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

"Much," Royce replied as he came down the stairs, then stopped mid-step the way cats do when startled. He squinted painfully at the early sunlight blazing through the windows, brilliantly beaming off the white ceiling, walls, and floor.

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

"Doesn't it ever rain here?" Royce grimaced, then continued down the last few steps.

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

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

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

"Be cooler if you didn't wrap yourself in five sheeps' worth of wool."

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

"Arcadius and Gwen went to the beach, and Albert is reporting to Lord Byron. Apparently, he's expected to make daily reports on our progress."

Royce sat at the table to slip on his boots. "What's he going to say?"

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

Hadrian looked down at himself: loose and untied shirt, bare feet, and cloth trousers — his self-styled holiday uniform. The two men were night and day, but Hadrian couldn't decide which was better. He was undoubtedly more comfortable, but he admired Royce's dedication, which made Hadrian look like a ne'er-do-well layabout.

And I haven't the slightest idea where my boots are.

He thought they might be in his room or behind the stairs. He doubted he'd left them outside but couldn't rule it out.

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

"Really?"

"It sounds much better when he says it."

"I figured that, but I was just . . . I mean, that's actually the truth."

"Right." Hadrian nodded. "But there's no need to lie. This is a legitimate job."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Arcadius insists that the cold preserves it — you know, like salt or smoke, but without changing the taste."

"Huh," Royce mused, looking back at the cabinet. Slowly he began shaking his head. Then, like a curse, he muttered, "Dwarfs."

"Where are we off to today?" Hadrian asked as he brushed the remnants of peanut shells from his chest.

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

"Actually . . . you're not going to believe this." Hadrian went on to spend the better part of an hour showing Royce how the indoor well worked.

"Arcadius says the idea isn't new. Apparently, the Old Empire had them, too."

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

"Both. This is fresh, but there's another for seawater that flushes that bucket under the chair in the privy."

"There's a privy? I was using a pot in the bedroom."

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

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

"Gwen calls the flush bucket the best thing since shoes."

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

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

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

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

"How long were you up there?"

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

"Angelius?"

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

They climbed out of the dense vegetation and onto a stony scrubland that steadily rose in elevation until it became a plateau of solid rock that formed the foundation for the northern tower of Drumindor. "I think he's in there."

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

"It's not all that incredible," Royce said, "when you realize they didn't build it. They only cut away what was here."

"Yeah." Hadrian chuckled. "Erasing an entire mountain is no feat at all. I was thinking of turning Mount Mador into a multi-story tavern next week. Wanna help?"

Royce peered at him. "Busy."

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

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Yeah, not incredible at all.

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

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

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

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

"Really? Then why are we here?"

"Because Byron will probably catch Gravis tomorrow, which means we'll be leaving the day after, and I wanted to see this up close."

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

Hadrian nodded. "I am a little disappointed we'll be leaving so soon. We should go out to the Parrot one more time. Everyone seemed to like that."

Royce glared at him.

Hadrian laughed. "You'll be fine. Just remember: less wine, more food."

"Easy for you to say. What if she wants to dance again?"

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

Royce shook his head. "I'm wearing two layers of black wool in the tropics. Where did you get the idea I was sane?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rumor also has it — whatever that means — that you insist cold goes down. What do you mean by, it goes down? Cold isn't a living thing; it can't choose a direction. Nor has it weight like a raindrop or snowflake. It's a temperature, it can't move."

"You're purposely changing the subject." Arcadius gave Royce that knowing look that made everyone receiving it feel stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And why is that?" Arcadius inquired.

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

"I'm still not seeing the problem. This is Tur Del Fur; I suspect there are quite a few dwarfs to be found who could help."

Atyn nodded. "Normally, you'd be right, but all the dwarfs have disappeared."

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

"They're all gone. No one has seen a long-beard in over a week."

Royce gave Hadrian a concerned look.

"And it's becoming a problem," Atyn continued. "There's a shortage of salt, the baths are closed because of issues with their plumbing, and now I heard there's something wrong with the sewers."

"In just a week?" Hadrian asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right away, sir."

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

"How did the meeting go?" Hadrian asked.

Albert shrugged. "Fine. Lord Byron is understandably anxious to resolve the matter but accepted my assurances. But that's mainly because he hasn't any alternative. No one else seems to care."

"These are the two, then?" Constance asked Albert while gesturing toward Royce and Hadrian. "This is the infamous Riyria?"

Everyone at the table straightened up, except for Constance, who couldn't improve her posture any more if she were hung by her wrists.

"Oh please. There is no need for apprehension."  The lady spoke in a soothing, reassuring tone. "Riyria holds the prestigious rank of my most favored company. Never would I betray your confidence, as I am a verifiably trustworthy person, but more importantly and to the point"— she gave Royce a flattering glance — "I have also commissioned the two of you on enough occasions to be acutely aware of how deliriously fatal such an indiscretion would be."

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

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

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

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

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

"It's the best there is, which is why I don't like the idea of wasting it." Royce looked to Hadrian.

"A toast to Lord Byron then?" Hadrian lifted the bottle.

Constance sat back down.

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

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

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

"A raft? Is that how you see me? A handful of rough-hewn logs lashed together?"

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

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

"So, how are things going?" Albert asked Royce. "Have you found him?"

"I have an idea, but it's mostly speculation. This city lacks witnesses. Have either of you heard anything about dwarfs vanishing from this city?"

"Vanishing?" Albert asked. "Getting abducted, you mean?"

Royce turned his stemmed glass upside down as Hadrian made his rounds. "No idea. The waiter just mentioned that all the dwarfs in the city were missing. No one has seen them in over a week."

"Over the last few years, there has been a great deal of trouble with the native Dromeians, and recently it has reached a new level," Lady Constance said.

"What did they do?" Hadrian asked.

"Oh, they haven't done anything." Her hands were on her lap, and she spoke like an eager classroom student excited to answer her first question. "Aside from growing too numerous. The problem lies with the non-Dromeians. They are concerned that having so much of the city's crucial infrastructure controlled by such a small and insular community isn't wise. Especially when there are many dwarfs who are growing more adamant about the restoration of the old Belgric kingdom — by force, if necessary. The Triumvirate has taken measures to limit their involvement."

"Which is to say, they forced the city administrators to dismiss hundreds of dwarfs from excellent-paying jobs out of an abundance of caution," Arcadius said disapprovingly and followed the comment with an uncharacteristically large swallow of his own wine.

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

Arcadius frowned. "The prevailing wisdom of the addlebrained geniuses in power is that not only are the dwarfs unnecessary, but that the city would fare better in the hands of humans. It never occurred to the captains of commerce that this city — all of Delgos, in fact — was built by dwarfs, for dwarfs, with nary a thought to men."

"Why is that a problem?" Hadrian asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"If allowing the native Dromeians to maintain the mines, sewers, and plumbing was considered irresponsible, then allowing them to operate Drumindor was believed to be criminally negligent. The Triumvirate finally took action, and Lord Byron was ordered to dismiss all the Dromeians working in the towers."

"So, their disappearance could be a protest of some sort?" Hadrian asked.

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

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