By the time Hadrian and Royce returned to the Turquoise Turtle it was getting dark. Everyone else had eaten, the fire was out, and Auberon was gone. Gwen saved plates for the two of them, which they ate outside at the little table beneath the lemon tree. Gwen set aside a dish for Baxter, too. Constantly shadowing Royce, he was always there, but Hadrian never saw him eat or sleep. Not literally being a ghost, Hadrian wasn’t certain how he did it. To Royce, Baxter was an annoyance; to everyone else he was an intruder. Only Gwen saw the man forced to do an unpleasant job and took pity. When she handed him the plate the Baxter took it, but ate off by himself on the other side of the yard.

The fish was once again amazing, and they all ate as the tranquility of night gathered around them.

“Albert says he can get us on a ship leaving tomorrow,” Gwen told them as they ate. “Nothing fancy, of course. We won’t have a room, or even beds. To hear him talk we’ll be stuffed like sacks of grain into a darkened hold and trapped there for a week. Personally, I can’t wait. I’ve never been on a ship before.”

She smiled at the both of them with such bright eyes and contagious cheerfulness that for a moment Hadrian believed her. She’s a great liar, he thought, and wondered if this ability to make a person feel good about any situation was a skill of the trade.

“We’re not leaving,” Royce said without looking up.

“We aren’t?”

“Not yet.”

“Did you find a way in?”

Royce shook his head. “Not yet.”

Gwen stared at him puzzled. “But I—we can’t afford to stay. I’ve been to the market. The prices here are insane. That bag of ground peas I got for Hadrian cost a whole silver. A silver for a bag of nuts is nuts. I won’t tell you what the fish cost. I wouldn’t have bought a thing if Albert hadn’t been with me. He said the reason the prices were so high was because of all the rich turists—people who didn’t care about the price, who didn’t even look. He explained that the money went to people who needed it way more than the likes of Lord Byron, and that buying things helped everyone.”

Hadrian already knew Albert was an excellent liar, because it was the primary skill of his trade, but the viscount’s talents never failed to impress him.

“I do have a few coins,” Gwen told them. “But—“

“Money is not a problem,” Royce said.

“Is Lord Byron hiring you back?”

“I doubt Lord Byron will even talk to us—or Albert, that is,” Hadrian said.

“Then how—“

“I negotiated a new contract with his boss.” Royce wiped up the last of the sauce with his index finger. Baxter wasn’t the only hungry thief in the yard.

“So we have money again?”

Hadrian chuckled leaving Gwen confused.

Having sucked the last of his meal off his finger, Royce produced a small gold key with a diamond in the grip and held it out to her.

“What’s this?” she asked as he placed it in her palm.

“That is a key to the city.” Royce pointed at the ghost. “He has one, too. Possessing it means you’re working directly for Cornelius DeLur. Show this to any shop keeper, produce vendor, yellow jacket, city administrator—anyone in Tur Del Fur, really—and you’ll get what you want. All doors will open for you.”

Gwen stared at the thing looking half amazed, half terrified. “And he gave this to you?”

“Scary, isn’t it?” Hadrian said, cleaning his own plate.

Gwen nodded. “I don’t think I want to hold this anymore.”

“Sorry, but you’re the official key bearer,” Royce told her.

“Why me?”

“Because there’s no one here I trust more with unlimited money and power.”

“What if I lose it?”

“Don’t do that,” Royce said. “In fact, tomorrow, first thing, go out and buy a nice necklace to put this on, wear it on the outside of your clothes, and never take it off.”

“On the outside? Won’t someone try and steal it? There’s a diamond in it. And this looks like real gold.”

“Oh, it is real gold, believe me, but no one will steal it,” Royce said this as if the very idea was absurd. Then seeing the confusion on her face he added. “Anyone carrying one of these in this city is as untouchable as an Imperial princess. Harming a Key Holder is tantamount to suicide.” Royce pointed at Baxter. “In fact, I’d have slit his throat days ago, otherwise.”

“You’re trying to keep me safe, then?”

“You also do most of the shopping.”

“I’m not sure Auberon will honor the key,” Hadrian pointed out.

Royce considered this then nodded. “You’re probably right. We may still have to find a new place after all.”

“I’ll talk to him in the morning,” Gwen offered. “He can’t have anyone else scheduled to stay here, and if this key works the way you say, I could pay him in trade. Maybe he needs paint for his boat, or a net for fishing. Do you think I could buy those things with this?”

Again Hadrian laughed. “You could buy the Blue Parrot with that.”

Gwen looked down at the key, once more appearing terrified.

“Good,” Royce said. “Now where is Arcadius?”

They found the professor inside. The old man was on the main floor, but tucked within the infrequently used niche beneath the stair. He sat on a big yellow cushion directly across from Albert. Between the two was the little table, the one with the strange design on the surface. Like much of the furniture it was part of the house, carved right out of the floor standing on a single pedestal leg. Hadrian always wondered what the thing was meant to be for. The table was too small to use as a desk and too tucked away for meals. The complexity of the design on the surface was the real mystery. It didn’t look like a decoration as it didn’t extend across the surface but took up a small area in the center. The image was comprised of twenty squares in an irregular pattern and within the squares were smaller more decorative designs. Both men stared at the table intently while Rehn, who sat crosslegged on the floor, had no trouble seeing the action on the dwarf-high table and watched with great anticipation.

“What’s going on?” Royce asked.

“We’re playing a game,” Arcadius explained as he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

Hadrian noticed there were four little black pyramids on the table along with fourteen stones —seven of one color, and seven of another. Albert moved one of the dark stones along the rectangular design three spaces, then grinned up at the professor who appeared displeased.

“Oh, that’s a problem,” Rehn said in a decidedly Pickles’-like voice, and Hadrian wondered if excitement caused his mother’s accent to escape.

“Despite this being the world’s oldest game, Rehn, the youngest one here, is the reigning champion,” Arcadius provided commentary to the new comers as he scooped up the four little pyramids. “Of course, it helps that he grew up playing this.”

“It is a very old game,” Rehn said. “I think perhaps it is the oldest. My mother taught me how to play it when I was just a child. She brought it with her from the Old Country and said it was ancient.”

The professor dropped the pyramids on the table which rattled with a petit sound.

“Two!” Rehn shouted with delight.

Arcadius moved one of the light colored stones up two squares onto one with a flower design. “I toss again, correct?”

“You do,” Rehn confirmed, his voice very serious.

The professor gathered up and dropped the pyramids once more. Both Rehn and Arcadius shouted in delight, then Arcadius removed one of Albert’s dark stones from the play area replacing it with his own.

Albert slumped down on his cushion, and looking up at them said, “I think he cheats.”

“Actually, cheating is allowed,” Rehn said. “If you can get away with it. But in truth, the professor is not in need of cheating.”

“I need to speak to the two of you,” Royce said indicating the professor and Rehn.

“That’s fine,” Albert declared. “All I do is lose anyway.”

Arcadius struggled to climb off of the big yellow cushion, which was no easy feat for an old man. He returned to the more conventional bench, where Rehn took a seat beside him. “What can we do for you, Royce?”

“I need to know who Falkirk De Roche is, or was, and why the two of you were after his book.”

Arcadius nodded, puckering his lips as he did. “I see, and may I ask why?”

“Because it isn’t just speculation that Gravis Berling locked himself inside Drumindor. There were witnesses who saw him go in. More importantly, the dwarf didn’t go in alone. Everyone also reported seeing him with a pale, red-haired man in a hooded cloak.”

“The one who took the book?” Rehn asked and looked at Hadrian who nodded.

“The one who claims to be Falkirk De Roche,” Royce clarified. “Now, according to what Auberon tells me, come the full moon, Gravis intends to release the power of the volcano he is sitting on. In so doing, he will erase this entire bay in a pretty spectacular act of revenge.”

“That sounds almost like praise,” Arcadius said disapprovingly.

“If it wasn’t also suicide I’d consider it genius. Point is, in order to stop Gravis, I need to understand why Falkirk is with him.”

Arcadius exposed his palms in a show of surrender. “I honestly have no idea.”

Royce looked at Rehn, who also shook his head.

“All right then,” Royce dragged over a little stool and, sitting down, faced Rehn. “At least explain why you stole the book from the courier.”

Rehn looked uneasy seated so close to Royce who was making no attempt to appear friendly.

Rhen shrugged. “Because I thought that the professor would like to see it.”

“Why?”

“I’m the lore master at Sheridan University, Royce,” the Arcadius said. “I’m always interested in old books, particularly when they are surrounded by mystery. The book you fetched for me from the Crown Tower was just such a tome. This one is equally interesting.”

“Why?”

“It’s age for one, but mostly due to the turmoil and interest that surrounds it. As far as I have been able to discover, the book made its way to Medford when Lady Martel returned—interestingly enough—from a holiday here in Tur Del Fur. She was given the book by a monk—or so she thought. I suspect that the fellow posing as a monk was in truth the thief who stole the book from Sentinel Gervaise. Knowing his fate if caught with it, I presume he handed it to Lady Martel in the hopes of retrieving the book from her later when she returned home to Medford. As I understand it, the whole operation was executed by a member of the Black Diamond.”

“You’re well informed for an old bookworm who rarely gets out.”

“I work with a diverse cross-section of students. The scions of merchants, noblemen, and other successful sorts who, being young, sometimes say more than they should about the family business.”

“So, you pressure children to betray their parents. Do you tempt them with candy or beat them with a cane?”

The professor scowled. “Now, as I was saying, the enterprising fellow in charge specialized in grave robbing and was interested in the dig site at Neith. The problem, as I understand it, was that the operation was not sanctioned by the guild. A sort of extracurricular operation that caused a ruckus.”

Royce nodded then, not with mere acknowledgment, but with an expression of profound understanding. He had just found a connecting puzzle piece while Hadrian was still trying to flip all the pieces right-side up.

“There was a guild member—a guy named Bernie,” Royce said. “He had his own team and worked mostly out east in Vilan Hills. He was what we called a Digger—a tomb raider.”

Arcadius nodded. “Those old mounds would be a treasure trove having been the site of the two greatest battles in post-imperial history.”

“Yeah, well he excavated Gable’s Corner and the Lyrantian Crypt. Got some good stuff I heard. The Jewel never thought much of the endeavor: took too much time, cost too much money and rarely turned a profit. This digger was obsessed though and wouldn’t stop. Strange little guy, just the sort to break ranks. A recent rumor suggested old Bernie wasn’t with the Diamond anymore.”

Arcadius nodded. “Apparently, when the thief arrived in Medford to claim the book from Lady Martel, it was too late. The book had already been stolen.”

Royce looked at Hadrian. “I was right after all. Puck wasn’t innocent. He was lying, just not about Lady Hildebrandt.”

“He was the thief?”

Royce nodded. “Looks that way. Cornelius confirmed that to avoid a turf war—with either us or the Hand—the BD worked through Lady Constance to hire us to fetch the book and then locate Puck. Who most likely was the guy who posed as the monk. The Jewel doesn’t tolerate entrepreneurs, which makes me wonder what happened to Bernie. Anyway, Cornelius also admitted that the Diamond had the book for the last two years. Then the Church started getting interested and that’s when the Jewel decided to move it down here out of their reach. And that’s when this kid here intercepted the courier.”

Royce stared at Rehn. “I’m guessing you killed him?”

Rehn didn’t answer, but looked sick, causing Arcadius to lower and shake his head.

“It wasn’t like that,” Rehn said.

“Not like what?” Royce asked.

“Not like I laid a trap and murdered the man.” Rehn clutched his elbows, and bit his lip, then he began to rock his head. “Okay, so…I did lay a trap, but I didn’t murder him.” He looked at the floor. “I only killed the man.”

Royce looked perplexed. He turned to Hadrian. “You speak Bothered Conscience, don’t you? What’s he saying?”

“I think he means he never intended to kill the courier, but something happened?”

Rehn nodded enthusiastically. “I only meant to rob him. My plan was simple. I was going to bang him on the head and take the book. But the courier was traveling on horseback, and I had no horse. I needed to stop him so I could bang him on the head. I knew he was riding down the West Echo road and would go right by the Tiliner cut off. There is a sign post there—two in fact. They stand opposite one another. I got a length of rope and tied it across the road between the two posts. I knew he would be on top of a horse, so I shimmied up and tied it high on the poles as I didn’t want to catch the horse. I would be so very upset if I hurt an innocent animal, you understand. Then he came. I didn’t expect him to be in such a hurry. He was riding very fast, and as it turned out the rope was a little too high.” Rehn grimaced. “The man’s head was almost entirely severed by the rope. Would have been if the rope hadn’t snapped.” Rehn put his face in his hands. “I never meant to kill him.”

“But you got the book?”

Rehn nodded, his face still covered by his hands.

“You’re lucky he died. Had you tried to bang him on the head there’s a very good chance he would have killed you.”

Rehn didn’t seem to hear Royce. He was still shaking his head in remorse. “Then everyone began looking for the book and for me. I sent word the professor begging for help.”

Royce narrowed his eyes and turned to Arcadius. “I thought your random visit to the Rose and Thorn was a bit too well timed. We don’t see or hear from you in years and then you pop up just as this holiday of a job arrives.”

Royce then focused on Albert who was still at the little table fussing over the tiny stones. “For your own sake, tell me you didn’t receive this job from the old man here and then pretend he had nothing to do with it.”

Albert held up his hands. “I was approached by Lady Constance. Or rather, she sent me the job proposal because she was already down here.”

Royce turned back and peered at Arcadius.

“As you so frequently point out, I’m an old man,” the professor said. “Rehn needed help and I needed a ride. I also was concerned that there might be violence. I have no sons to call on. All I had was the two of you.” Arcadius sighed. “I’m sorry for the deception, but I had hoped to preserve the lie I told you about Pickles, and spare Hadrian the pain of a reopened wound. But as it happened, none of my plans worked.”

“Oh no, Professor,” Rehn objected. “You saved my life. If Master Hadrian hadn’t found me when he did. I would have died from the curse.”

“Curse?” Royce asked.

Rehn nodded. “I hid myself for weeks in a tiny room. It was just me and that musty book. I didn’t dare go out except late at night to find food. A person can get very bored siting and doing nothing. So, eventually, I started reading the thing.”

“I didn’t think you could read,” Hadrian said.

Rehn shrugged. “That’s was Pickles.”

“Right,” Hadrian frowned.

“What was in the book?” Royce asked. “Was it a diary?”

“It certainly started that way. All of it was handwritten with beautiful penmanship, but from what I could tell, it was the diary of a man named Falkirk who was leaving on a trip with two other men. So, it was sort of a travel journal, I suppose. The other two men who went on the journey were significant, at least Falkirk thought so. One was a great artist named Dibben, the other a fellow named Bran, who Falkirk held in very high esteem. At least, at first.”

“What happened?” Arcadius asked, now just as interested as everyone else.

“They traveled together to a tower called Avempartha—an elven tower. Bran was looking for something—a book I think. They didn’t find it and the general conclusion was that the book went over a waterfall. They had lingered too long at the tower and winter was upon then. On the way home, however, the three were beset by a terrible snowstorm. Dibben kept them alive, somehow, but the situation was dire. They were out of food, and Dibben was getting tired of whatever he was doing. Then they came to an old fortress on the sea. In the dark of night, as the storm grew into a blizzard, they sought refuge.

“Falkirk described the castle as dark and unsettling. The whole of the place he said was ancient beyond belief, but their host was young woman so beautiful Falkirk lacked the words to describe her. Whenever he wrote about the Lady Mileva, he sounded like a love sick boy. Also, there were two other visitors from afar. One was a young but despondent fellow who Falkirk described as a Fhrey.”

“A what?” Royce asked.

“That’s an ancient term for an elf,” Arcadius explained.

Rehn paused a moment to make certain they were done, then went on. “This person—whose name I can’t pronounce—was still recovering from wounds he suffered in some terrible fight that nearly killed him. This young Fhrey fellow had a companion named Trilos, who was described as most mysterious. All that was said about him was how he disagreed with Bran about the fate of the book they all searched for, insisting it had not gone over the falls, and that it still existed. The next few pages went into great detail about it’s location. Most of which spoke of such things as the Great Cauldron, the Dark Fork, the Five Thousand Stairs, the Great Gate at Rol Berg, the Hall of Glass, and something called Death By Steps.”

“The Great Gate at Rol Berg is the entrance to the ancient city of Neith,” Arcadius said this more to himself than to them.

“See, you know about these things,” Rehn said. “This diary was important, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Arcadius said. “The Church certainly appeared to think so. They were clearly using those directions in their dig.”

“So the diary is a treasure map?” Hadrian asked.

“In some sense yes, but not one leading to gold and silver, I don’t think. Was there anymore about this book the three sought, the one said to be in Neith?”

Rehn shook his head. “Not that I remember. Falkirk wrote about it casually as if anyone reading his journal would already know.”

“I see, well that’s a disappointment,” the professor said. “Go on.”

“Falkirk went on to write how the three were trapped by deep snows and bitter winds for weeks, and how in that time Falkirk fell in love with their hostess. She appeared equally smitten by him. That’s when the diary begins to change.”

“Change how?” the professor asked.

“The penmanship got worse, the entries shorter and more infrequent, and the topics grew strange. Falkirk wrote about secrets that Mileva was showing him, and how she was older than she looked. His obsession with her grew, and there were hints that he and she had entered into a bargain of some sort. Then the diary lost most of its what I did today format. He began writing strange gibberish like: She has shown me the way, and I will live forever now, and these pages will be my bones, and I can’t do it…he is my friend. At times it seemed like he was arguing with himself.

“Then there were several pages of symbols and gibberish and then a series of names that were written in a different ink. On these pages were strange symbols that were not drawn, but seared into the page. After that was a final horrible passage. It said that if you read this you will be cursed unless you free me from my temple prison. You have one month to pull me out of here before you die!”

Rehn shuddered. “It might seem silly to you now, but in that little hovel all alone in the dead of night, those words terrified me.” He took a breath and wrung his hands. “I can’t explain it, but I knew it was true, as if the words reached out from that page and grabbed me by the throat.”

“I think they terrified Lady Martel, too,” Hadrian said.

Royce looked up and nodded. “That’s what she and Mr. Hipple were doing in Rochelle. She must have been looking for Falkirk’s tomb. Somehow she knew he’d been buried there. But his temple wasn’t very easy to find.”

“What happened to this woman?” Rehn asked.

“Not sure,” Hadrian said. “We found her dog curled up on a fresh grave in a pauper’s graveyard in Rochelle. We kind of thought it might be Lady Martel’s grave because we couldn’t think of anyway her little dog could have ended up there.”

“Lady Martel went missing a little over a year ago,” Albert confirmed. “No one knows what happened to her. One of the great noble mysteries, really, and a popular topic of speculation.”

“Her time ran out,” Rehn said and shuddered again. “Just like it did with me. Only she didn’t have a Master Hadrian there to help her.”

Royce looked questionably at Hadrian.

“At midnight last night I found Rehn hanging from a roof as everything alive seemed to be trying to kill him,” He explained. “It was really strange. I mean everything was trying to hurt him, dog, birds, insects, an old man with a broom. Then the Gingerdead Man showed up. Rehn handed the book over and everything was fine after that. But…”

“But what?”

“It’s possible Virgil Puck was innocent after all. He might have simply been cursed, too. All it would have taken is to have read the diary, and he did that.”

“If he was cursed like Rehn, why didn’t we want to kill him, along with the birds and bees, as you say.”

Hadrian shrugged. “Technically you did. You were sort of insistent on dragging the man to his death.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t want to kill Rehn either. The Gingerdead Man seemed confused by that. But it would explain why the king’s soldiers murdered him, and seemed hazy as to why. Poor Puck, but at least now that we gave the book back no one else should suffer.”

“Except now that same deadman is inside Drumindor with Gravis and the two appear to be plotting to destroy all of Tur Del Fur.”

“There is that.”

“I do not think I would wish to be trapped inside even such a big place with the likes of him,” Rehn said. “He gave me the shivers.”

“The question is why?” Royce looked at each of them. “Falkirk getting his book back feels more and more like a bad thing.” His eyes settled on Arcadius. “Are you certain your studies in lore can’t add anything here?”

Arcadius sat back and stroked his beard once more. Apparently he’d given up trying to clean his glasses in favor of this new obsession. “All I know is that Dibben was the founder of the chief monetary for the Monks of Maribor, which is still located north of Vernes, and that Bran is a nearly mythical religious figure.”

Hadrian raised his hand. “I actually know about him. Learned all about the guy down in Dulgath. Bran was the protégé of Brin, some legendary hero who did all kinds of crazy stuff that Bran later wrote about. He was also the founder of the Brotherhood of Maribor.”

“That’s right.” Arcadius pointed a finger at him. “I am impressed. Very good, Hadrian. Now where was I? Oh yes—Falkirk. Let’s see, Falkirk De Roche was an early, first century, member of the Monks of Maribor. We know this because of inscriptions on the first century temple in Alburn.”

“I know that place, too,” Hadrian said. “Royce and I both do.”

The professor peered at him. “Indeed. From what I heard the two of you burned the place to the ground.”

“Had to,” Royce said. “Villar was…” Royce stopped and stared at the wall.

Hadrian looked where Royce was and saw nothing.

They all waited while Royce blinked a few times.

“When he does this,” Hadrian filled the silence. “I can never tell if he’s thinking or hearing something.”

“Thinking,” Royce replied. “Remembering to be exact. The duchess said they pulled two bodies out of the temple. One was Villar, the other Falkirk De Roche.” Royce lifted his hand and shook a finger in the air. “And in Kruger, Falkirk thanked me for freeing him from his eternal prison.”

“You spoke to Falkirk De Roche?” Arcadius asked.

“Spoke to him once, killed him twice, didn’t take either time. But if that wasn’t his tomb, if he wasn’t even dead and if cutting his head off didn’t kill him, I suppose the man could survive several centuries and a fire, right?”

“I will live forever now,” Rehn quoted eerily from the diary.

“The temple was on sacred ground, remember?” Hadrian said. “Maybe that has something to do with it?”

“That’s right. What do we know about immortal beings who can be trapped on sacred ground and have a thing for books?”

Arcadius frowned. “There are lots of legends, Royce. The Manes are the dead that eschew the afterlife in order to return and haunt the living. And there is the story about Kile and the White Feather concerning an immortal god who supposedly wanders Elan in the guise of a man, but nothing like…well, not that I think about it…” The professor tapped his lips. “There is legend of Rowfinn.”

“What’s that?”

“An old wives tale about a witch named Rowfinn, who lived in a forbidden forest and killed anyone who entered. She is said to have slept on a pile of human bones out in front of her cave. The pile supposedly granted this witch eternal life, but she had to add to its pile once a month, and couldn’t sleep again until she did so. But there’s nothing in the story about a book. Indeed, the most notable thing about that story is that Rowfinn ate all her victims and, for no reason ever explained, she began her feasts by eating the victim’s face first.”

“Sounds like the Morgan,” Hadrian asked.

“The Morgan? You mean the ghost of Glenmorgan the Third?”

Hadrian nodded. “Heard about him in Rochelle.”

“That is what we in the trade call the Myth of Guilt. The man was murdered by greedy, power-hungry cowards, and their guilt created this irrational fear that their crime would come back to haunt them.”

“It’s just strange because they say the Morgan also eats it’s victims face first.”

“And the Morgan legend comes from Rochelle,” Royce said. “Where Falkirk was trapped.”

“So, maybe there is a kernel of truth in all of this?” Arcadius pondered.

“Fun as all this is, it doesn’t help stop Gravis,” Royce said. “And we no longer have the luxury of time. This job now has a clear deadline, and right now I don’t have the slightest idea how to go about getting inside Drumindor, and if I did, I wouldn’t know how to stop the volcano from blowing up.”

He stood just as Gwen entered carrying their cleaned plates. “You’ll figure it out, Royce,” she said. “I know you will.”