Gwen invited Auberon to stay for supper. With Albert’s help she had purchased something that looked like a sea monster: a dark-skinned fish about the size of a small calf with a blade-like snout about the length of a good hand-and-a-half sword. The thing was so heavy it had to be carted to the Turtle on a wagon and lifted out by three men.

“Please stay,” she had begged Auberon. “We have a lot of fish. Not sure what I was thinking.”

Having admitted she had no experience cooking such a beast, Auberon agreed to stay if only to make certain the fish was properly prepared.

“You take an animal’s life. You have an obligation to make its death worth something. And I have some experience with fish.”

He butchered the monster out in the courtyard, put the numerous thick pieces on a saltwater-soaked, five-foot, cedar board that could have had a previous life as the bottom of a sea chest. Then, as he got coals ready in the courtyard’s open air hearth. He had them gather lemon and dill from the tree, then to put the whole thing over the smoldering coals, and covered it all with a metal lid. In about an hour, the sea monster was done.

The day was fading, when they all sat at the supper table and the dazzling light-show that was sunset, sliced through the Turtle’s open windows turning the whole place golden. Albert pulled the cork on a single bottle of wine, which was more than needed as no one was in a drinking mood. Royce looked like he might kill the viscount when Albert poured him a glass.

“This is incredible, Gwen,” Arcadius said smacking his lips in delight. “Better than the Blue Parrot.”

“Don’t look at me, Auberon is the chef. I invited him to supper and he went ahead and made the whole meal. And thank Maribor he did. I’m certain I would have desecrated this poor fish.” She looked at the dwarf. “I’m not a great cook, you see. I just know I’m better than them.”

Albert nodded at Auberon as he swallowed. “I wasn’t aware your people were such wonderful chefs.”

Auberon smiled politely, as Gwen closed her eyes and shook her head.

“What?” the viscount looked surprised. “It’s true, isn’t it? Dwarfs are known for metal crafting and stone work, but no one ever speaks about their talent for food.”

“And women are all cooks, and Calians are known for fortune telling and haggling, right?”

Albert stared back at her flummoxed. “But you just said you’re better at cooking than we are, and you’re a very good business woman, and you’ve been known to tell fortunes.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, while Albert continued to look lost.

“I believe what the lady is saying,” Auberon ventured. “Is that it might be wise to withhold judgement on a whole nation of people and instead stick with evaluating the person in front of you based on their own merits and not the track record of hearsay.”

“Exactly,” Gwen said. “And the only reason I can cook better than the rest of you is because you’re all too lazy to learn.”

“When we camp on a job, I cook,” Hadrian declared. “I think I do pretty well.”

Royce coughed like he might choke.

The dwarf took a sip from his wine and wiped his mustache and beard. “As for me, I couldn’t smith a doorknob, or build so much as a stone step. Never had the talent.”

“I thought you…” Hadrian looked around. “Didn’t you build this?”

“The Turtle?” Auberon shook his head. “No. This place was carved out of these cliffs thousands of years ago, by the Brundenlins.” He pointed at Royce. “That’s the clan your Gravis Berling hails from. While the rest of the Dromeians were content to live up north in Neith, sleeping over the grave of Thane Dorith, the Brundenlins were never known to be content. They also didn’t like bowing to the Droithians. They came down here, and once Mt. Druma was tamed, they built these. That was the start of the Golden Age as they call it. The time of Andvari Berling and King Mideon, who did away with the old thanes and created the First Kingdom.”

The dwarf took another bite and sat back, his eyes looking out the front windows at the sunset over the harbor. White boats bobbed in gilded water and the twin towers of Drumindor stood black casting huge shadows on the city.

“Have you always been a fisherman?” Hadrian asked.

“Me? Oh, no. I’m certain you’re a better cook than I am a fisherman. I rarely catch anything and hardly ever keep the fish when I do. I just like being out in my little boat all alone, rocking on the ocean, rolling over the waves, and listening to the wind and the gulls. It’s peaceful out there.”

“So what did you used to do?”

Auberon sucked in his lower lip and looked back out the window. “That’s a long story.”

“I love stories,” Gwen said.

“But this one involves a lot of sad, dwarven history. No one likes that—not even dwarfs. I think it is suffice to say I’m not from here—that is I was born up north, near Lanksteer in the Dithmar Range where a lot of dwarven families re-located after the Old Empire annexed Belgric back in 1912.”

They all stared in shock, which caused Auberon to chuckle. He stroked his white beard and lifted his straw hat to reveal a balding head. “I know I look ancient, but I’m not that old. Despite what you may have heard Dromeians don’t have the lifespan of a mountain. Was my grandparents who moved us. And I did a great many things, I just never had a use or talent for the pick or hammer.”

And Hadrian couldn’t say he had much use or a talent for numbers, but given that 1912 was well over a thousand years ago, he didn’t think grandparents solved the riddle. “So, then, the little symbols on the walls in each room. They were already here?”

Auberon lowered his head and looked at the table. “No, I painted those.” He lifted his sleeve to reveal the same markings tattooed on his arm. “As you can see, I’m also not much of an artist, either.”

“What’s it mean?” Albert asked.

Auberon hesitated.

“Has it ever crossed your mind, Albert,” Gwen said. “That people don’t generally put permanent marks on their bodies as a lark. Usually what they mean is personal. You might as well ask Auberon if he dresses to the left or the right.”

Albert’s eyes grew in comprehension. “Oh. Sorry.”

While this appeared to clear up the matter as far as the viscount and Gwen were concerned, Hadrian, Royce, Arcadius, and even Auberon looked mystified.

“Do you mean which leg he puts in his trousers first?” Hadrian asked.

Gwen closed her eyes and lowered her head. “No,” she said. “Just let it go. We have a guest.”

Everyone looked at Albert, who smiled back. “It’s something a tailor would ask before taking the inseam measurement for trousers, preferring to do his work on the, ah…”—he glanced at Gwen— “Unoccupied side.”

Gwen groaned.

“It’s all right,” Auberon said. “The tattoo—it’s a simple symbol because I’m a lousy artist. It’s my family. The tall line with the circle above is my dear wife, and the two shorter ones on either side are my sons. They died many years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen told him.

Auberon nodded. “Aye, so am I.”

Royce never felt he knew a place until he saw it from above. The slopes, walls, primary arteries, chokepoints, and vulnerabilities of a city were best viewed from rooftops and only at night. A man standing on a highpoint during the day was a thing of curiosity. People pointed, gawked, and shouted, but at night no one could see him. Paired against the black sky, he was invisible and free to study the playing field below. That’s how he saw it because someone was indeed playing a game with him.

This was no great feat of awareness. His opponent wasn’t being subtle, which meant his adversary had no worries about repercussions. This either meant his enemy had no idea who he was, or knew, but didn’t care. The former would be his challenger’s mistake, the latter, his. This left Royce with the age old puzzle of: who, what, and why. These sorts of riddles were best wrestled with on rooftops, where he could be alone with his thoughts.

That evening, after they said goodnight to Auberon, and as the others slept, Royce had slipped out and perched himself on the dome of a building that shared a wall with the turtle; all the buildings in Tur Del Fur were connected in some fashion. From this vantage point, Royce could see how the rolkins had been carved from the same cliff. Each being individual residences but contiguous parts of one sculpture. Walls and stairs formed connecting tissues and the multitude of narrow streets below looked like the tracks on a single worm eaten board.

Treking around the city in his cloak all day had sweated out the remainder of the wine and cleared Royce’s head. Supper had replenished his strength. Now, the night air was breathing life back into his spirit. He knew he needed to think, but his mind continued to skid back to the same topic, which helped not at all.

Royce had woken to regret knowing he’d made a fool of himself with Gwen.

I think I danced with her!

Blessedly, that part wasn’t so clear. All he remembered were lots of shadows, soft whispering music, and holding Gwen obscenely close as they swayed together. He recalled the press of her body, the contours, the softness. Royce had no idea how long they danced, who may have seen them, or what else he may have done to her.

I kissed her.

He was certain of that much. The kiss stood out bright as the sun—too bright to look at straight, or think about directly. His pickled brain had formed its own blurred tribute of an instant too beautiful to ruin by study. Better that he remembered the myth—a singular moment of purity and passion that transcended every other experience in his life. And as Hadrian pointed out, Gwen didn’t appear to mind. As hard as it was to fathom, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit she actually seemed to like it. This was revelatory, and like everything connected with Gwen, wholly unexpected.

But kissing her had crossed a line, a dangerous one.

Over the years and despite all efforts to restrain himself, his feelings for Gwen had grown. They got along well. She was comfortable, and he enjoyed her company, which was rare as he hated most people. They shared a kinship of sorts. Gwen hadn’t talked much about her past, just enough for Royce to know the woman’s life wasn’t a parade of candies, cakes, and compliments. Her mother had fled Calis when Gwen was a child never giving an explanation. Alone, the two had traveled over a thousand miles down dangerous roads into an unknown region where they didn’t speak the language. Then somewhere around Vernes, her mother had died. Royce didn’t know how old Gwen was when she joined the bursting ranks of the officially orphaned, only that she was too young to be on her own. While Royce had always been alone, his youth must have been easier. A poor, attractive, foreign, girl abandoned in the wilderness of ruthless men where she could barely speak the language made his days of competing with gutter rats for meals seem rosy.

Ultimately, it came down to respect. Royce had known multitudes of men and women forced to face terrible hardships, but few had done so with the grace and wit that Gwen exhibited. And none had ever come through the sewer smelling sweet with their dignity and humanity still intact. Gwen had. He admired that in her. She was a better person than he, and as far as Royce could tell, that’s what did it—that and the fact she liked him.

How it was that such a lady as Gwendolyn DeLancy could see him as anything but awful was right up there with why is the sky blue? And it wasn’t simply that she thought he was a few shades lighter than disgusting, Gwen genuinely respected him in much the same ways he esteemed her. This incomprehensible, wide-eyed admiration granted Royce an invitation into the land of dignity and self-respect that had always been locked behind garden gates. When he was with her, he felt important, smart, and as ridiculous as it seemed—good. In her eyes at least, he was a hero of sorts, and through that colored glass he saw a future that wasn’t dark and tragic and spied a reflection of himself that was more than a mistake. But with this treasured gift came the desperate fear of ruining everything. Royce was terrified of falling from his pedestal and seeing that look of respect fade forever from her eyes.

Of course there was an outside chance that while inebriated, he had been suave, and eloquent, dashing, attractive, and…

…and, with enough yarn, cows might learn to knit sweaters.

He sighed till his shoulders slumped, then took a deep breath.

I need to stop this. I have to think.

Too much was happening. Royce was a man in a forest single-mindedly gathering wood for a fire ignoring the ceaseless snapping and rustling all around. He had stabbed a man in the throat, but not only had this not ended a life, the ought-to-be-dead-man followed him halfway across the world to offer him a job. The sheer number of inexplicable issues arising from that one set of events was mind-boggling enough to make him wonder if Hadrian wasn’t right about it being a dream. Now, they had only just arrived, and someone had invaded and searched their base of operations, and he hadn’t a clue who it might be, or why they had done it.

Nothing was taken, so it wasn’t a petty robbery. No one was hurt and no threat made, which meant it wasn’t intimidation. No effort had been put into hiding the act, so secrecy wasn’t a concern.

Who were they, what did they want, and did they get it?

Having only arrived in the city, and not having done anything unusual, it seemed unlikely any of them were the target. Perhaps the search has nothing to do with us? Auberon is a shady character with an unexplained past, and it’s his rolkin. We might be the unlucky bystanders in a local clan war. This was a bizarrely optimistic idea, and Royce shooed it away attributing the thought to the lingering effects of poisoning his mind with wine. Instead, he concluded he knew two things. First, the incursion had been timed for when the Turtle was empty, which meant someone had been watching their movements. Second, Royce had insufficient information to reach a reasonable conclusion on anything else. This total ignorance led to his roosting on the rooftops that night. He hoped that whoever had been watching was still at it. There was a chance Royce might obtain the answers needed by polite inquiry. But if he was lucky it would take more than merely asking.

Overhead, in the star-filled sky, a waning gibbous moon had reached its highpoint casting a cold silvery radiance in a line across the ocean, and illuminated the whitewashed roofs and walls of the city. Beneath Royce, some lanterns still burned, casting a warm yellow glow. Royce found an unexpected beauty in the contrast, a statement shouted at the night—an echo lingering from centuries before when dwarfs first made a campfire on those shores and declared they would stay. Royce had never cared for the diminutive, devious crafters. Like barking dogs, and trackable fallen snow, they served as awful obstacles to his trade by creating doors and boxes impossible to open. And yet, he had to admire the work done here: the cliff dwellings and of course the massive towers that stood out in the harbor—a pair of dark giant legs straddling the headlands—shadows too big to be real. How long had it all taken? How much labor went into such a feat? How had this warren of roads, stairs, and buildings manage to fit together so perfectly? And most of all…How did they carve two towers from one volcano and tame the beast in the process?

Tur Del Fur, however, wasn’t all starlight and mushrooms, there was also ugliness. In the streets below, he witnessed the dark side of life in paradise. Two rolkins down, a couple had a fight in their courtyard. She complained how he always became mean when he drank; he settled the argument by hitting her. The woman’s scream had ripped the night tearing down the streets. No additional lights were lit. No one came out. No one cared.

Just like home, Royce thought.

A while later, a group of barefoot young men in shorts, two topless, one with a cheap vest, walked through the city toppling rain barrels and ripping down awnings. Then they broke a window with a potted palm. The noise was almost as loud as the woman’s scream, and the trio raced off laughing manically.

After that another couple taking a late stroll paused beneath the single lantern at the four-way intersection. The man knelt and held up a small object. The woman whispered something and nodded. Then in that pool of light, they embraced and kissed, and hadn’t stopped for over an hour. At last check in, the man’s shirt was off, and the straps of the woman’s dress were suffering similar issues. This left Royce wondering how wise a decision the woman had made if the wretch couldn’t afford so much as a room.

Then, of course, there were the two quiet watchers—both reflections of himself. One sat on the public terrace bench outside the Turtle’s gate. He wore a Night Uniform, clothes that were dark, but not quite black, loose enough to provide ease of movement, but cinched at the cuffs. He rarely moved.

The other Watcher remained farther out. He was down the zigzag stairs, so far away that he appeared little more than a shadow even to Royce’s eyes. The first watched the Turtle, the second watched the first. Both had been there nearly as long as Royce showing up just after moonrise. Neither appeared to notice him.

Dropping down off the dome on the far side, Royce circled around staying low. He moved to the back of the terrace, judging his position by way the swaying palm that grew next to the bench. Then, silent as a mute cat, he crept over directly behind Watcher Number One and placed Alverstone to the man’s neck.

“Why are you watching the Turtle?” Royce didn’t need to say more. Explanations wouldn’t be necessary. The man on the bench was a professional.

“What do you mean?” the Watcher replied unperturbed. “I’m just out for some air.”

“Answer the question.”

“Why?” the watcher asked.

Royce didn’t like the man’s attitude. He was far too relaxed, too confident.

I’m missing something.

He glanced down the street, but Watcher Number Two hadn’t moved. Royce could now also see he didn’t look to be in the same league. Watcher Number Two was dressed more like the three kids who had broken the window except for the hooded cape he used to hide in. Not a pro. Didn’t matter, realizing Royce was looking at him, Watcher Number Two fled.

It’s not him There’s something else.

“You don’t want to kill me,” the man on the bench said. “Do that and you’ll have to drag my body all the way down to the harbor to dump it. That’s a lot of work, and you’re here on holiday.”

From the arched doorway of the neighbor’s gate Royce noticed movement. A third player in that evening’s theater appeared. He stepped into the moonlight like an actor making an ominous entrance on stage. Dressed like his compatriot, he added to that ensemble accessorizing it with a standard issue crossbow aimed at Royce.

“Now,” Watcher Number One said. “How about you take that dagger away from my neck.”

Thwack!

Royce pulled back, instinctively dodging at the sound, but knowing it was too late. At that range, he didn’t stand a chance. His final thought was one of utter bewilderment. Why’d you kill me if you wanted answers?

Only it wasn’t Royce’s last thought.

Instead the crossbowman collapsed. He hit the stone with a hissing grunt. His still loaded weapon fired. The bolt cracked against the terrace wall two feet to Royce’s left. Behind the dead crossbowman stood another—a much shorter one.

Auberon emerged from the same shadowed doorway. Without taking his eyes of them, he reloaded his weapon with the same degree of expertise as a poor grandmother of ten sewed socks. In seconds, he was lethal again.

“You don’t have to haul bodies from here,” Auberon explained. “I usually just throw them over the wall behind you. They tumble right into the water near pier five. A fish hook and drag line will take them out to deep water. Sharks love ‘em.”

The dwarf raised his bow and aimed at Watcher Number One.

“Wait!” Royce said. He was feeling like a waiter holding too many plates, and having more thrust at him. For a sleepy harbor town Tur Del Fur was turning out to be absolutely hectic, and Royce still wasn’t a hundred percent.

Auberon, lowered the bow surprised. “Friend of yours, is he?”

“No.”

“Good.” Up came the bow again.

“Wait, I said!”

“For what?”

“I’m trying to get some information here.”

“Really?” Auberon narrowed his eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“To start with, who he is and who he works for.”

“His name is Ellis Pratt and he works for Cornelius DeLur. Need to know his shoe size, too?” Auberon raised the bow again.

“Stop!” Royce growled.

“This fella invaded me house, broke me pot, the dolphin’s tail, and tore up me jungo plant.”

“Do you also know why?”

“Don’t care. I live here in Tur. My houses and boat are off limits. Everyone knows that. Now I have a reputation to uphold. If I don’t, worse might happen.”

“If he kills me,” Pratt said. “The Company will assume it was Royce Melborn who did it and the’ll come for you. If I live, I can report that it was the crazy old dwarf that murdered Vigus.”

“Murdered?” Royce said. “The man had a crossbow aimed at me.”

“And you had a dagger at my throat.”

“So, there are no innocent murder victims here, now are there?”

“Did I mention the sharks?” Auberon said. “These two trespassers weren’t murdered. They just disappeared. Maybe they joined the pirates and had a wonderful career in the unorthodox maritime acquisition trade.”

“Look,” Royce said. “Efficacy and expedience is all fine and good, but there is an art to this. I have a list of questions that I need addressed.”

Auberon frowned and rolled his eyes. “Go on then, tell the man your shoe size so we can get you rolling down the terraces.”

“Why should I answer any questions if the dwarf is going to kill me anyway?”

“We’ll all make a deal,” Royce explained.

“I don’t like deals,” the dwarf said. “People go back on promises all the time, but no one cheats death.”

I used to believe that too, Royce thought with a wistful nostalgia of simpler days. “A lack of information can be as deadly as a weakened reputation. Now consider this, we let Pratt live in exchange for telling us what they were after, and for assurance that neither you, or I, or anyone staying with us will regret letting him go.”

“That’d be fine,” Pratt said. “If I could trust your word.”

“Trust my word?” Royce asked. “Where’d you get that from, some old poem? You’re either going to be a late night meal for a family of sharks, or tell me something no one cares about that might save your life. Tough choice, I know.”

“I still don’t like deals,” Auberon said. “This bastard tried to kill Daisy. Poor thing still might die.”

“Who’s Daisy?” Royce asked.

“The jungo plant.”

Royce tilted his head in disbelief. “You have a tropical plant named Daisy?”

“Is that problem?”

“Probably, but thankfully, not mine.” Royce turned to Pratt. “Well?”

“Fine. We were sent to find a book.”

“What book?”

“Don’t look at me,” Pratt said. “I can’t even read.”

“How were you going to identify this prize then?”

“I’m illiterate, not stupid. I know what a book is.”

“I don’t have a book.”

“Figured you’d say that, which is why we didn’t knock and ask politely.”

Royce frowned, then faced Auberon. “I want him to go back and report to DeLur that I said don’t have this book.”

“And I’d rather he not go back and report that I killed the other one.”

“Why not? Thought you had a reputation to uphold. How does that work of Pratt and Vigus have a wonderful career in the unorthodox maritime acquisition trade? Besides, Mr. Pratt here is going to do his very best to convince Cornelius to let this one go.”

“Why is that?” Auberon asked. “Once he’s gone, he’s gone.”

“I’m a bit curious about that myself,” Pratt said.

Royce moved around in front of Pratt. “Cornelius warned you about me. Did he happen to mention, why?”

Pratt shook his head. “Just told us not to underestimate a fella named Royce. Which I assume is you.”

Royce grinned, feeling considerably better about everything. If Pratt and Vigus were kept in the dark, then Cornelius DeLur considered them expendable. The Big Guy wouldn’t risk a war over the likes of them.

“And I’m guessing the name Royce Melborn means nothing to you?”

Pratt nodded.

“Then let me offer another name that you might be more familiar with, a name that might provide you with a better understanding of the situation and why you might want to assure your boss that Vigus wasn’t murdered after all.” Royce leaned in close. “Up north, they call me…Duster.”

It took a second, then Pratt’s eyes widened.

“If Cornelius tries to punish the dwarf or me,” Royce explained slowly. “I’ll respond in kind, but rest assured that I’ll find you first. Now tell me Pratt, when you get back, what will you tell the Big Guy?”

“That Vigus decided he rather try a career in the maritime acquisition trade.”

They didn’t need to bother with the crossbowman’s body. Pratt took care of it with the sort of professionalism that made Royce wonder if he underestimated the man. He certainly over estimated his ties to his partner whose remains he treated like a sack of refuse.

Ultimately, Royce concluded that his night had been well-spent. The what, remained a little vague, and the why was just as much a mystery as it had always been. But the who, at least, was answered, which also explained the lack of subtlety. His adversary, it turned out, wasn’t a fool. They knew each other’s reputations well, but as Cornelius DeLur was as powerful as any king, fear of Royce Melborn didn’t rank high on the big man’s list.

Although now Royce had another puzzle to work on.

“Who are you?” he asked Auberon once the two were back in the Turtle’s courtyard that now felt like a fortress courtyard.

“You’re a bit young to be going senile,” Auberon replied. “We’ve already met. Maybe you should keep a notebook.”

“And you’re not nearly senile enough not to know what I’m taking about. What is your occupation? Your trade? You’re not a fisherman, and you crossed out all the other traditional dwarven occupations.”

“I’m old. I don’t do anything anymore.”

“So what did you used to do?”

Auberon looked at the house and sighed. “I used to be stupid. And I was very good at it, too.”

“Where’d you get the crossbow?”

“This?” Auberon lifted it into the moonlight. “Got it off my boat. This here is my fishing rod.” He smiled at Royce. “Got some real nasty fish down here.” He winked.

“Not going to tell me, are you?”

“How I wasted nearly four hundred years of my life? No. I’d rather not. It’s a miserable story anyway starring an idiot who lost everything chasing an impossible dream. The sort of tale that old people bore young people to tears with, and I’m done making mistakes like that. Point of fact, I’m just about done with everything. I’ll be four hundred and sixty later this year, and while my ancestors were rumored to have lived past five hundred, these days I’m consider ancient for a dwarf. I don’t have much time left, and I plan to use it wisely. But if you’d like to thank me for the help, I’m all ears.”

“I wasn’t in any danger.”

“They had a crossbow on you.”

“They wanted information just as much as I did. No need to kill me for that.”

Auberon stoked his beard while he eyed him. “You part of that crowd? Is that how you’re so sure?”

Royce nodded. “I was. I used to work for Cornelius’s son, Cosmos, up in Colnora. They have a different crew down here—not a thief’s guild because Cornelius owns this place. So, they’re more like a not so secret police.”

“You were in Cosmos’s Black Diamond?”

Royce nodded.

“But not anymore?”

Royce shook his head.

“Didn’t know you could quit.”

“Neither did they.”

“Well, if it helps you sleep,” Auberon said, “I used to do something sort of like that, only bloodier, uglier, and ultimately way less profitable. But just like you, it’s behind me. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go in and water Daisy. Poor girl has been through a lot.”