“Feeling better?” Hadrian asked when Royce emerged from his bedroom, boots in one hand, his cloak in the other. Once more the thief was the last one up, but at least it was still morning.

“Much,” Royce replied coming down the stairs, then stopped mid-step the way cats do when startled. He squinted painfully at the early sunlight blazing through the windows that brilliantly beamed off the white ceiling, walls, and floor.

Does he keep it dark in his room? Hadrian thought then immediately chided himself. Of course he does. Royce likely has the shutters closed, nailed, and trapped.

“Doesn’t it ever rain here?” Royce grimaced, then continued down the last few steps.

Hadrian sat with his legs out on the long cushion covered bench the way Albert had the day they first arrived. His bare feet clapped against one another to a beat and rhythm all their own. On his chest was a small burlap bag filled with peanuts that he was eating, skins and all. Gwen had bought them the day before keen to express her trials in doing so. Apparently the grower took issue with Gwen and Albert calling them pea-nuts because they aren’t. While they resembled and tasted like walnuts, almonds, and cashews that grew as hard-coated fruit, peanuts were actually legumes that grew underground. The proper term, the seller had explained, was ground pea.

“It is sort of like Dulgath, isn’t it?” Hadrian glanced out at the blue sky. “Did you want it to rain?”

“Be cooler if it did.” Royce set down his boots, then swirled his cloak in an elegant circle as he pulled it over his head.

“Be cooler if you didn’t wrap yourself in five sheeps worth of wool.”

Royce peered out of the hole. “We both know that’s not going to happen.” He tugged his head through and adjusted the shoulders. “Where is everyone else?”

“Arcadius and Gwen went to the beach and Albert is reporting to Lord Byron. Apparently he’s expected to make daily reports on our progress.”

Royce sat at the table to slip on his boots. “What’s he going to say?”

Strange that Royce put on the cloak first then the boots. Who puts on a coat before shoes? Of course, to Royce that cloak isn’t an outdoor garment.

Hadrian looked down at himself: bare feet, loose untied shirt, and cloth trousers—his self styled holiday uniform. The two were night and day, but Hadrian couldn’t decide which was better. He was undoubtedly more comfortable, but Hadrian admired Royce’s dedication that made Hadrian look like a ne'er-do-well layabout. And I haven’t the slightest idea where my boots are. He thought they might be in his room, or behind the stairs. He didn’t think he left them outside but couldn’t rule it out.

“He’s going to explain that we are working very hard, but that process is slow because we only just arrived and are still getting a feel for the place.”

“Really?”

“It sounds much better when he says it.”

“I figured that, but I was just…I mean that’s actually the truth.”

“Right.” Hadrian nodded. “But there’s no need to lie. This is a legitimate job.”

Royce paused in hauling on his left boot and simply stared into the distance for a long moment. “I suppose you’re right. Strange.”

Royce finished outfitting his feet and stood up clapping them on the floor to test his work. “Any of that fish left?”

Hadrian grinned. He set the ground pea bag on the table then coaxed Royce to a pair of nearly invisible doors in the wall with all the intrigue of a heist. Pressing a bit of stone, it turned to reveal a handle that when pulled opened a cabinet. Inside was a huge piece of ice, half melted.

“What—” Royce started to say, but Hadrian held up a finger to stop him.

Closing the ice door, Hadrian revealed a second handle below the first and opened another cabinet. This one was stocked with perishable food.

“Auberon calls it an icebox.” Hadrian explained. “Says the ice lasts several days and he gets new ice regularly. Comes off boats from up north. A wagon brings it. Everyone on the street gets deliveries like they do milk in Gentry square. The fish is at the bottom because cold travels down. Arcadius explained the whole thing as if it was common sense, but I think it only made sense to him.”

Royce grabbed up the fish that had been wrapped in paper, and nodded. “It’s cold, but not frozen. Is that good? Why do I want cold fish?”

“Arcadius insists it preserves it, you know, like salt or smoke only without changing the taste.”

“Huh,” Royce mused looking at the wrapped package that had an oily stain around it, then back at the cabinate. Slowly he began shaking his head. Then, like a curse, he muttered, “Dwarfs.”

“Where we off to today?” Hadrian asked brushing the remnants of peanut shells from his chest.

“Tell you on the way, but we’re going to need water, too. Any idea where the well is? You said it was in the courtyard, but I never saw it. Or does Auberon have a special device for that, too?”

“Actually…you’re not going to believe this.” Hadrian went on to spend the better part of an hour showing Royce how the indoor-well worked.

“Arcadius says the idea isn’t new and that the Old Empire had them, too.”

“And it’s fresh water?” Royce kept saying as he stared at the spigot that ran into a stone cistern with a stopper at the bottom.

“Both. This is fresh, but there’s another for sea water that flushes that bucket under the chair in the privy.”

“There’s a privy? I was using a pot in the bedroom.”

“You aren’t the only one. That’s how this whole thing started—with Auberon calling us all barbarians. It’s behind that little door in the archway beneath the stairs. Anyway, when you pull the lever in the privy, all of it runs out into tunnels that flow under the city and back out to the sea.”

“Sewers.” Royce nodded. “Ratibor has them. Like a man-made river beneath the city. Very convenient. Got rid of a lot of bodies that way. ”

“Gwen calls the flush-bucket the best thing since shoes.”

“This is why dwarfs scare me,” Royce pointed at the tap as if it insulted him. “If they can do stuff like this, what else are they capable of?”

Royce led Hadrian down to the harbor, then around to the seawall of the quay past the numerous piers and jetties to one of the two arms of land that together made a circle creating the bay. Royce still hadn’t said where they were going. This wasn’t unusual. Royce, never talkative, was especially so when others were in earshot. When they reached the far southern end of the harbor, Royce led Hadrian over a one story retaining wall. On the far side, they dropped down into what looked to be wilderness. This portion of the coast hadn’t been developed and gave a glimpse as to what Tur Del Fur had once been—a jungle. Mangroves, palms, eske trees, spikers, abra berry plants and massive jungos, were familiar to Hadrian from his days in Calis, but many others were new to him. Plunging inside the canopy of green, the screened sun made it instantly cooler, but they also lost much of the wonderful sea breeze.

Walking beneath the canopy of leaves was like being inside. The air was still, the sounds of the world shut out and replaced by new ones: the drone of insects, rustle of leaves, the whooping of gibbons, and the two numerous to count bird songs. Hadrian suffered flash-backs to his years in the Gur Um rain forest of Calis. This was nothing like that. The scale was wrong. Everything in the Gur Um was mammoth, even the raindrops seemed bigger. The animals and insects certainly were. But the biggest difference was that Delgos had no Ghazel. Hadrian knew this. His rational mind took the time to patiently explain it over and over, but it was like being introduced to a pet dog after having been nearly torn apart by wolves. He had to keep reminding himself, this is a tame forest.

Royce trekked through the dense foliage heading seaward out along the southern arm. When they were about halfway, he finally spoke. “I was thinking about Gravis last night while I was on the roof.” Royce pushed aside a five foot jingo leaf—not nearly the biggest that Hadrian had seen. In the deep Gur Um, they grew so large that Tenkins were able to make rafts out of them.

“You were on the roof? How long were you up there?”

“Most of the night.” Royce stepped deftly over a moss covered log and around a series of hanging prop roots. “Anyway, I was thinking about what the rat seller said.”

“Angelique?”

“Whatever. He mentioned that no one would find Gravis because he’s hiding. So, I reasoned that if I were planning on sabotaging Drumindor, and people knew what I was up to, I’d hide in the one place I wouldn’t need to move from in order to complete my plan.”

They climbed out of the dense vegetation and onto a stoney scrubland that steadily rose in elevation until it became a plateau of solid rock that formed the foundation for the southern tower of Drumindor. “I think he’s in there.”

Both of them tilted their heads back to look up at the tower’s full height. Together they just stared at it for a while. Clouds shrouded the top and sea birds circled at the midpoint. Big sailing vessels passing beneath the bridge appeared like toys. Amazing as it was, Drumindor wasn’t at all beautiful. There was a terrible austerity to it—all straight lines with no embellishment. The two towers were like pillars with fins instead of flutes that jutted out at precise intervals looking similar to giant teeth on gigantic gears. From these extruded ribs, sharp pouts protruded in an ugly manner that reminded Hadrian of thorns on a stalk, except that these thorns smoked. From the tips of each and from the very top of the tower, black smoke leaked like the memory of a fire, or the promise of one to come.

“It’s not all that incredible,” Royce said. “When you realize they didn’t build it, only cut away what was here.”

“Yeah.” Hadrian chuckled. “Erasing an entire mountain is no feat at all. I was thinking of turning Mt. Mador into a multi-story tavern next week, wanna help?”

Royce peered at him. “Busy.”

Having escaped the trees they climbed the foothills following goat paths through the scrub until they reached the bare rock of the headland, which Hadrian guessed to be the last natural remnants of Mt. Druma. He tried to imagine what it might have looked like this massive mountain that was probably sort of flat on top, similar to Mt. Dag off the coast of Calis. That too was a volcano, but a quiet one. Legend held that centuries ago Mt. Dag had blown its top and the resulting wave had nearly erased Dagastan. Judging from the span between the Drumindor towers, Hadrian estimated Mt. Druma’s base and guessed the mountain hadn’t been very large, at least not by comparison to other mountains. By human reckoning, however, it was ridiculous.

Yeah, not incredible at all.

As they climbed higher and farther out into the sea the wind picked up once more, and they heard the crash and boom of waves. The wind returned more powerful than before throwing Hadrian’s hair back. Circling overhead, perched, and nestled in crevices, gulls and shore birds clustered en masse. The rocks of the promontory appeared splattered with gallons of white paint as centuries of built-up bird droppings teared the stone faces. Soon they spotted evidence of chisels, and the rock became squared off stone. Another few hundred feet and they reached the official base of the southern tower. There was no entrance visible, no window, porch, or steps.

They paused in the comfort of a constant breeze to drink and eat what was left of the fish.

“So what’s the plan?” Hadrian asked sitting on a ledge of rock where some thousands of years ago a dwarf looked to have chiseled his initials, or his mark, or something into the stone step.

Royce was staring up at Drumindor shaking his head. “Huh? Oh, we’ll just tell Byron to conduct a thorough search of the towers. My guess is they’ll find him hidden away in some broom closet in there. They’ll have him for trespassing and attempted sabotage, which will give them the excuse to keep Gravis locked up until he dies.”

“Really? Then why are we here?”

“Because Bryon will probably catch Gravis tomorrow, which means we’ll be leaving, the day after, and I wanted to see this up close.”

Royce finished his meal, wiped his hands and leapt up to the where the surface of the tower itself began. He laid a hand on the rough stone then craned his neck back. “It’s taller than the Crown Tower. I’d estimate something like eighty stories—eight hundred feet or so, maybe a bit more. Entrance must be through the other tower. Impressive.” He turned and dropped back down. “This might be the easiest job we’ve ever had.”

Hadrian nodded. “I am a little disappointed will be leaving so soon. We should go out to the Parrot one more time. Everyone seemed to like that.”

Royce glared at him.

Hadrian laughed. “You’ll be fine. Just remember: Less wine, more food.”

“Easy for you to say,” Royce dropped back down beside Hadrian. “What if she wants to dance again?”

“Then dance. What is with you and Gwen anyway? It’s like you’re terrified of her, which is insane.”

Royce shook his head. “I’m wearing two layers of black wool in the tropics, where did you get the idea I was sane?”

Albert was still not back when the Blue Parrot opened leaving Arcadius, Gwen, Royce, and Hadrian to go without the viscount. They got a table identical to the last only this one was a row back. Nevertheless, they were greeted once more by Atyn. The waiter arrived in his pressed and perfect blue uniform, bright-eyed and smiling wide enough to show teeth as if this was the first real day of his life, and he was determined to make the most of it.

“Welcome back,” the waiter said with such joy Hadrian thought he might genuinely mean it. “We missed you last night.”

“I believe several of us needed a day of rest after that first culinary encounter,” Arcadius said slowly settling into his seat between Royce and Hadrian—his back to the stage.

“I understand,” Atyn smiled, or rather, he continued to do so.

The man’s face muscles must be capable of lifting an anvil.

Atyn ran through the menu which consisted of fresh charred Hakune on a bed of sea breeze foam; deep fried aquatic cave-bat garnished with a lemon-lime relish and peas; Beach Buzzard, which was explained as a long-legged, white shore bird and not an actual vulture; and of course, their staple dish, Sea Monster. He took the liberty of bringing a bottle of Montemorcey and set it on the table in front of Royce. Then he left them to ponder the choices.

“So, Royce,” Arcadius began, his elbows on the table, hands folded together, peering over his spectacles. “Rumor has it that you and Gwendolyn had an interesting night when last we were here.”

“Rumor also has it—whatever that means—that you insist cold goes down. What do you mean it goes down? Cold isn’t a living thing; it can’t chose a direction. Nor has it weight like a raindrop or snow flake. It’s a temperature, it can’t move.”

“You’re purposely changing the subject.” Arcadius gave Royce that knowing look that made everyone receiving it feel stupid.

“I know,” Royce replied with his own signature grin, that made others feel stupid for being in the same territory. “Only seems fair since you’re purposely bringing up that subject. This is Delgos after all. There’s no hereditary authority, so we all get a say on topics of conversation. You want to chat about me and Gwen, and I prefer we discuss your theory on temperature. In fact, I’d like to propose an experiment where I drop you in the ocean and you find out if it is indeed colder at the bottom. What do you say?”

“Personally, I think I will have the Hakune,” Hadrian spoke up and rapped the wood of the table with his knuckles as if pronouncing some judgement. “I had some already, and it was wonderful. How about you, Gwen?”

“I was actually thinking about the buzzard,” she said tapping a finger to her chin in a dramatic expression of deliberation. “I saw them at the beach when we went swimming yesterday. They’re these cute little white birds with long yellow legs and beaks. They scamper up and down across the wet sand chasing the waves in and out in the most adorable manner you could imagine. And you know, upon seeing them, my very first thought was that I need to eat one of those.”

This made Hadrian laugh and drew smiles from both Arcadius and Royce.

“Thank you, Gwen,” Hadrian said. Then he reached out for the bottle of Montemorcey. “For that you deserve another toast.”

Atyn returned and took their orders and apologized in advance for a possible delay. “Like everyone else around here, we are having trouble. Our ovens are suffering from ventilation issues. Don’t ask me what that means, I don’t know. That’s just the problem; no one does. And of course, we can’t get anyone to repair it.”

“And why is that?” Arcadius inquired.

“Like most everything in this city, the ovens are of dwarven design. Only they know how to fix them.”

“I’m still not seeing the problem. This is Tur Del Fur, I suspect there’s quite a few dwarfs to be found who could help.”

Atyn nodded. “Normally, you’d be right, but all the dwarfs have disappeared.”

“How’s that now?” Arcadius asked, taking his glasses off as if it might help him hear better. “Did you say disappeared?

“They’re all gone. No one had seen a long-beard in over a week.”

Royce gave Hadrian a concerned look.

“And it’s becoming a problem,” Atyn continued. “Roads are crumbling, there’s a shortage on salt, all the baths are closed because of the plumbing, and now I heard there’s something wrong with the sewers.”

“In a week?” Hadrian asked.

“Hellooo everyone!” Albert announced himself from two tables over as he waded through the growing host of arriving patrons searching for seats. With him came a beautiful woman in a lavish gold gown. She was tall, with a pronounced hour-glass shape, and a tower of hair piled high. The neck of her dress went deep and wide revealing a panorama of shoulders and the tops of prominently displayed breasts. These were embellished with a slender silver chain that dangled a massive diamond in the valley between the hills, and which precisely matched her earrings.

That she was noble was as obvious as a hail storm to the hatless. Everything about her screamed elegance. The way she walked bowstring straight, chin up, eyes peering down on everyone as if they were revolting bugs she feared stepping on, defined the lady long before she opened her mouth. The moment she did, however, the woman annihilated all doubt.

“Please forgive my extemporaneous and presumably tiresome extension of what I assure you is a most sincere salutation to gentleman and lady alike,” she said this in the most perfect and precise manner Hadrian had ever heard. She spoke as if her tongue and lips were a troop of militantly disciplined acrobats who would surely be put to death if they stumbled.

Albert presented her like a prize item at an auction. “This is the Lady Constance of Warric, Consort of the Courts, Queen of the Balls, Granddame of the Galas, and professional social butterfly.” Then he pointed at each of them in order. “Constance, I give you Professor Arcadius of Sheridan, Gwendolyn DeLancy of Medford, Royce Melborn, and Hadrian Blackwater—my dearest friends.”

“How lovely, Albert” the lady said. Then formally faced the table being certain to make eye contact with each one. “I am delighted to make the acquaintance of you all.”

Albert looked at Atyn. “Can we get two more chairs?”

“Right away, sir.”

Arcadius presented the lady his usual whimsical expression that could best be describe as mildly mischievous. Royce scowled at her, which was his reaction to meeting anyone new. Gwen was the surprise. She stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the lady. Then as they took their seats between Arcadius and Royce, Gwen looked a little sick.

“How did the meeting go?” Hadrian asked.

Albert shrugged. “Fine. Lord Byron is understandably anxious to resolve the matter, but accepted my assurances. Mostly, I think because he hasn’t an alternative. No one else seems to care.”

“These are the two then?” Constance asked Albert. “This is Riyria?”

Everyone at the table straightened up, except Constance who couldn’t improve her posture anymore if she were hung by her wrists.

“Please, do not be apprehensive,” the lady spoke in a soothing, reassuring tone. “Riyria holds the prestigious rank of my most favored company. Never would I betray your confidence as I am a verifiably trustworthy person, but more importantly and to the point—” she gave Royce a flattering glance, “—I have also commissioned the two of you on enough occasions, to be acutely aware of how deliriously fatal such an indiscretion would be.”

Albert nervously drummed the flat of his hands on the table before him as he watched Royce. “She’s actually the one who suggested you to Byron, so technically she and I are sharing the percentage on this one. And given that the bulk of this job is the perks, she deserved a night at Parrot. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Royce stared at Albert; Constance stared at Royce; Gwen stared at Constance; and Albert stared hard at the open bottle of wine.

“Forgive me if my presence is an imposition.” Lady Constance stood up.

“Do you drink wine?” Royce asked. “Because we’ve got a bottle here that’s bound to be wasted otherwise.”

“I have been known to indulge, if it is good. I see no point in granting space in my life for the mundane.”

“It’s the best there is, which is why I don’t like the idea of wasting it.” He looked to Hadrian.

“A toast to Lord Byron, then?” Hadrian lifted the bottle.

Constance sat back down.

“Oh, by Mar, yes,” Albert said, and held out his glass shaking it with impatience. “Stress is a terrible thing, and a day dealing with nobles wears a man out.”

Lady Constance tilted her head back and raised her elegant eyebrows at him. “Really?”

“Not you dear,” he assured her. “You are a raft to a drowning soul.”

“A raft? Is that how you see me? A handfull of rough-hewn logs lashed together?”

“It’s the stress from dealing with Lord Byron, my Lady. Give me time to down a few glasses of this and I will compose a sonnet to your beauty.”

Albert drained half his glass in one go, then sat back with a sigh. Lady Constance swirled and sniffed the contents of her glass, then took the tiniest sip before placing the stemware on the precise center of the decorative napkin before her.

“Have either of you heard anything about dwarfs vanishing from this city?” Royce asked turning his stemmed glass upside-down as Hadrian made his rounds.

“Vanishing?” Albert asked. “Being abducted, you mean?”

“No idea. The waiter just mentioned that all the dwarfs in the city were missing. No one has seen them in over a week.”

“There has been a great deal of trouble with the native Dromeians over the last few years that has recently reached a new level,” Lady Constance said. Her hands were on her lap and she spoke as if a student in a classroom happy to answer her first question. “There has been a growing concern that having so much of the city’s crucial infrastructure controlled by such a small and insular community, isn’t wise. Especially when many of them are growing more adamant about the restoration of the old Belgric kingdom—by force, if necessary. The Triumvirate has taken measures to limit their involvement.”

“Which is to say they forced the city administrators to dismiss hundreds of dwarfs from fine paying jobs out of an abundance of caution.” Arcadius said disapprovingly and followed it with an uncharacteristically large swallow of his own wine.

“That is a way of putting it,” Constance nodded politely. “This has caused some hardships.” She nodded toward the professor. “Both for the native Dromeians and for the city as a whole.”

Arcadius frowned. “The idle chit-chat of the addled-brained is that not only are the dwarfs not needed, but that the city would fare better in the hands of men. Never occurred to the captains of commerce that this city—all of Delgos, in fact—was built by dwarfs for dwarfs, with nary a thought to men.”

“Why is that a problem?” Hadrian asked.

“Your forehead has already noticed what you and the Triumvirate haven’t. If you think the doors are a problem, they are luxuriously huge in comparison to the access tunnels, vents, shafts, sewers, and valve rooms that lay beneath Tur Del Fur.”

Lady Constance nodded. “They resorted to using children, only—”

“Only your average child isn’t as strong as a man, and your average man isn’t as strong as a dwarf. An eight-year-old boy can’t turn a valve that two big men would struggle with.”

“As a result,” Constance went on as Arcadius took another drink of wine. “The last decade has seen a marked reduction in proper maintenance. The sewers have been backing up, the plumbing is a mess, the mines have all but stopped, and as a result there is a scarcity of salt and ore, leaving the roads and buildings in disrepair.”

“But this has been going on for years,” Royce said. “So what happened recently?”

“If allowing the native Dromeians to maintain the mines, sewers and plumbing was considered irresponsible then allowing them to operate Drumindor was believed to be criminally negligent. The Triumvirate finally took action and a week and three days ago Lord Byron was ordered to dismiss all the native Dromeians from working at the towers.”

“So their disappearance could be a protest of some sort?” Hadrian asked.

“Or maybe,” Royce said. “They might be fleeing a house they know is about to be burned.”