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

Being near Gwen DeLancy had always confused Royce. Watching him was as entertaining as witnessing a drunk trying to navigate a familiar room. There were times when the man seemed to forget his own name. Hadrian knew all too well what that was like. At the age of fifteen, he’d fallen for Arbor, the shoemaker’s daughter, and had been so smitten that he’d nearly killed his best friend. Such feelings were bewildering for anyone, but for Royce who was already as twisted as a corkscrew, it had to be a nightmare. The man never rarely drank for fear it would impair his ability to fend off the multitude of hazards—some real, some imagined—that he believed life constantly thrust at him. This must be frustrating beyond reason. Royce wanted to be alone.

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

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

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

Hadrian smiled at her.

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

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

When he awoke the world had changed.

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

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

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

“So there’s no king?” Gwen asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ernesta? Is that a woman?”

Arcadius smiled. “She is indeed, and holds an iron grip on most everything that enters or leaves the country.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” Albert said.

“Looks more like a desert.”

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

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Gwen said. She was pumping her collar trying to cool herself. Her cloak and hood were stuffed on the seat beside her, but she was still trapped in a long sleeve wool dress.

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

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

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

“Here we go!” The viscount announced dramatically.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we there?” Hadrian asked.

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

As it did Hadrian was granted his first clear view of Tur Del Fur. They were high on the side of a cliff descending into a sheltered cove behind which was the vast blue of the ocean that ran to the horizon. The cliff was stepped in tiers of lush green vegetation on which were built hundreds of colorfully painted stone and stucco buildings. Palm trees and flowers grew in courtyards, small gardens, and along roads. Far below, at the bottom was the bay that appeared as a pool of aqua blue surrounded by white sand beaches where ships of all shapes and sizes bobbed. The bay was sheltered by two rock promontories, stony arms that reached out and formed a natural breakwater with a gap that served as a gateway. There upon the two headlands stood a pair of impossible towers.

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

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

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

Hadrian recalled how he and Royce had scaled the exterior of the Crown Tower, and how they nearly died. This was taller by no small amount.

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

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

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

Back and forth the coach meandered toward the bay. They passed shops that sold seashells, and items crafted from them. Exquisite carvings of fish and other animals were offered in the window of another. A third appeared to sell nothing but polished stones. There were shops that offered fish teeth that had a set of massive shark’s jaws displayed such that patrons were forced to walk through them to enter the store. They rolled by net shops, confectionery kitchens selling taffy in the shape of fish, and a variety of tailor and seamstress shops that had clothes on display.

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

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

“It certainly is. Look at it.”

“Believe it or not, that’s a dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That, my dear sir, is the Blue Parrot,” Albert replied. “One of the best danthums in the city.”

“Looks like a cathedral.”

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

A group of dark men in white cotton roasted a pig, basting it with what looked to be cups of beer. A barefoot, shirtless blond man played a tin whistle beside a basket into which people dropped coins. Colorful fruit stands were everywhere, along with donkeys and chickens that roamed wild through the streets and shops.

At long last, the coach came to a stop where Hadrian could hear the sound of waves.

“We’re here, folks!” Shelby declared.

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

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

With Royce’s help, Heath was already unloading the luggage.

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

Hadrian stared fascinated by the ridiculously blue ocean.

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

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

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

“It’s not cold,” Gwen reported.

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

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

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

Hadrian had trouble spotting Royce, who was being oddly aloof—even for him. Suffering a bout of uncharacteristic shyness, nervousness, or whatever Gwen did to him, was one thing, but disappearing altogether pushed the boundaries of sanity. After failing to see him anywhere, Hadrian concluded he must have gone off with Albert.

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

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

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

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

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

I certainly hope so, for Albert’s sake. “I’m sure we do. Our host is Lord Byron, he runs the—“

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

“Don’t like him?”

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

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

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

“When do you sleep?”

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

“I tried that, didn’t work so well.”

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

“You keep going non-stop and that might be sooner than you think.”

“Now you sound like my son.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s a nice way?”

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

Heath stared at him with a grimace.

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

Heath took his hand off the sword.

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

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

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

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

“And what might that be?”

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

“And also so that we don’t pick up any last minute strangers?”

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

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

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

“I can see that,” Hadrian nodded.

“Never had them talk to me before. A little disturbing that they know our name.”

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

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

“You met with Lord Byron?” Hadrian asked.

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wonderful!” Albert grinned.

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

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

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

Hadrian grabbed up his pack and slipped it over his shoulder. “Did Royce go with you?”

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

Hadrian shook his head.

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

“Swim?”

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

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

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

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

She nodded, but looked worried.

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

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

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

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

“Not even a little?”

Gwen splashed water at him.

Hadrian and Albert walked around the Drunken Sailor, a public house comprised of only three walls and made to look like an old ship. The bar had a killer view—at least for the bartenders. All the patrons sat with their backs to the bay. Above their heads was a rough painted sign that read: JOIN THE CREW! Hadrian most certainly wanted to as he stared at the drinks on the tables and the men lounging in hammocks strung between mini-masts. Albert looked to be of a similar mind as he licked his lips staring as if a striptease was being performed.

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

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

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

“Morning,” he said.

“Is it still morning?” Albert managed to sigh in-between gasps of air. He looked about miserably. There was another gate, two more down a new street, and more stairs. He frowned at Hadrian. “This may be hopeless. There are no signs. I thought there would be a road sign.”

“Looking for something?” the little man asked.

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

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

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

Coming to another series of gates, Hadrian spotted a crude splotch of turquoise in the simplified shape of a turtle on a white wall beside a turquoise gate. Albert lifted the latch and the gate swung in revealing a stunning patio with a fountain, potted flowers, a small table and chairs, and turquoise painted balconies, window shutters, and bannisters that lined a staircase leading to the entrance of the rolkin.

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

“He did indeed,” Albert replied.

“Can I see the card?”

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

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

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

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

The dwarf took off his hat, placed the paper in it then sat it back upon his head. “Welcome to the Turtle, gentlemen. My name is Auberon. Allow me to show you around.”

Royce had found nothing.

Riding on the roof he was able to make certain no stowaways clung to the coach. The moment they stopped, he began a quick survey of the plaza, then a fast sweep of the streets. No one appeared to be watching—at least no pale redheads.

Maybe I should have kept the head.

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

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

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

Where was the blood?

He had severed a head, but produced not a drop. This too was a fact—one not so easily accepted.

Shouldn’t matter. We covered hundreds of miles at high speed and Mr. De Roche missed his ride. Even if he wasn’t dead—which is impossible—it would take him days to reach Tur Del Fur—if he even knew that’s where I went. And how hard is it for a headless man to travel?

He’s dead.

Right.

Satisfied—as best as Royce could ever be—he returned to the coach, to find more problems.

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

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

Gwen had her head down, hair a tangled mess. She was dripping wet her slight frame shaking, lurching as she cried. The situation was obvious. The two brutes were drinking at one of the cafes, saw the chests and bags and no one but an old man and a woman around. They came over to take what they wanted. Only they didn’t expect Gwen. She fought back—of course she did. Most likely the scene of two big ogres robbing a beautiful woman didn’t play well before the crowd, either. So, one or both, turned it into a comedy and threw her in the water. This set the crowd at ease. They’re just playing, and it’s funny, and she’s only a Calian—so that’s okay. Now the ogres were laughing at her, maybe the crowd had as well—all of them guffawing at Gwen’s embarrassment, at her humiliation.

Royce’s fingers squeezed Alverstone’s handle so tight they hurt. Maybe the crowd should be exposed to a higher form of entertainment. This is going to be very bad.

“Are you her father?” One asked Arcadius. “Or a customer?”

The professor was on the ground. Maybe one hit him, or more likely just shoved the old man. Ancient as Arcadius was, just standing had to be a feat. Any interference with that and down he’d go like a bag of glass stemware.

They knock down old men, throw women in the bay, and are now calling Gwen a whore. Royce struggled to maintain a regular breathing rhythm.

It’s always the same two. The idea flashed in Royce’s mind as he closed the remaining distance between him and his prey moving on the pads of his feet. Why is that?

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

“How insulting!” the professor said. “I’m old enough to be her grandfather. Do you know how much effort and skill it takes to reach this age, my boy?”

“A beautiful woman ought to have more than just her grandfather for protection.”

Royce came up from behind and whispered, “Why? You plan on doing something?”

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

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

The man saw his hidden hand and his face changed from jovial to concerned.

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

“Royce!” Gwen shouted.

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

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

“Royce, don’t!”

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

Maybe it was the sound of her voice, or the look on her face. Royce couldn’t tell because he kept his sight locked on his target, but The Talking Dead finally caught wind of the danger. Might also have been that eerie intuition people often exhibited. If you stare at the back of someone’s head they always seem to turn around. Most people, even the trolls of the world, had a special sense that alerted them to the impending presence of death. They felt it and all responded the same. He pulled back, eyes widening.

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

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

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

“I ah…I mean, we was offering to—“ He pointed. “She was just standing here with all this stuff and looked like she needed help. That’s all. Jake and I—we just thought we’d, you know, help carry the stuff to wherever she was going.” His eyes glanced back at where Royce’s hand was still hidden. “That’s all.”

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

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

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

“I thought you were crying.”

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

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

“I did not!” Prematurely Pardoned Peter was quick to say. “I explained how that sort of a statement might be misunderstood. And that someone—not me—might accidentally take her meaning to be that she was a…you know.”

“A whore,” Royce said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No one attacked me!” Gwen stated firmly then followed it was an exasperated huff.

Hadrian put a hand up to his forehead. “Oh—no.” He laughed. “We’re staying in a rolkin—that’s the name of a dwarven style house—and the ceilings, beams, and thresholds are…well, short.”

No one said anything for an awkward moment.

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

“Ohh-kay,” Hadrian said, then turned to ponder Gwen’s and Alberts pair of ship captain’s style chests, one with brass handles and the other with iron, each was covered in overstuffed sacks. He then looked toward the cafes. “You think if I asked real nice I might persuade a couple of guys to help us carry these up?”

In unison, Gwen and Royce replied. “No.”