. And upon the two headlands stood a pair of unbelievably tall towers.

  The massive pillars looked to be a thousand feet tall. Waves crashed white at their feet, and on top were glittering gold domes. Carved from solid rock, the sides were deeply grooved, forming fins that caused the towers to resemble two massive gears set on their ends. From ports in these fins, smoke spewed as if from teapot spouts that pointed toward the ocean.

  “One of those has to be Drumindor,” Hadrian said.

  “They both are,” Albert replied. “It’s hard to see at this distance, but there’s a thin bridge that extends over the entrance to the bay that connects the two.”

  Hadrian recalled the Crown Tower. These were taller by no small amount.

  “I thought you said the Crown Tower was the tallest structure ever built,” Hadrian said to Arcadius.

  “I believe I said it’s the tallest surviving structure built by man,” Arcadius replied. “Drumindor is arguably the singularly greatest achievement of the dwarven race. Those two columns are all that is left after the whole of an entire mountain was carved away, and with its passing, paradise was born.”

  More of the ocean breeze blew through the coach, and with it now came music: drums, horns, and strings that created an appealing rhythmic sound that Hadrian had never heard before. The lively, joyful melodies were so very different from the stiff chamber concertos performed in the Gentry Quarter or the jigs and reels played in the northern taverns. This was bright, airy, and emanating from multiple sources at once: different songs but the same sound.

  Back and forth the coach meandered toward the bay. They passed shops that sold seashells and items crafted from them. Exquisite carvings of fish and other animals were offered in the window of another. A third appeared to sell nothing but polished stones. There was a shop offering fish teeth, where a set of massive shark jaws framed the entry so that patrons were forced to walk through them to enter the store. The carriage rolled by net shops and sweet-smelling confectionery kitchens selling taffy in the shape of fish. A variety of tailor and seamstress shops went by with clothes on display.

  “They have ladies’ underwear in the window!” Gwen exclaimed, shocked.

  “That’s not underwear,” Albert said and laughed a little.

  “It certainly is. Look at it.”

  “Believe it or not, that’s a dress.”

  Gwen glanced at him in disbelief. “It’s too short and thin, and it’s all white?—?bright white.”

  “Bleached cotton, I believe. They grow it down here. It’s very light, very soft. As you can already tell, it gets warm in these parts. Only pathetic visitors like us will be found wearing wool.”

  Gwen’s head tracked as they passed the shop, unable to look away. “It’s a dress? It doesn’t even have sleeves. A woman in Medford wearing that would be arrested.”

  “Without a monarchy or much in the way of a formalized church, I think you’ll find behavioral conventions to be a great deal more relaxed down here. Just about anything is acceptable, so long as it doesn’t interfere with the making of money. This isn’t considered a paradise simply because of the weather.”

  Hadrian was distracted by what looked to be a pair of Ba Ran Ghazel talking to a dwarf and a Calian outside a shop that sold tulan leaves. He leaned out the window, but the coach rolled past. “Are there ghazel here?”

  Albert looked in the direction Hadrian had been. “I think those are Urgvarians. That’s what I heard people call them in the past.”

  “I’m pretty sure Urgvarians are a tribe of Ba Ran Ghazel.”

  Albert shrugged. “Then maybe, I guess. You’ll see a few around. Never heard of them causing any trouble. Usually, you can spot them down by the harbor. Most are sailors.”

  From that point on, Hadrian and Gwen sat like children at the windows, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as a circus of marvels paraded before them.

  “That’s a brothel!” Gwen announced, pointing at what appeared to be a little palace complete with a stone fountain out front. “It’s lovely.”

  “Is that a tavern?” Hadrian asked as a two-toned, three-story stone building with a terrace and a copper-colored dome rolled by.

  “That, my dear sir, is The Blue Parrot,” Albert replied. “The best danthum in the city.”

  “Looks like a cathedral.”

  “If it were,” Albert said dreamily, “I’d be a clergyman.”

  A group of dark men in white cotton roasted a pig, basting it with what looked to be cups of beer. A roadside pot stirred by a man wielding a huge wooden spoon emitted a strong lemony, garlicky, oniony scent that lingered long after they passed. A barefoot, shirtless blond man played a tin whistle beside a basket into which people dropped coins. Colorful fruit stands were everywhere along with donkeys and chickens that roamed wild through the streets and shops.

  At long last, the coach came to a stop, and Hadrian heard the sound of waves.

  “We’re here, folks!” Shelby declared.

  Feeling stiff and drowsy, Hadrian climbed out of the coach and into the hot sun. They were greeted by salt-sea air as they stood at the harbor in the shadow of a great stone sculpture of an old dwarf holding a hammer valiantly aloft. Overhead, seagulls circled and cried, their shadows swirling on the paver stones. On one side of the plaza, colorful boats were tied up to piers. On the other were rows of two- and three-story buildings with brilliant awnings where people sat at tables eating and drinking, laughing and singing.

  “This is delightful!” Gwen had both hands crossed over her chest as if to restrain her heart as she looked about.

  With Hadrian’s help, Heath unloaded the luggage.

  “I suppose I ought to check in with Lord Byron,” Albert said. “We need to find out where we’re staying. That’s his office over there.” He pointed at some stately buildings near where the larger vessels were docked. “I won’t be long, I hope.” He took a few steps, then turned back, looking a bit giddy. “Welcome to Tur Del Fur, everyone!”

  Hadrian stared, fascinated by the ridiculously blue ocean. He’d seen one before, even ridden on it more than once. Twice, in fact, unless a different one bordered Calis, which it might. He had suffered terrible storms both on its back and along its shore and seen waves the size of mountains and heard them roar. Those were moments he could believe in a god?—?any god. Yet in all his experience with the ocean, it had never been this blue. And this ocean wasn’t all the same shade of blue. Near the stone steps that ran down into the bay from the paved stone plaza where the Flying Lady continued to wait for Albert to return, the water was a bit greener. And where the waves lapped between the tied boats, the surface wasn’t even that; it reflected the color of the nearby vessels. But the majority of ?Terlando Bay remained a stunning aqua, especially near the white sand beach, where a great many people sat beneath garishly decorated umbrellas, waded into the surf, or bobbed like fishnet buoys amid the rolling waves. But beyond the breakwater marked by the Drumindor towers, the sea became a cobalt blue so rich in color it didn’t seem real. And finally, near the horizon, where the ocean got deep and serious, it turned the more familiar and decidedly angrier slate gray. But that ocean was part of a different world, a cold and colorless one. In that world, the streets smelled of piss and horse manure, and the air was filled with the angry voices of men realizing they had made one too many bad decisions. For now at least, Hadrian was here in this perfect land of music, color, hot sun, and cool breezes. Here, the succulent scents of roasting pork and baking bread wafted out of the many open-air cafés that were close enough that the travelers could hear the clatter of plates and at least one group ordering another bottle of wine.

  “I can see why Albert likes it here,” Hadrian said, only to discover he was standing alone behind the coach.

  Having finished unloading the luggage onto the street, the Hansons were back to work, checking the horses and wheels. Gwen, lured by the lapping water, had slipped off her shoes, hiked the hem of her gown, and was testing the water. Arcadius, who had followed her to the bottom step, watched her progress.

  “It’s not cold,” Gwen reported.

  “But not bathwater either, I take it?” the professor suggested.

  “It would be . . . refreshing to jump into,” she replied with a mischievous grin.

  “That’s a most judicious answer, my dear, the sort designed to coerce an old man into making a terrible mistake.”

  Hadrian had lost track of Royce, who had been oddly aloof?—?even for him. Suffering a bout of uncharacteristic shyness, nervousness, or whatever it was that Gwen had caused was one thing, but disappearing altogether pushed the boundaries even for Royce. After failing to see him anywhere, Hadrian concluded he must have gone off with Albert.

  As wonderful as it was to be standing at the tropical waterfront on a gorgeous afternoon just days after leaving the frozen north, being forced to linger under a hot sun in heavy wool was less so. Smelling the food, hearing the laughter and the clink of glasses quickly became a torment. Like a child presented with an unexpected birthday cake but told to wait until the candles were blown out, Hadrian was impatient. He, who might have lived his whole life never dreaming such a place existed, now couldn’t tolerate another moment that divided him from the temptations that teased from all directions. He also felt conspicuous when standing beside the coach surrounded by a mountain of luggage. Worse still was that he knew Albert was not known for his haste or reliability.

  We might be here for hours while Albert gets fitted for a new suit. Maybe that’s why Royce went with him?

  “We’re all done here, sir,” Shelby said. The man looked up and down the street. “Your friends are still not back?”

  “They should be soon,” Hadrian replied, as he peered down the street. “They’ve gone to find our host.”

  Shelby nodded, then looked up at the levels of carved stone buildings that formed the seemingly endless tiers of terraces that defined the bay’s cliffs. “I know that seems like a lot of doors and windows up there. Sorta looks like a colony of cliff swallow nests, but there are only so many holes and lots of swallows. Tur fills up this time of year. People come down from up north?—?those who can afford it and some who can’t but expect to find work and make their dreams come true. Are you sure you have a place to stay?”

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  I certainly hope so, for Albert’s sake.

  “I’m sure we do. Our host is Lord Byron; he runs the?—”

  “Delgos Port Authority,” Shelby finished for him, nodding knowingly. “I had to deal with him when setting up this route. Turns out, people are considered just as much an import as oil or apples.”

  “Don’t like him?”

  “Didn’t say that. He’s good at what he does. Hard worker, smart fellow. Not certain he has a soul, but no one’s perfect.”

  Hadrian smiled. He liked Shelby and regretted that he and Heath would soon be on their way.

  “But you’re right. I’m sure Lord Byron will find you a place.” He opened the door to the coach, inspected the inside, then closed it. “We have another group we’re taking back north, so we can’t linger too long. I hope you understand.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  Shelby smiled. “I sleep on the bench when Heath drives.”

  “I tried that. Didn’t work so well.”

  “I have more practice. Besides, I’ll sleep well enough when I’m dead.”

  “If you keep going non-stop, that might be sooner than you think.”

  “Now you sound like my son.”

  Hadrian nearly admitted that Shelby sounded like his father, but that might lead to questions he didn’t want to answer right then, not in the dazzling fantasyland of ?Tur Del Fur. Thoughts like those were best left to the cold gray depths that lay far off on the horizon.

  “I did want to thank you for the help back there near Colnora,” Shelby said, his voice made a subtle shift to profound sincerity. “In Delgos, they squeeze us. The Port Authority demands a cut of our business in exchange for the privilege of driving over terrible roads they do nothing to maintain. But as irritating as it is to be extorted by Lord Byron, at least the process is orderly and consistent. I know what to do, and if I follow the rules, no one bothers me. Up north, it’s different. We only passed through four kingdoms, but we must deal with dozens of petty rulers. Each one is a little tyrant like that sergeant.” He shook his head. “Up there we never know what they’ll do. I own the staging stables here in Delgos, but up north I can only rent because you can’t buy sovereign land. That means they can take it all back whenever they like, along with all my improvements, and without so much as a sorry, mister.” Shelby looked at his son as Heath approached. “And they could have made good on that threat of forcing Heath to join their army. Might have, if not for you.”

  “How did you do that, anyway?” Heath asked, holding the nearly empty feed bag over one shoulder. “I’ve never seen such a thing before. The sergeant was?—?well, at least, he looked like a professional soldier?—?and you just took his sword away like he was a toddler. You made it seem so easy.”

  “He was a professional,” Hadrian said. Having been taught to not take pride in such things and never boast, Hadrian would normally understate his actions, but he saw the look in Heath’s eyes and noticed how the young man rested one hand on the pommel of the new blade at his hip. “That sergeant had every intention of killing me, and not in a nice way.”

  “There’s a nice way?”

  Hadrian nodded. “Oh, yeah. There’s good and bad to everything, I suspect. In the sergeant’s case, he planned on shoving about three feet of sharpened metal through my stomach, or thereabouts. If the point missed my spine, it would come out my back, probably after punching through my kidney. Being an experienced soldier and an absolute bastard, he would twist the blade as he pulled it back out, further carving me up and widening the holes through my muscles, organs, and skin. The bleeding inside and out would be significant, and shock would set in. I’d have immediately collapsed due to a complete loss of muscle control. Breathing would become incredibly painful. Thinking would also be difficult, not just because of the panic caused by knowing I was going to die, but because that sort of trauma messes with your head, causing anxiety, dizziness, and confusion. I’d lose control of my bladder and bowels. But there’s a good chance I wouldn’t lose consciousness. You see, that’s the not nice part. I’d lie there, struggling to breathe and suffering the anguish of every inhale, hoping that I’d pass out?—?or even die?—?sooner rather than later. But I wouldn’t?—?not for a long while. It varies on how big the puncture is and where exactly the blade went in and what it damaged. Often, it’s not as bad as it seems. Odd as it might sound, the intestines will often slide out of the way of a blade, like a bowl of buttered noodles makes way for a finger. So, while I might die in less than a minute if properly skewered, in this case, I’d linger for a lot more than that, probably as much as a whole day. That’s a long time to spend in excruciating anguish. And even if a physician managed to sew me up, I’d still die from a horrible fever. That would just take even more time.”

  Heath stared at him with a grimace.

  “I know I told you I was twenty-four, and maybe that seems young, but not all years are equal. I’ve trained in combat since I was a small child and fought in multiple wars, dozens of battles, and countless conflicts across Avryn and Calis. You learn a few things doing that?—?a few million things, really. So, sure, just like your father knows exactly how far he can push a horse, I can beat most men in a fight. But even I’ve been wounded more times than I can recall. Came close to dying more than once. So yes, I made it look easy?—?it isn’t.”

  Heath took his hand off the sword.

  “Aw, crap,” Shelby muttered, shaking his head as he drew their attention to four men in bright yellow uniforms striding with purpose toward them. The uniforms appeared militaristic, but the choice of canary yellow with white piping was the opposite of intimidating. They also bore no weapons. If not for Shelby’s reaction, Hadrian might have thought they were street entertainers: musicians, jugglers, or acrobats. “And here I was just saying how much better it is in Delgos.”

  The lead man addressed them while still a few steps away. “I’m Officer Hildebrandt of the Port Authority Security. How are you today, gentlemen?”

  “We’re fine,” Shelby said. “At least we were.”

  “Relax, Mister Hanson, I’m not here to bother you. I just saw the coach and thought it would be considerate to provide you with some news that will be affecting your exit from our fine city.” ?The other men spread out behind Hildebrandt. They did not circle, merely formed an impressive line to either side, each standing with precision?—?straight and dignified.

  “And what might that be?”

  “There was a murder up in West Echo about a week ago, near the Tiliner cutoff. A courier was killed, his pouch taken. We have strong evidence that the killer took refuge in Tur Del Fur. It is our job to bring the murderer to justice and recover the lost package. As a result, we are inspecting every vehicle and vessel leaving this city to make certain the fugitive is not aboard. Your coach will, therefore, be stopped and searched before being allowed to leave. I am familiar with your business, and you and your son are held in high regard by the DPAA. We regret this inconvenience and hope you understand the need. I am informing you up front so that you can explain to your passengers in advance and avoid misunderstandings.”

  “And also to ensure we don’t pick up any last-minute strangers?”

  “That, too.” He nodded politely to each of them. “Good day to you and yours,” he said, then the four marched on.

  “Who was that?” Hadrian asked as he watched them go.

  “The Delgos Port Authority Association has a small security force that patrols the city. They are sort of like the king’s guard up north, but their primary job is to oversee customs, enforce duties on goods going in or out, and stop the importing of contraband. It’s a game they play with the pirates. Most people around here call them Yellow Jackets.”

  Hadrian nodded. “I can see why.”

  “Never had them talk to me before. It’s a little disturbing that they know

  my name.”

  “We’re all set!” Albert called out as he strode triumphantly across the plaza, sending a gathering of seabirds into flight. He had his jacket slung over one arm and a little paper held aloft in the other. It caught the sun and shone bright white.

  The viscount was alone. Once more, Hadrian scanned the plaza, terraces, and the street for signs of Royce, but found none.

  “You met with Lord Byron?” Hadrian asked.

  “No, one of his secretaries. A man named Tolly, but he was expecting us. He set up a meeting for me with Byron the day after tomorrow. But the important thing is that we have a place to stay. Sounds nice, too. He reserved a traditional rolkin for us.”

  “What’s that?”

  Albert pointed up at the multitude of whitewashed, blue-domed stone buildings that dominated the cliffside. “Rolkins are traditional dwarven homes carved right out of the natural volcanic rock of the cliff. They’re very fun and quirky?—?loads of character. Everyone who comes here tries to get one. You’ll love it.”

  Albert tapped the little paper to his lips and stared up at the labyrinth of buildings that appeared to be built one atop the other. He frowned. “Hmm. Tolly said the place was called the Turquoise Turtle and was located on Pebble Way just off the Fourth South Sea View Terrace, only . . .?”

  “You have no idea where that is, do you?”

  Albert pursed his lips and shook his head. “I’ve only been here twice, and while I have done my fair share of wandering the streets, I was almost always drunk at the time, so my memory is a little fuzzy.”

  “These in front of you are the South Sea View Terraces,” Shelby said. “Just need to count up four levels.” He pointed at a set of bright-blue-framed windows and a bit of greenery.

  “Wonderful!” Albert grinned.

  “You folks have a nice time. We’ll be back this way every two weeks, I suspect. If you need us, keep an eye out. We always stop here at the statue of Andvari Berling, usually around midday.” He pointed at the stone statue of the dwarf.

  Then Shelby and Heath said their goodbyes before climbing back aboard the Flying Lady, and they all waved as the coach-and-four moved off at an uncharacteristically slow plod.

  Albert once more raised the little paper high and declared, “Let us sally forth in pursuit of the Turquoise Turtle!”

  Hadrian grabbed up his pack and slipped it over his shoulder. “Didn’t Royce go with you?”

  “No.” Albert looked around. “Isn’t he here?”

  Hadrian shook his head.

  “You two go on and find this palace,” Arcadius said. His shoes were off, and he was standing on the first water-covered step, the swells riding up to his ankles. “I’m too old to be wandering about in the hot sun. Gwen and I will stay here. We’ll wait for Royce and keep a watch on the luggage while we continue to swim in these lovely waters.”

  “Swim?”

  Arcadius frowned and shook his head. “This is as close to swimming as I get.”

  “Careful you don’t drown,” Hadrian said.

  Gwen, who had given up on saving her gown, was waist deep. “Where’s Royce?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s about somewhere,” Hadrian said. “He tends to like to explore a bit. He can’t relax until he gets a solid feel for a place.”

  She nodded but looked worried.

  “If he’s not back before I am, I’ll find him,” Hadrian said.

  Gwen looked up, appearing thankful but a bit embarrassed. “I just don’t want?—?I mean, how else will he know where we’re staying?”

  “Trust me, Royce can find us. But don’t worry. I’ll be sure to drag him out of the arms of whatever woman he’s seducing.”

  Gwen scowled at him. “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “Not even a little?”

  Gwen splashed water at him.

  As Hadrian and Albert approached a switchback, they looked inside the Drunken Sailor, a public house composed of only three walls and designed to look like an old ship. The bar had a killer view?—?at least for the bartenders. All the patrons sat with their backs to the bay. Above their heads was a rough painted sign that read Join the Crew! Hadrian most certainly wanted to do so as he stared at the drinks on the tables and the men lounging in hammocks strung between mini-masts. Albert looked to be of a similar mind as he licked his lips, staring as if a striptease were being performed.

  Despite the temptation, they both weathered the turn and followed a small street that sloped steeply uphill. This dead-ended at a set of narrow steps that continued to zigzag upward. The stairs were bordered on both sides by white walls that had rounded edges, making them appear more like bleached-white, hand-formed clay than stone. Along the way, they passed vividly painted gates of lemon yellow and tangerine orange, but the most common color was cobalt blue, which matched the little domes that crowned many of the rolkins.

  Albert paused to breathe. “I’m starting to think I have overpacked.” He wiped sweat from his face with a grimace. “I am absolutely paying someone to carry my trunks up here.”

  They reached a modest terrace that overlooked the bay and sported two olive trees growing in planters. Between the trees, an unusually small man slouched with his legs extended on a stone bench. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a blue feather in the band, a loose white cotton shirt over sunbaked skin, and sandals on surprisingly large feet. He had a snow-white beard even longer than the professor’s. On his lap, and spilling down the bench onto the pavement, was a rope net that he worked on.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Is it still morning?” Albert managed to sigh in between gasps of air. He looked about miserably. There was another gate, two more down a new street, and more stairs. He frowned at Hadrian. “This may be hopeless. There are no signs. I haven’t a clue which way to go.”

  “Looking for something?” the little man asked.

  “Yes,” Albert replied. “At the risk of sounding insane, we’re searching for a turquoise turtle.”

  With a minimal amount of effort, as if moving too much was unwise, the man pointed across the terrace at the little road. “That’s Pebble Way. You’ll find your turtle up there.”

  Albert brightened. “Thank you! Thank you very much!”

  “Lord Byron send you?” The small man in the straw hat had abandoned his net and followed them.

  “He did indeed,” Albert replied.

  “Can I see the card?”

  Albert looked confused despite still holding the bit of paper in his fist. “Do you work for Lord Byron?”

  Though Hadrian found it was difficult to see under the beard, he was certain the man smiled. “He’s a customer.” Seeing a lack of understanding, the man added, “I own the Turtle, as well as a few others. I rent them to visitors like yourselves?—?at least I presume you’re turists. Lord Byron reserved the Turtle for some folks coming down from up north on the Hanson Coach. Since it just left, I suspect you might be part of that group. Now, I won’t know that for sure until I see Lord Byron’s seal on that card you’re waving around.”

  “Oh! Of course. Excuse me.” Albert handed over the paper.

  The man studied it for a moment. As he did, Hadrian concluded the fellow in the straw hat was not a short man at all, but a member of the dwarven race.

  The dwarf handed the letter back to Albert. “Welcome to the Turtle, gentlemen. My name is Auberon. Allow me to show you around.”

  After searching the streets and alleyways of ?Tur Del Fur, Royce had found nothing.

  Riding on the roof of the coach, he had been able to make certain no stowaways clung to it. The moment they stopped, he began a quick survey of the plaza, then a fast sweep of the streets. No one appeared to be watching?—?at least no pale, red-haired fellows.

  Maybe I should have kept the head.

  The idea had crossed his mind more than once on the trip down. On each occasion, he scolded himself for paranoia that exceeded even his own exorbitant standards.

  I removed the man’s head. I left it a foot and a half away from his body. The man is dead.

  Royce understood this. Facts were easy to accept?—?most of them, at least.

  But where was the blood?

  He had severed the head, but it hadn’t produced a single drop. This, too, was a fact?—?one not so easily dismissed.

  Shouldn’t matter. We covered many miles at high speed, and if Mister de Roche missed his ride?—?even if he isn’t dead, which is impossible?—?it will take him days to reach Tur Del Fur, even if he knew that’s where we were headed. And how hard is it for a headless man to travel?

  Pretty hard, I suspect.

  He’s dead.

  Right.

  Satisfied?—?or as best Royce could ever be?—?he returned to where he’d left the coach to find it gone and a problem brewing.

  Hadrian and Albert were missing, but Gwen, Arcadius, and the luggage were still there. So were two men. Big, brutish thugs with necks equal to the width of their heads. They were laughing at Gwen, who looked to have been thrown into the bay. She stood before them, struggling to wring the water out of her dress, which clung embarrassingly to her body. As he approached, Royce noted that neither man wore visible weapons. He also took into consideration the number of witnesses on the waterfront?—?hundreds. People of all sorts walked by or sat at tables with nothing to do but sip drinks and watch what happened in the street.

  If it had only been one man, Royce might be able to make it look like the guy fell, maybe passed out from drinking and then . . . just happened to . . . roll into the bay . . . and drown. It would be a hard sell, but with two, he didn’t have a chance. Whichever one he didn’t knife would start hollering to the audience. While it was possible the crowd might applaud, Royce doubted it. Some art was too sophisticated for the common spectator. The smart thing would be to wait, follow the bastards, and when they made the mistake of walking somewhere reasonably isolated, Royce would bury them. Except . . .

  Gwen had her head down, hair a tangled mess. She was dripping wet, her slight frame shook, shoulders rocking as she cried. The situation was obvious. The two brutes had been drinking at one of the cafés, saw the chests and bags and no one guarding them except an old man and a woman. They came over to take what they wanted, but they didn’t expect Gwen. She fought back?—?of course she did. Most likely the scene of two big ogres robbing a beautiful woman didn’t play well before the crowd, either. So, one or both turned it into a comedy by throwing her in the water. This would have set the crowd at ease.

  “Oh, see that, they’re just playing, and it’s funny. She’s a Calian?—?so that’s okay.”

  Now the ogres were laughing at her; maybe the crowd had done so as well?—?all of them guffawing at Gwen’s embarrassment, at her humiliation.

  Royce’s fingers squeezed Alverstone’s handle so tightly they hurt. Maybe the crowd should be exposed to a higher form of entertainment.

  This is going to be very bad.

  “Are you her father?” one asked Arcadius. “Or a customer?” Which made the two thugs laugh even harder.

  It’s always the same two. Why is that?

  The idea flashed through Royce’s mind as he closed the remaining distance between him and his prey, moving on the pads of his feet.

  Royce had repeatedly encountered these two guys his whole life. Big, lumbering idiots who, for no reason Royce could account for, felt they owned the world. Never kings or princes, these trolls always walked around with the idea rattling in their otherwise empty heads that other people needed to do whatever they?—?the trolls?—?wanted. Somehow it seemed that these oversized brutes failed to grasp the absurdity of the idea because they felt the need to prove it over and over. Not once did the rabid dogs appear surprised to learn that the rest of the world’s population hadn’t heard of their dominion. They showed an eagerness?—?no, a joy?—?in explaining their Right to Rule. It didn’t matter if it was a small child, an old man, or a woman, they loved enlightening the universe.

  Royce came up from behind the largest and whispered, “He’s neither.”

  Future Corpse Number One jumped and spun. “Who are you?”

  “Local exterminator,” Royce replied. He held Alverstone just inside the fall of his cloak.

  The man noticed Royce’s hidden hand, and his face changed from jovial to concerned.

  Concerned but not terrified?—?not yet. Still thinks he owns the world.

  “Royce!” Gwen shouted.

  He didn’t waiver, didn’t take his eyes off the two trolls.

  Neck or heart? Ah yes, the age-old question. I could pretend to give him a big old hug like we were long-lost friends and then plant Alverstone in his back. It would have to be the back of his neck; anywhere lower and all I’d likely get is the lungs. He’d live way too long. And the bastard’s too big, and it’s too much to ask that he bends down. If they really were old friends that might work, but Mister Talking Cadaver and I?—?we just don’t have the time.

  “Royce, don’t!”

  He frowned. She’s giving away the punchline, ruining the surprise. The audience won’t like it?—?they love sudden unexpected twists, and I’ve got a great one.

  Maybe it was the sound of her voice, or what Royce imagined was the look on her face?—?he couldn’t tell because he kept his sight locked on his target, but The Talking Dead finally caught wind of the danger. Might also have been that eerie intuition people often exhibited.

  If you stare at the back of someone’s head, they always seem to turn around.

  Most people, even the trolls of the world, had a special sense that alerted them to the presence of impending death. They felt it and responded in the same way. The ogre pulled back, eyes widening.

  “Royce! They just asked to help with the luggage. This is Pete and Jake. They’re nice people.”

  “Yeahthat’sright,” the brute spewed so fast that it came out as a single word.

  Royce still refused to take his eyes off the pair. He took a step closer and carefully enunciated his next words, slowly and precisely. “Explain . . . help with the luggage.” Royce did this not only to lower the chance of a misunderstanding but also to reveal how high the stakes were.

  “I, ah . . . I mean, we were offering to?—” Troll Number One pointed. “She was just standing here with all this stuff and looked like she could use some help. That’s all. Jake and I?—?we just thought we’d?—?you know?—?lend a hand carrying this to wherever she was going.” His eyes glanced back at where Royce’s hand was still hidden. “That’s all.”

  Royce allowed himself a glance toward Gwen. She looked terrified, but not of them. And there was no evidence of tears. No red or puffy eyes, no glistening tracks on her cheeks. “Why are you all wet?”

  “I was hot. I went wading,” She gestured at the stairs behind her. “The steps below the water are slippery.” She made a regretful grimace and held up her dripping hair. “I fell.”

  “She made a lovely splash, she did,” Arcadius declared.

  “I thought you were crying.”

  “No! No, I wasn’t.” She shook her head, slinging water. “I was laughing.” She pointed at Potentially Pardoned Pete. “He asked if I was married or if I had a man in my life. I told him I had too many.”

  “So that’s why he called you a whore?”

  “I did not! I would never say such a thing.” Prematurely Pardoned Pete was quick to say. “I explained how that sort of statement might be misunderstood. And that someone?—?not me?—?might accidentally take her meaning to be that she was a . . . you know . . . a . . .?”

  “A whore,” Royce said, his eyes hard.

  “And then . . .?” Gwen smiled. “That’s when I said . . . Not this week!” She waited, watching him. Then she shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”

  Jake laid a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “I think maybe it would be best if we go have another drink, eh, Pete?” His voice was a work of labor as he tried to make it all sound casual.

  Pete appeared to think this was a wonderful idea. He backed away and offered an infinitely polite wave to Gwen and Arcadius. Then the two retreated toward the cafés at not quite a run.

  Gwen lowered her head and looked at the pavement. “I guess it wasn’t that funny.” She sounded hurt.

  “I thought it was a delightful joke,” Arcadius told her with a happy tone, as if oblivious to existence itself.

  Royce stared at her and felt the sudden need to explain. “I just thought that, well . . .?”

  “I know what you thought.” Gwen looked incredibly sad, and she turned away as if now she really might cry.

  Royce didn’t know what to do. He felt both helpless and confused?—?two things he desperately hated. Not understanding what was happening was bad enough, but he sensed things were moving too fast in a direction he didn’t want them to.

  “Hey, everyone!” Hadrian came bounding up with a brilliant smile. “Wait until you see where we’re staying.”

  Royce glared at him. He wasn’t in the mood for Mister Happy Sunshine. Then he spotted the nasty-looking red welt above Hadrian’s eyes. “Has someone attacked you, too?”

  “No one attacked me!” Gwen stated firmly, then followed the declaration with an exasperated huff.

  Hadrian put a hand to his forehead. “Oh?—?no.” He laughed. “We’re staying in a rolkin?—?that’s the name of a dwarven-style house?—?and the ceilings, beams, and tops of doorways are . . . well, low.”

  No one said anything for an awkward moment.

  Hadrian looked at Royce then at Gwen, and his eyes grew concerned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Gwen replied in advance with a stern shake of her head that caused more droplets of bay water to fly.

  “Ohh-kay,” Hadrian said, then turned to ponder Gwen’s bags and Albert’s ship’s-captain-style chests, one with brass handles and the other with iron. Each was covered in overstuffed sacks. Then he looked toward the cafés. “You think if I ask real nicely, I might persuade a couple of guys to help us carry these up?”

  In unison, Gwen, Arcadius, and Royce answered, “No!”