The next morning it was Hadrian’s turn to be last one awake. He hadn’t slept well—hadn’t slept much at all. Dreams plagued him. In all of them, Pickles died. Only it was Rehn Purim they hanged from a lonely leafless tree on a desolate hill outside of Sheridan University. Hadrian stood and watched unable to do anything except hear his last words: Sorry for not doing a better job with the watching and the warning. Hadrian would jolt awake and find himself once more staring into the endless dark. Not until the morning light pierced the windows was he able to close his eyes and sleep. When at last he rolled out of bed, the sun explained that morning had come and gone. He didn’t much care. What else was there to do that day?

He was just pulling his shirt on when he heard the raised voices from below.

“They can’t,” Albert said. “It’s locked!”

Albert wasn’t the sort to shout. Something was happening. Hadrian, grabbed his blades and headed downstairs.

“But I was right, wasn’t I?” Royce was saying as Hadrian descended into the common room.

Arcadius, Rehn, and Gwen all sat together on the cushioned bench while Albert stood centerstage playing the part of the preacher. Royce paced near the door. His hood was down, which was good, but he looked angry. This wasn’t his Take-The-Family-And-Leave-Town rage, but more a Back-Away-Slow irritated. Still, seeing it, Hadrian felt he was watching Albert set a glass on the edge of a table. Someone would inevitably bump the furniture, then wonder how such a thing could happen.

“It’s quite likely you were right,” Albert replied. “But since no one can get in, it’s impossible to say for certain. However, Lord Byron certainly thinks so, which is why he’s so upset.”

“How can he be angry? I found Gravis and explained how to solve his problem.”

“Yes, but you don’t seem to hear me when I keep saying it’s locked.”

“What’s locked?” Hadrian asked. He was still buckling his sword belt, and only then noticed Royce’s ghost standing in the archway watching the proceedings with an amused smile.

“Drumindor!” the viscount practically screamed.

“I’m sorry, Albert,” Hadrian said. “I didn’t hear that part—just rolled out of bed, okay?”

Albert frowned, huffed, then nodded. “I’m just…” he turned away in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” Hadrian asked the rest of the room for help.

“Lord Byron fired us,” Royce replied. “Apparently, that’s his solution to all problems.”

Having composed himself, Albert turned back. He took a breath then in a calm tone he explained things to Hadrian like an exasperated mother speaking to a tribe of temper tantrums, “As per instructions, I told Lord Byron that Gravis was hiding in Drumindor, and he ought to search the place. Well, this morning he did, or at least he tried. Problem being—and please pay attention to this part—Drumindor is locked.” He shot a glare at Royce. “No one can get in. Not even Lord Byron. And yes” Albert looked again at Royce. “It is entirely likely, and widely suspected, that Gravis Berling is inside and that he is the one who locked it. But that doesn’t help the situation, and Lord Byron is complaining that we failed to achieve the goals for which we were hired—namely, preventing Gravis from sabotaging Drumindor.”

“Locking the door is far from sabotage,” Royce grumbled.

“I would agree,” Albert said. “But Lord Byron—let’s just say he was quite agitated. The man is famous for being as unflappable as a wingless bird, and yet—and I kid you not—he threw a vase at me. Not a cheap one either. My guess is that the Holy Trio is blaming him for this situation.”

“What situation?” Royce asked.

Albert rolled his eyes. “You’re not listening, Royce. I told you Drumindor is—“

“Locked, yes, I understand, but a locked door is not the end of the world. Locks are nothing more than a nuisance. They don’t prevent invasion. They are employed in the hope that if they are troublesome enough any would be invader will skip it and go to the next house—which is usually the case. I open locks all the time, and I do it in the dark of night while avoiding guards, dogs, and often dangling upside-down. How much easier is it for the owner? Or are you telling me Lord Byron has misplaced the key? If so, that seems more like his problem. But even if he did, his lordship can break down the door. It’s his door—or the Trio’s, at least.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy, Royce,” Arcadius said. “Drumindor is a dwarven fortress. It is in fact, the dwarven fortress. If any place can be defined as impregnable, it would be those two towers.”

“Nothing is impregnable,” Royce said. “And I’m familiar with dwarves, which is why—if it were me—I wouldn’t bother with the lock, or even the door. Lord Byron has the resources to make a new one. Rumor has it that there used to be a mountain here, and the dwarves chiseled it all away. Surely, the combined might of Delgos can bore a single hole in the side of one tower. Besides, he doesn’t even need to do that. The Trio can just ignore Gravis. The dwarf can’t stay inside forever. He’ll eventually come out or die from lack of food and water. Who really cares? It’s not like Drumindor provides breathing air to the city. The tower is a safety feature. So, unless an armada is on its way, the towers are pretty ornaments. But if a quick solution is desired, Byron only needs to go down there and talk to Berling.” Royce dropped himself in the seat near the door, and casting out his feet, crossed his ankles and his arms. “This is all a device to bring Lord Byron and the Trio to the bargaining table—an attempt by Gravis to get his old job back, or something like that. Has to be. What other reason is there for locking himself in a prison?” Royce thought a moment. “Unless…” He stared hard at Arcadius. “You said the towers spew molten stone—that it’s used to defend the bay, but can it also attack the city?”

“I don’t believe so,” Arcadius said, then looked at Albert for confirmation, but the viscount only shrugged.

Neither response satisfied Royce who continued to glare.

“Every month, since I’ve been here, the towers put on a show,” Rehn said looking uncomfortably squished between Gwen and the professor. “They announce it like a festival, and it is—sort of. I would go to the harbor and watch. A lot of people do. There is a great party as crowds fill the docks and those with boats anchor in the harbor giving them the best seats for the show. Then, after sundown, there is this growl. The ground shakes and the towers erupt. They become fountains spraying brilliant plumes of yellow flame far out into the sea. It is dazzling, and all at once both fabulous and terrifying. Seeing it everyone has the same thought as you, but in the daylight you can see that none of the spouts point toward shore. It cannot harm Tur Del Fur.”

Satisfied, Royce nodded, and settled deeper into his chair. “Then yeah, there’s no other reason for it.”

“Is Lord Byron asking for his money back?” Gwen inquired. She sounded concerned.

“Oh, no,” Albert shook his head rapidly. “He would never do that. It would be…impolite. He was paying for the attempt knowing we couldn’t guarantee success. But that doesn’t stop him from being upset. So no, we don’t have to pay the expenses back, but he is cutting us off. We’ll need to leave here right away and our trip home will, unfortunately, be coming out of our own pocket.”

“We should take a ship then,” Arcadius said. “It will be slower and less pleasant, but a good deal cheaper.”

Albert grimaced at the thought, no doubt imagining a week living in the airless, unsavory, underbelly afforded by a steerage ticket.

Royce, on the other hand, glared in open contempt. “I’m going to take a look at this so called locked door.” He got up then stopped and glanced at Hadrian. “Coming?”

“Why?”

“For protection.”

“You expect to be attacked?”

“Not for me—for whoever might get in my way.”

By the time Royce and Hadrian arrived at the harbor, a crowd had formed that stretched from the statue of Andvari Berling to the south tower. No one seemed to care about the north one. Hadrian figured this was because Terlando Bay bulged way out on the north side and reaching it required that long trip through undeveloped coastal forests and windswept beaches, while the southern tower was so close, it formed part of the harbor and the western end of Cornelius DeLur’s estate. More than that, the north tower didn’t have a door—at least not one that he and Royce had seen. Being a defensive structure, the towers likely didn’t have a bunch of entrances. One door was enough, and since it wasn’t in the north tower it had to be at the south. Looking up at the pair of soaring pillars linked by that one bridge, like two giants holding hands, Hadrian did not envy the commute of anyone who worked at the top of the north tower.

How many steps is that? Workers must have legs of steel.

So, while Hadrian had a firm grip on why Royce headed for the south tower, he was hazy as to why they were visiting either. The job was over. Lord Byron canceled their contract. Maybe Royce didn’t like failing, or he felt a failure would harm their future prospects, but dagger to his throat, Hadrian would say it was because Royce didn’t want to fail in front of Gwen.

While still on the port’s boardwalk, they passed through open gates that when closed would seal off DeLur’s private portion of the harbor from the public. No one seemed surprised. Hadrian guessed that the gates were regularly open during the daylight hours granting access to necessary deliveries and visitors. This was understandable considering that circumventing the gates was as easy as jumping in the bay, swimming twenty feet, then climbing back out on the other side of the partition. The gate would only protect the boats at dock from casual mischief, but estate itself was in no danger of being invaded. The rambling palace that rose up the tiers was partitioned off by a far more serious wall, closed gates, and grim guards. The gathering crowd flowed by them like a stream past jagged rocks.

Intent on keeping his eyes on Royce, who plowed through that sea of humanity, Hadrian noticed movement in the sky. He caught only the vague rumor on the edge of his vision. Something was dangling from the Drumindor bridge. For a half-second he thought it might be a person kicking their legs, then realized, being so far away, the person would need to be huge. “What’s that up there?”

Royce slowed and tilted his head. “Looks like a flag or something. Has symbols on it.”

“Was it there before?”

“I don’t think so,” Royce replied.

“What kind of symbols?”

“Dwarven, I guess.”

“Is it writing?”

Royce turned. “How should I know?”

Hadrian smiled with self-conscious guilt. “I’m irritating you, aren’t I?”

“You think?”

“Why are you so upset, Royce? We had fun, and the job was never going to pay all that much.”

Royce continued walking.

The crowd was mostly comprised of gawkers, some had drinks in hand who apparently saw the gathering as an impromptu party. Passing conversations centered around a general ignorance of—and inquiry into—what was happening.

“Why is everyone out here?” was the common refrain.

This was often followed by, “Well, why are you out here?”

Invariably, this would be concluded with the predictable, “Because everyone else is.”

People stagnated in groups like debris caught in the shallows forcing the flow to part around them. Some wandered slow looking around with bewildered faces searching for familiarity. Others stretched up on toes and waved arms calling to others to join their particular dam project. Royce guided them unerringly around these obstacles until they hit the jam at the end of the boardwalk. A few hundred feet from the base of the tower a barricade of sawhorses was set up. A dozen yellow jackets formed a line on the far side armed now with shields and clubs.

Royce didn’t even slow down. He dodged by the remaining spectators, dipped beneath the barricade, and slipped through the yellow jackets like wind driven smoke.

“Hey!” a guard shouted and reached out to grab him, but only caught air. Two more made similar attempts with similar results.

Royce didn’t run, he kept on walking as if oblivious.

Several more guards joined the endeavor. The rest turned to watch allowing Hadrian to step through unnoticed. Two guards finally caught up to Royce. Both cried out in pain.

A couple years ago, Hadrian would have panicked assuming the thief had stabbed them. Now, he knew that if Royce had drawn Alverstone, the men wouldn’t have cried out. Three more closed in from the sides and a half dozen from the base of the tower ran in their direction.

“Get these idiots off me before I—“ Royce began, but didn’t need to finish.

Hadrian, who was shocked by his partner’s extraordinary and atypical frontal assault, prepared for an old fashioned brawl. Given the numbers, unless Hadrian drew steel, the confrontation would not go well. The whole affair was bizarre. This was more the actions of drunk Royce. The sliver lining of this particular storm cloud was that no one else carried weapons, which meant they would take a beating, but death—even sever injury—was not likely.

Hadrian scanned the battlefield. He had two jackets nearby—neither were looking at him. First he would take the club away from the nearest, and then pummel the next closest. After that—

“Leave them alone!” This was shouted from right behind Hadrian who spun ready to fight, only to see Royce’s ghost.

The Port Authority guards froze looking unsure.

“They’re with me,” the caped observer declared with authority, and as he did the man held up a small gold key on a chain.

The yellow jackets stared for a moment, then looked briefly at each other. Finally with an annoyed frown they gave up and walked away.

Hadrian watched what looked like a magic trick, then stared at the ghost. “Thanks,” he offered. “That might have gotten messy.”

The ghost offered only a patronizing smirk.

Searching once more for Royce, Hadrian discovered he was already far ahead and closing on a circle of people gathered just outside the entrance of the south tower. Hadrian ran to catch up.

Half a dozen men and one woman comprised the discussion ring that gathered just short of where the sea spray wet the rock. Most were dressed like workers in worn trousers and stained tunics pulled tight by thick leather belts. The woman and the man next to her were not workers and stood out from this set like blood on snow.

At their approach heads turned.

“Baxter?” the woman said. She looked confused.

“What are you doing here?” the man beside her added. He was tall and a bit gangly with ivory hair that was slicked back. His attire—a long white-on-white embroidered coat, stockings, and shoes was the best illustration of casual wealth Hadrian had ever seen. Elegant in appearance, it nevertheless appeared comfortable, and the profusion of immaculate white declared, not only a lack of labor, but a man who never walked where dirt could find him.

“He’s my ghost,” Royce answered.

“And who might you be you?”

“I’m keeping an eye on these two,” the ghost explained. “They are of special interest to the big guy.”

“Special interest?” the woman said. “That doesn’t explain why any of you are here?” She too was the picture of opulence, but displayed her wealth through jewelry. She wore her gray hair up like a sculpted work of art, not it seemed as a fashion statement, but to facilitate the display of her diamond earrings and matching choker. Not content with showcasing enough shiny stones to buy Medford Castle, she augmented this exhibition with what appeared to be her entire collection of pearl necklaces. She had five looped in ever longer strings around her neck.

“He’s here because I’m here,” Royce said. “And I’m here because I really don’t like sailing.”

“Are you all drunk?” the lady asked.

Baxter the Ghost sighed. “This is Royce Melborn and that is Hadrian Blackwater, the two men Lord Byron hired to stop Gravis Berling. Royce is here, I suspect, out of wounded pride and the conceit that he can provide assistance in regaining control of the tower.”

“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” Royce muttered shaking his head slowly. “Very bad form, Baxter. Ghosts aren’t supposed to talk, much less offer up names and details about the haunted.”

Baxter replied with a nonchalant shrug.

“So, you’re the ones responsible for that bloody dwarf taking control of Drumindor?” the woman shrouded her accusation in the form of a question.

“Only if the word responsible has a different meaning in Tur Del Fur than it does everywhere else in the world. The Triumvirate ordered Gravis Berling removed from a job he’s held without incident for more than a century out of an abundance of caution—otherwise known as stupid-fear. That’s why this happened. But you already know that because you’re Ernesta Bray, and the tropical snowman here, is Oscar Tiliner. Don’t worry I don’t blame either of you. Everyone knows you’re just window dressing. Cornelius is the one responsible. Where is the Big Guy? I assume he’s aware of the situation and being we’re on his front lawn, he could have walked here. Can he walk?”

“Get them out of here!” Oscar order Baxter.

“He can’t,” Royce said. “He’s a ghost. Not even supposed to talk.” Royce glared at him. “Just listen. Which is what I need all of you to do now, too. I’m going to open your door for you. In return, you’re going to explain to Lord Byron why he should keep our deal so I don’t need to go sailing on the open sea.”

Without waiting for a reply Royce walked past the dumbstruck group.

“Beautiful pearls,” Hadrian said smiling at Ernesta as he followed Royce.

This snapped her out of shock. Her hands went to her hips.

“This isn’t some ordinary farmhouse with a rusty latch, you fool!” Ernesta shouted after them. “It’s Drumindor a dwarven masterpiece in the form of a fortress.”

Without looking back Royce replied. “And I’m no ordinary thief.”

The problem with the door was immediately apparent—it didn’t exist. The walkway ended at a sheer stone face. Not a mark was on it. Royce stared at the shiny surface silently for several minutes, then he began to make disagreeable grunting sounds. Eventually he walked around the base—at least as far as he could without getting wet. The sides, and the rear, of the tower were cut sheer to the ocean. This left Royce in front pacing back and forth. The grunting grew louder.

He ran his fingers across the surface of the stone, and investigated where the walkway met the wall. “There’s no seam, no gap, no edge anywhere. If it wasn’t for the eroded walkway, I’d swear this was just a wall of stone.” He looked up. “No windows—just those spouts and that bridge.”

“What about your idea of cutting a new door?”

Royce shook his head. “The stone is—well, I’m not an expert but it looks really hard—fine grained and…I think it might be granite. Maybe they could cut it, but probably take years.” He looked around. “The whole mountain couldn’t have all been made of this stuff.” He ran his fingers over the smooth stone that looked to Hadrian like the surface of glass. “They polished it.” Royce said amazed. “All the way up it looks like. Who polishes eight hundred feet of stone?”

“I’m getting the impression you’re not going to be picking the lock,” Baxter said, with thinly veiled satisfaction. As always he stood just behind Hadrian watching.

Royce ignored him, and began examining the paving stones. “How is this normally opened?”

“No one knows,” Baxter replied.

“What do you mean no one? Someone has to. People work in there right?”

“This has always been open. Fairly certain that no one had the slightest clue it was door—certainly not one that could close, or lock, much less disappear altogether.”

The pleasure Baxter got from watching Royce fail was the familiar face of competition.

“There is no way in,” Baxter said.

“Why do you say that?” Royce replied.

“Because I’ve lived here for several years. These dwarves…” he scowled and shook his head. “Honestly, I stopped bothering with them long ago. It’s easier to squeeze money out of Cornelius DeLur than open a dwarven lock.”

Royce got to his feet and studied the tower again. “Well, we could bypass the door entirely. It wouldn’t make much sense to lock the entrances on either side of that bridge up there.”

“You’re right and there’s a reason for that,” Baxter said. “People don’t have wings.”

“Don’t need wings. Just need to climb up.”

Baxter sniggered. “Climb? Do you see how high that is?”

“Don’t even need to go to the top, that bridge is just a bit more than halfway.”

“That’s still halfway too far. The wind would blow you off even before your strength gives out.”

“Not really,” Hadrian said. “It will toss you around some, and granted it’s scary, but the ropes help a lot. Besides the wind is warm here—imagine making a climb like that where it’s cold.”

Baxter stared like Hadrian had just revealed himself to be a warthog. “Do you see cracks, seams? Finger or toe holds? Assuming you could find grips, how would you anchor ropes? Try hammering a piton into that rock. It will give before the rock does.”

Royce continued to rub the surface and sighed. “I’ve disliked dwarfs for sometime now, but at this point I’m really starting to despise them.”