“Never heard anyone sing like that before,” Hadrian said.

He was staring at the empty stage where the bullseye lantern continued to illuminate a small patch of floor.

“Spellbinding, isn’t it?” Mr. Parrot said, leaning back and resting his elbows on the bar.

“Who is she?”

“Some unknown ingénue Andre found. He’s been grooming her—putting the girl in front of small audiences at the little clubs. Tonight is her official debut.”

“Who is Andre?”

Mr. Parrot exchanged looks with Albert and Estelle, who offered no help at all. “I suppose you could say he’s a talent promoter, an aspiring entrepreneur, and part-time danthum manager. He runs a little place called The Oasis up on the eighth tier. Used to be a salt mine back when the dwarfs ruled, then a warehouse, and now it’s this quirky little danthum. Not very nice, but it’s popular in summer because the old mine stays cool. Mostly though Andrea is an officer in the DeLur Corporation.”

“Del Lur?” Hadrian asked. “He’s a banker, right?”

Estelle, who was drinking, fell into a fit of coughing. Albert applied a not too helpful series of pats on her back, while Mr. Parrot sat up, and after looking briefly around the room said, “Yes, he’s a banker.”

Hadrian was disappointed when the lights came back up and the band once more played a happy tune. He looked at the empty stage. “That’s it? She’s not going to preform anymore?”

“Honestly,” Mr. Parrot said. “I don’t think she knows more than the one song.”

“I dare say our boy here seems smitten by the lady in black,” Estelle declared with a pout. She plucked at the hem of her dress and frowned. “Knew I should have gone with a darker color tonight. I just didn’t want people to think I was in mourning.” She looked at Albert. “He’s not married at all is he?”

“Only to ideals, my dear.”

“Agh!” She threw her head back dramatically. “An idealist! They’re the rare faithful sort, and I’ve lost him to a torch singer! That’s like finding the Heir of Novron, and a moment later watching him trip and break his neck.”

“I’ll be certain to console you later this evening.”

“You’d better!”

“Is there a way to get backstage?” Hadrian asked.

“There’s a little door behind the gorilla,” Mr. Parrot said.

“Excuse me.”

“And just like that he’s gone.” Estelle lamented, as Hadrian set down his beer and waded into the ocean of tables and currents of people. He stuck to the outside of the room where he passed the casino guards. Up close they were even more impressive. Huge shoulders and powerful arms were displayed by the way they crossed them over their chests. Each stood a head taller than Hadrian. The left one had a red mark on his forehead.

“Lousy dwarven doorways, am I right?” Hadrian said as he walked by.

The guard broke his professional scowl and smiled.

The gorilla statue had to be three stories tall and with an growling face that displayed bared teeth and fangs it looked like a monster. Either the sculptor had never seen a real gorilla, or had been forced by his patron to be creative. The door to the men’s privy was appropriately found directly between the gorilla’s legs. But around the back was a short set of stairs that led to a nondescript door. Unlike the casino, the stage door was unguarded, and Hadrian ducked the low lintel and walked through.

Inside was a very different and dilapidated world. The ancient, traffic-worn, wooden flooring was in a terrible state of neglect. The walls were rough with cracks in the stone. Marred posts and beams were wrapped in coils of thick rope. Ladders led up into the rafters and sandbags hung like men on a gallows. A number of people moved about not so much with purpose as in a panic. A group of dancers all in matching clothes were lined up preparing to go out on stage. One man was in tears and the rest showed signs of hysteria because—at least as far as Hadrian could tell—the sobbing man was lacking a kerchief that all the others wore.

“How could you have lost it?”

“Where did you last see it?”

“You’re always doing things like this, Ludwink! This is why we hate you!”

“We don’t hate you.”

“I do!”

Hadrian skirted around the dance troupe carefully stepping over a coil of rope and around a wine barrel that was covered in a stack of parchment held in place by an old boot. Across from him, and behind the dancers, Millificent LeDeye stood with hands on hips talking to Andre.

“May I help you?” A man all in black asked after appearing out of nowhere.

“Huh? Oh.” Hadrian replied. “I was hoping to speak to Miss LeDeye.”

“And who are you?”

“Hadrian Blackwater.” He extended his hand. “And your name?”

The man ignored the gesture. “I’m sorry, but Miss LeDeye already left.”

Hadrian looked over and pointed. “She’s right there.”

“You’re mistaken. She’s gone. Now please return to the hall. Guests aren't allowed backstage.”

“I just wanted to get a drink, Andre,” Miss LeDeye had raised her voice. She sounded angry and her arms were folded with as much conviction as the casino guards'.

“I’ll buy you one,” Hadrian called to her.

Both LeDeye and Andrea looked at him, surprised.

The man in black stepped directly into Hadrian’s line of sight. “I told you she’s not here.”

Hadrian tilted his head around the colorless obstacle. “And yet my eyes are telling me something different.”

“You’re eyes are misleading you, and on the verge of getting you into serious trouble. If you don’t want them permanently corrected, I would suggest that you leave—now.”

Hadrian would have left, but Miss LeDeye was smiling. “What do you like to drink?” He shouted to her. The smile got larger.

“Alessandro,” Andre snapped, “get rid of him.”

The man in black grabbed Hadrian by the arm.

Hadrian twisted free. “Careful, I bruise easily.”

Alessandro’s hand went to his dagger.

“Relax, Alessandro. I’m leaving.” Hadrian raised his voice once more. “Another time then? Perhaps when you aren’t so busy.”

Miss LeDeye covered her lips with a hand, but her eyes were delighted.

Hadrian turned to leave and Alessandro shoved him out. He didn’t have time to duck and clapped the lintel with his forehead. The door slammed shut behind him as he stood dazed.

Behind him, Hadrian heard the voices through the door. “Who in the name of Novron was that?”

“Nobody. See his clothes? Just some serf from up north. The lady merely made an impression.”

“He turns up again—I want you to be the one to make the impression. Understand?”

“You don’t pay me, Andre. Couldn’t afford it. I’m here as a courtesy—understand?”

The voices continued, but moved too far to be heard.

Hadrian sighed and climbing back down the stairs returned to the main hall, the music, and the noise.

“Lousy dwarven doorways, am I right?” The big casino guard said as Hadrian walked back past him.

Hadrian smirked. “This one had help.”

When Albert and Hadrian returned to the table, Royce and Gwen were there sharing a bowl of frozen magpie like a couple of teenagers at a summer fair. Hadrian and Albert both looked at Royce, then at each other and shrugged as if the two had practiced the routine.

“I trust you can all find your way back,” Albert said. “There’s a good chance I won’t be returning to the Turquoise Turtle at all tonight. So, don’t bother waiting up. Estelle is the sort that finds it rude for men to run off before sunrise. Besides, she serves a wonderful breakfast.”

“You found a lady already?” Gwen asked impressed.

“An old acquaintance. She was married at the age of ten to a wealthy Warric Earl who at the time was in his fifties.”

“She married at ten?”

“That’s when she went to live with the Earl. Arranged marriage, obviously, political in nature. One does hope they did not consummate the marriage for a few years, at least. To hear her speak, they never did. Now, she’s twenty-eight and he’s seventy-four and they both spend a good deal of their time in bed—just not the same one.”

Albert pulled a letter from inside his doublet. “Just grab a carriage and tell them to bill Lord Byron, and then show them this.” He handed Hadrian a parchment with a seal at the bottom. Then he began to wade back into the depths of the hall waving farewell as he went. “See you tomorrow—afternoon most likely. Ta-tah.”

“Ta-tah?” Gwen said and smiled at Hadrian.

“He’s had a bit to drink,” Hadrian explained taking his old seat at the table that was littered with the empty bottles of wine, abandoned glasses, and plates. On stage the dancers were concluding their number, which was something of a complicated folk-style arrangement similar to a round but with lifts and twirls.

“How are you doing?” Hadrian asked Gwen. “Things seemed to have warmed up between the two of you since I left, yes?”

Gwen didn’t answer. Instead, she smiled at the melting magpie between them like a little girl with a secret. Something had happened—an event massive enough to reduce the fearless former prostitute turned madam and successful business woman, Gwen DeLancy, into a bashful child. If this was Medford House on the morning after, Hadrian would have a good idea, but given the pair never left the Blue Parrot, he was stumped.

Is the magpie that good?

He looked at Royce who dragged a finger over the custard remains on the plate, then sucked on it in an uncharacteristically casual fashion. His hood was not merely down, his entire cloak was off and slung across the back of Arcadius’s empty chair.

“Hadrian, I’ve been thinking,” Royce began in a deeply serious tone that was worrisome.

Having advised Royce to admit his feelings to Gwen, and seeing the suppressed glee on Gwen’s face, Hadrian assumed that’s exactly what happened. But now he had to wonder if Royce had traveled farther down that road than expected.

Did he ask her to marry him? Did she accept? Is he about to declare his days of banditry and lawlessness to be over? Was this goodbye?

Hadrian had never been comfortable with their line of work. He found it better than outright murder, which—if he was honest—was a fair assessment of what he’d been doing prior. Others called it war or combat. Some even suggested it was a sport—especially the ones who wagered money. For them, he imagined, it was also a business. But just as beating a child to death could hardly be mistaken for discipline, what he’d done for the four years before meeting Royce had been murder—lots of it. Stealing, spying, and bounty-hunting was better than that, and far superior to starving. He did realize there was a whole world between those two options. He could get a job on a farm, or fishing boat, or in a warehouse. As redemptive as atonement through sweat and humility seemed, he knew it wouldn’t be much different from crawling into a bottle. He wouldn’t be living, just hiding.

One doesn’t use a sixteen-fold, single-edged Tiliner blade to dig a ditch, his father used to say. There are shovels for that.

And while Royce steered their enterprise, Hadrian was able to keep it on the road. At least he tried. All too often a wheel, or even two ran off into the weeds. Lately, Royce had been pulling harder than normal for the open field, and Hadrian had been feeling concerned that a division was coming. Their partnership had been good while it lasted, but Royce was one sort of person and he another. A breakup was inevitable, and Hadrian had come to terms with it—or thought he did. Faced with the reality of severing ties and going back into the world alone, he was surprised to discover that it depressed him. Nevertheless, he was happy for Royce and Gwen. Arcadius certainly would be pleased.

Bracing himself for the words he knew would follow, Hadrian asked. “Thinking about what?”

Royce took a deep breath, sucked on his finger again, then pointed the glistening digit at him. “Mr. Hipple.”

Those were not the words Hadrian expected. He glanced at Gwen, who showed no insight whatsoever. “What?”

“Mr. Hipple—you know?”

“The dog?”

Royce nodded gravely. “We shouldn’t have left him. Those winters in Alburn—gets cold there. Dog might die.”

Hadrian remained lost as he studied them both wondering if this was a joke. Neither smiled, and Royce was as grim and pensive as ever. “That was a year ago, Royce.”

“We should go back and get him,” he said this while looking off into the distance as if seeing the mutt shivering in the cold.

“Go back? To Alburn? Are you insane?”

Gwen shook her head and smiled apologetically. “He’s had a bit to drink, as well.”

Hadrian nodded dramatically. “I would say so.”

Gwen rubbed Royce’s back. “Maybe we should call it a night.”

“No—no,” Royce waved a hand at both of them. “I’m just starting to enjoy myself. Anyone notice the dancers? They look ridiculous. That one is missing a kerchief.” He reached out and began picking up empty bottles presumably searching for more wine. He grabbed up an empty one with its cork jammed back in it. He stared at the bottle for a moment and began to nod. “This is the one.” He looked at Hadrian to make sure he noticed. “Whatever you do make sure you don’t pull the stopper out of this bottle. I have something trapped in it, and I need to keep it safe.”

Hadrian studied the empty bottle. “What?”

Royce looked at it, then at Hadrian. He did this three more times, then narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to know. I’ve said too much already.”

Hadrian stared at the thief dumbfounded. “Yes, I do believe it is absolutely time to call it a night. Royce, can you walk?”

The thief smirked at him as if he’d made an awful joke.

“Can he?” Hadrian asked Gwen.

She shrugged helplessly.

Great, both are about as useful as an axe missing a handle.

The trip back to the Turtle wasn’t nearly as bad as Hadrian expected. Royce could walk just fine causing Hadrian to wonder exactly how drunk his friend was or wasn’t. The thief had certainly emptied his fair share of the wine bottles—must have because Hadrian had only ever seen Albert helping him. Gwen had a glass or two, but she wasn’t drunk—not entirely sober, either. He could tell by the way she was quiet. Some people got loud when they drank, others withdrew, as if suddenly shy. If asked, Gwen might say she was tired, but the truth he guessed was more likely that she was still sober enough to know she couldn’t trust herself and that talking was dangerous.

Hadrian managed to flag a carriage right away, and the three piled in. The driver knew right where to find the Turquoise Turtle, which was good as Hadrian wasn’t certain he could find the rolkin in the tiered maze of whitewashed grottos. The ride back was a tranquil clip-clop. Neither of his two companions spoke. Gwen curled up and lay her head on Royce’s shoulder, and if he had anything more to say on the subject of empty corked bottles, the thief appeared content to let it wait. As far as herding-the-happy went, Hadrian had an easy go of it.

It felt late. The air was clammy and cool. The big moon cast long shadows stripping the world of color and leaving the domes and awnings so many shades of silver. Far fewer people walked the streets at that hour, and the sound of music was restricted to the passing of open doors where light and people continued to spill out of various sized establishments. Under it all the sound of the sea rolled at a constant rhythm.

The Lord Byron letter Albert had given him, worked like a magic talisman, and after only glancing at its tattered face the driver smiled warmly and waved as they walked away without paying a copper or giving a name. The whole night was turning out to have been a wonderful experience, right up until the moment they reached the gate to the Turtle and found it open.

A lack of locks was one thing, but the latch was unhooked and the gate slung wide. Hadrian thought he had been the last one through and believed he’d closed it.

Arcadius must have done it. The old professor had come back early. He’d been tired and was just the sort to absentmindedly fail to hook the latch. Hadrian was feeling pretty good about that bit of deduction, clever even, then they entered the courtyard and found all of the urns and pots laying on their sides. The table was turned over along with the chairs, and the door to the rolkin stood wide open.

“Arcadius?” he called, more hopeful than earnest. His mind had flushed the idea of the absentminded professor and jumped forward to simply hoping Arcadius was alive. The silent reply chilled him.

Hadrian reached for the grips of his swords, only to remember he didn’t have them. They were inside, all the way upstairs hanging on the wall pegs of his chosen room—or at least they had been.

“Why is it so dark?” Gwen asked as she stared at the open door and black windows.

“Wait here.” Hadrian grabbed one of the courtyard lights. They were normal, handheld lanterns that hung from the top ring, but still had the bail handle just in case. None of them were lit. Of course not, it was daylight when they left, and Arcadius hadn’t bothered. Hadrian took the candle out and lit it off the street lamp.

When he got back Royce had his knife out, but hadn’t gone in. “Best that I stay with her.”

Hadrian nodded and raising the lantern before him, stepped inside.

The interior of the turtle was silent and an absolute mess. As if a hurricane had blown through, everything that could have been dislodged, toppled, or rolled, had been. Looking like a hatched dragon’s egg, the big, clay pot lay shattered. The jungo plant had been ripped from the copper urn and all the dirt dumped out. Even the carpets were flipped, though some were neatly rolled as if prepped for stealing, only none were missing. The black onyx dolphin was on the ground, it’s tail broken. Cushions were flung everywhere, and extra bedding, had been pulled out of cupboards and thrown across the floor.

Hadrian moved through the wreckage and up the stairs heading for his room and his swords, despite believing the act was futile. His time with Royce may have tempered the thief’s more violent habits, but those same years had also changed Hadrian. This was driven home to him as Hadrian moved through the ransacked rolkin all but convinced of two things: his blades were gone, and the professor was dead.

Like the rest of the rolkin, his bedchamber had been torn apart. Blankets, sheets, and pillows were thrown, the mattress ripped apart, and feathers were everywhere. His bag had been emptied, the contents, scattered. To his amazement, all three swords remained untouched. Taking up his short blade while still wielding the lantern in the other, he searched the rest of the rolkin. He entered Arcadius’s room last, and was shocked to find it empty.

Hadrian returned to the common room where he found Gwen busy lighting lamps.

“Where’s Royce?”

“He went out.”

“Out?”

“Looking for whoever did this, I suppose.”

“That can’t be good. Stay here. Close the door after I leave. There’s no lock so prop something behind it. I doubt whoever did this will be back, but better to be safe.”

Hadrian left the courtyard and had only moved down the street a short distance when he found Royce uncloaked, his dagger out and gleaming in the moonlight. “What are you doing? I thought you were guarding Gwen?”

“I heard something,” Royce said then stumbled into a rain barrel, bounced off, and nearly fell.

“You’re in no condition to be doing this. Come back to the turtle.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I just had a little wine. I’ve seen you drink waaay more. I’ve watched you fight after running the taps out. You did fine.” Royce stumbled against the rain barrel again. He stopped and stared at it confused.

“Yeah Royce,” Hadrian said. “It’s the same barrel.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And you might want to put that dagger away before you accidentally cut off your own finger. Whoever ransacked the turtle is long gone.”

Royce leaned on the rain barrel and struggled to put Alverstone into the sheath that hung on his belt. He tried three times and failed. “I hate being drunk.”

“I can see why. You’re lousy at it.”

“You make it look so easy.”

“Years of practice, my friend. Decades, really.” Hadrian took the dagger away. “Let’s get you back to Gwen.”

Hadrian put his arm around Royce and the two began walking in sync. At least they tried to. Royce was like a dancing partner who wanted to lead, but didn’t know how to dance.

“I kissed her,” Royce said.

It took Hadrian a second to catch up to the drunken side-trip his friend had unexpectedly embarked on. Not only was it off topic, but also shocking both in subject and message. That Royce kissed anyone was a hard image to conjure; that Royce opted to speak of it was unprecedented. Hadrian suspected this blurted confession was the tail-end of an extensive internal monologue Royce had just run though in his head. To the thief it likely made perfect sense.

Those three words explained a lot. No wonder Gwen had that giddy but coy look. She was bursting to share, but knew better than to boast—certainly not in front of Royce. “How’d that go? I take it she didn’t slap you or anything.”

“It was nice.”

“I would have expected as much.”

“No, you don’t understand. It was really nice. I mean, really, really nice.”

“Be even better when you’re sober.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Believe me when I tell you—”

“Now what in the name of Maribor are the two of you doing stumbling about like a couple of drunken sailors just in from a two-year voyage?” Arcadius asked walking up the road toward them. “Are you two just getting back now?”

“There you are!” Hadrian exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

“Yeah, grampa,” Royce said. “Better not have been at the brothel again or gramma is gonna poison your dinner.”

The professor paused to cast a sidelong stare at Royce. “I take it he’s suffering from a few too many bottles of wine?”

“That you put in front of him,” Hadrian replied.

“They were on the table, Hadrian. They were in front of everyone, and yet you don’t seem nearly as fermented.”

“I don’t like wine. You know that. And Montemorcey is the only thing Royce drinks. You know that, too.”

“True, but I didn’t force it down his throat. And it is only wine. A case could be made that the man needed a bit of encouragement to shake off the shackles of the north and embrace the warmth of those around him.”

If Hadrian needed any further confirmation that the professor had done it on purpose, that was it. Arcadius had manipulated events from the start. Very likely his intentions were benevolent. The professor had long sought to banish Royce’s demons, teaming the two of them in the hope that Water could convince Oil to be more social. It hadn’t worked, or at least it hadn’t worked well enough. Now Arcadius was calling in reinforcements.

“Let’s shave grampa’s beard off.” Royce grinned at Arcadius and began searching for his dagger that Hadrian still held and now kept out of sight.

“What about you?” Hadrian asked the professor as he once more resumed guiding Royce back toward the Turtle. “What happened? You were coming back here. Did you get lost?”

“I was just out for a late night stroll. I really wasn’t feeling altogether well. Rich food does that to me. Too many years of eating the horrible stuff they serve at the university has left me incapable of digesting the real thing. The cool night air did just the trick.”

“So you haven’t been back to the turtle yet?”

“Just returning now…why?”

“I think someone stole my dagger?” Royce said.