Royce didn't say anything the whole way back. Hadrian knew better than to ask questions. While it had taken years, he had finally realized words weren't so important between them. Hadrian saw conversation as a way to fill gaps — to breach the chasm of ideas, ethics, and experiences that divided people. Words were rope bridges that made crossing divisions possible. But Royce didn't like words, didn't need them. In retrospect, it shouldn't have taken so long to understand. Hadrian had worked with horses. He'd fought on their backs in battles where teamwork and communication were the difference between life and death, and horses never talked at all. Like horses, dogs, or cats, Royce had a language all his own. The thief's hood was up, and that was all Hadrian needed to know for now. If it was important, Royce would fill him in. At least he hoped so — no, not hoped — trusted.

Such an odd word to bandy about in relation to Royce Melborn, and yet . . .

Back at the Turtle, everyone was outside, enjoying the sunshine. Arcadius and Albert sat at the table while Gwen ferried out supplies, and Pickles — Rehn — cut fruit. Something savory was smoking in the courtyard hearth. The lid was down, and blue smoke escaped the gaps. Auberon was back and tending the coals, tinkering with them, using a built-in foot bellows and an assortment of iron tools he pulled from a metal barrel alongside the grill.

"I can understand that," Auberon said over his shoulder to Arcadius, who lounged on one of the reclining chairs, drinking something in a fancy bit of blown glass that tinkled when he moved it. "Dwarven numerics is a nightmare even for dwarfs. You have a nice tidy system inherited from the Novronian Empire, what with your zero and all. Dromeian numerical tradition goes back before such innovations. We have a separate symbol for every number up to ninety-nine and names for each."

"So do we," Arcadius said.

Auberon eyed him wryly. "Sure, you do, but you call them sane things, like sixty and three. Dromeian numerics were born in a more innocent and ignorant age. Our numbers are called things like Hildebreeth, which as far as anyone can tell is just a name, like Albert, except it means sixty and three. Sixty-four is called Jedline. No rhyme or reason, they're just names. Engineers say it's more accurate — less chance of mistaking Jedline for Hildebreeth. But I think they're in cultural denial. Do something long enough, and it's too comfortable to change. Do something your parents and their parents did before you, and that's just the way it is. Your folk often say we Dromeians are like unto stone. Acourse, they mean we're heartless and unfeeling, which I can tell that you, at least, know is nothing more than institutionalized propaganda." He shrugged. "And your folk aren't the only ones to play in that cesspool. You should hear some of the jokes we have about the scallie. But the truth is, we Dromeians are like stone when it comes to traditions. Anything we used to do is better than anything new. How it is, is written in stone, and change takes eons of erosion."

Arcadius was the first to spot Royce, Hadrian, and Baxter entering the gate. "Ah! They're back. How did it go?"

Royce ignored him and everyone else. He walked inside, followed by Baxter. This left expectant eyes to focus on Hadrian.

"Well," he began, "not good. There's not even a door. Just a sheer, polished wall. Hard to pick a lock when there isn't one."

Gwen was making her next trip out from the rolkin, carrying ceramic bowls of fruit and a stack of plates.

"What's going on here?" Hadrian asked. "Aren't we leaving? Lord Byron isn't paying anymore, right? We can't afford to stay."

"Auberon has graciously offered to treat us to a farewell supper and one last night on the house," Albert replied as Gwen shoved a bowl of mangos at him, instructing the viscount to take a knife and begin cutting. Then she checked on Pickles's — Rehn's — progress. She smiled and nodded.

Hadrian turned to the dwarf. "That's awfully nice."

Auberon shrugged. "Don't have anyone else knocking on the door to stay here." He stepped on the foot bellows, bolstering the fire. "And I caught a big fish this morning. Way too much for just me. Everything worked out for all interested parties; I don't waste a noble animal, and you don't need to rush out the door."

Hadrian stood staring at him, flummoxed. At times like this, he was stunned at how the world appeared enthusiastic about proving itself wrong. Before him stood a kind and generous dwarf — which, according to general wisdom, was as possible as slave wages.

Auberon shifted the coals with an iron rake. "I know what you're thinking."

"I hope not," Hadrian replied, and meant it. The thought wasn't flattering. That such ideas wandered loose in his mind was not a point of pride. He took solace only in the belief that thoughts were not as bad as words: if not spoken, at least they couldn't spread.

Auberon smiled. "Not entirely your fault, you know. It's all those stories, isn't it? You're raised on them. Got nursery rhymes about Gronbach, the evil bastard who — if he was a real person and even half of what he is painted to be — was a real arse. But imagine if all humans were stamped evil on account of one hampot — and I bet you know more than just one."

"That depends. What's a hampot?"

"A dafty, a dobber. You know, an idiot."

"Oh yeah, we have quite a few of them."

"Don't beat yourself up. Instead, learn not to judge a beach by its slope or color, but by each grain of sand. Do that, and you might start to realize how it's not just the beach you're learning to see more clearly."

"What are the Powers That Be planning to do about the tower?" Arcadius asked, rattling his little glass, which Hadrian now saw had a piece of chipped ice in it.

"No idea. Might just have to wait Gravis out. As Royce said, he can't stay in there forever." Hadrian looked out over the wall and roofs of the nearby buildings and looked at Drumindor's towers. "Is there such a thing as a dwarven flag?"

"A what?" Auberon asked. "A flag?"

"Yeah. You know, a symbol of the dwarven people, or the standard of a king — something like that?"

"There're many various banners . . . why do you ask?"

"It's just . . . there's a big piece of fabric hanging off the bridge between the two towers that I don't think was there before. Has symbols on it. I was thinking it might be a flag. Something Gravis hung to declare he has taken the fortress. That kinda thing."

Auberon set the rake down and walked out to the terrace to get a clear view. He peered down and grunted. "My eyes aren't so good anymore. What do the symbols look like?"

Hadrian started to say that he couldn't make them out either, but then Royce came out of the rolkin with Baxter following in tow.

"A half circle," Royce said, "followed by a full circle above a chevron." He walked to where Auberon stood, and peering down, he added, "followed by three wavy lines, then a man with a pickax."

"Is the man"— Auberon said the word with a strange emphasis, as if he didn't think it was a man at all — "walking or standing still?"

"There's a leg out. So, walking, I guess."

Auberon nodded with a decidedly grim expression. "It's not a flag."

Royce looked at the dwarf intently. "It's a message, isn't it? What does it say?"

"It's a warning. Gravis Berling is telling the Dromeians to leave Tur Del Fur before the rising of the next full moon."

"Now, why would he be doing that, do you think?" Arcadius asked, with an ominous tone to his voice.

Auberon continued to stare down at the harbor. "Because, unfortunately, Gronbach isn't the only hampot we dwarfs have, either."

"I'm not your servant," Baxter the Ghost said as the three of them walked back down Berling's Way, retracing the path Royce, Hadrian, and their unwanted shadow had just climbed.

Royce had accepted Baxter as his personal shadow because he had to. Never in his wildest dreams did Royce expect the dapper dandy to prove useful — certainly not twice in one day. As expected, Cornelius hadn't assigned a novice to the post. The key Baxter showed to the Port Authority officers, and the fact that Ernesta and Oscar knew him by sight, revealed a lot.

"No," Royce agreed. "But you are Cornelius's servant — so act like it."

"I'm not his servant. I only work for him."

"I'm not interested in what helps you sleep at night. I need to speak to the Big Guy, and you're going to make it happen. Whether you are a servant or an employee, it's part of your job."

"My assignment is to watch and report anything of interest. Specifically concerning the diary of Lady Martel."

"Trust me, this is of interest."

"I don't believe you."

"Good. You might have a future in this career choice of yours."

"My career is already renowned."

"Uh-huh. And you don't see the problem with you needing to explain this?"

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They hit the boardwalk and found that while the crowd had diminished, no success had been achieved at the tower. There were now wagons filled with supplies and several groups of what looked to be tradesmen: masons, carpenters, even some men with pickaxes whom Royce assumed were miners. Others filled in the crowd. Perhaps they were foremen or engineers or architects. All he knew was they dressed better than the workmen, but not as well as the commerce kings.

The harbor gates were still open, and Royce led the way through, but he made a left and headed for the big wall that guarded DeLur's estate. As expected, the guards stepped in their way. Royce heard his shadow give out a loud sigh.

"Let them in," Baxter said.

The guards, four men the size of weapon-endowed, armor-clad mountains, hesitated.

The ghost once more displayed the key, dangling it before them like some magic talisman. "Now," he said.

They stepped aside.

Having been there before, Royce knew the way and quickly strode up the walk and into the palace, where more guards decided not to challenge their visit. Royce had to admit it was nice. Seeing it in daylight, he approved of the sleek, unadorned lines and minimalistic decor. Its multiple stories had a way of appearing like stratum in the rock wall.

Royce also noted how Hadrian's three swords clapped as he walked. Neither the guards nor Baxter had forbidden them. Not patting Royce down was one thing, but openly granting access to a stranger toting a whole arsenal was something else. Royce wondered how far that courtesy would extend. How much fear did the Big Guy have of them?

As it turned out, not much.

Royce and Hadrian walked right up to the throne room. Guards — the fancy-dressed version — made another attempt to stop them, but Baxter shooed them away. This time he didn't need the key. The ghost had more clout than Royce expected. Once inside the room, they were stopped, not by an army of brutes, but by a beautiful woman who Royce hadn't seen on his last visit — dark hair and eyes, and dressed in a long, unadorned gown. She brought their little procession to a halt with but a raising of her palm.

"They want to speak to him," Baxter said in a respectful tone.

She studied each carefully without expression, then nodded. "Wait here."

The woman advanced to where Cornelius sat. As far as Royce could tell, the Big Guy hadn't moved an inch since the day before.

Does he take baths here? Does he bathe at all?

The woman whispered into Cornelius's ear, "Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater are here to see you."

DeLur peered at them for a moment. "Send them up."

She descended the dais. "He will see you."

"You have information for me, Baxter?" Cornelius asked.

"Not much," the ghost said. "Only that a kid in their association, a Rehn Purim, was after the diary. No evidence yet, but I think he might have been the one to kill the courier and take the book. Doesn't have it with him now, though."

"You're certain of this?"

"I searched thoroughly."

"You searched Rehn's room?" Hadrian asked. He sounded angry.

Royce would have been dumbfounded if Baxter hadn't rummaged through Rehn's stuff. "The kid had it," Royce declared, taking a step forward, and putting himself first in line. This was a conscious act, an announcement to both Baxter and Hadrian that he would be handling the rest of this meeting. He wasn't sure if Hadrian would understand, but he thought he might. The man — who had for years proved oblivious to the most obvious of gestures — had recently started to catch on. "But the book was taken last night by Falkirk de Roche."

"The boogeyman who can't die?" Cornelius frowned.

Royce nodded.

Around the throne were similar retainers as before, holding silver trays of food, sweets, and drinks. Either Royce and his companions were intruding on an early evening meal, or Cornelius always surrounded himself with food to be had at the lift of a finger.

"And where is this walking dead man now?"

"No idea," Royce replied. "Can't say I care much, either."

"And I can't say I am pleased with this report."

"That's fine, because we aren't here about that. You have bigger problems than finding a noblewoman's memoirs. I need to know exactly what happened this morning regarding Drumindor."

"That is no longer your concern. Lord Byron dismissed you for your failure to accomplish a single goal in your contract."

"You're right, which seems a bit strange. Why hire us on the hint of a threat, only to dismiss us when the threat becomes real? I bet you had something to do with that decision. Maybe you're thinking that I'm using the job as a cover, and perhaps if you press us to leave, the book will fall out of our luggage on the way out. Or maybe you're just frustrated and want to punish me in a way that won't start a war. Best guess is all of the above. Honestly, I ought to be busy booking passage on the first sailing ship out of here, but so far, you've proven yourself reasonable, so I thought we could help each other."

Cornelius squinted his little eyes at them. "Help with what?"

This was what Royce appreciated about the DeLurs. If Cornelius were a noble, a king, a duke, or an earl, the conversation would already be over. Those born to their station found all others so far beneath them that the mere act of listening was considered not merely a waste of time, but demeaning. The DeLurs had clawed their way up, and that ascent had been achieved by any means possible, which meant nothing was beneath them — and listening cost nothing.

"As you pointed out, we failed to fulfill our contract with Lord Byron. If it gets around — and it will — that sort of thing can hurt our business. So, I want another crack at it."

"You want the contract reinstated?"

"To start with, yes. But I'll need sufficient funds and resources, and Lord Byron doesn't have the kind of budget I'm talking about."

"So you want the contract to be with me, is that it?"

"Precisely. But I also need information. For instance, how did Gravis get into Drumindor? From what I've been told, there is a small army inside, which should have stopped him. So, I am naturally curious."

"I see. And what do I get out of this? The book?"

Royce shook his head.

"I want it."

"I don't have it."

"Then I don't see —"

"If I'm right, and I think I am, I'm going to give you something you value far more than Lady Martel's diary."

"And what would that be?"

"Your life."

Cornelius leaned forward. For most people, it would be an unconscious act. For Cornelius DeLur, it had to be a monumental undertaking. In any case, the shift was as disturbing as a rockslide, and his flock of servants took a step back. "I can't imagine you are threatening me. You're not that foolish, and being a professional, you would never warn me in advance. I also didn't summon you, so there is no reason for this visit."

"You're curious why I would come and rattle the lion's cage when I can just walk away."

"Exactly. So, please explain yourself." If Cornelius had been a real lion, that last part would have been said with bared teeth.

"You haven't been outside, have you?"

Cornelius's eyes narrowed.

Realizing he was pushing it, Royce was quick to add, "What I mean is that you haven't seen the little banner hanging from Drumindor's bridge."

"You're speaking of Gravis's homemade flag of victory?"

"I thought the same thing. Except it's not a flag. It's a message. Gravis is warning the dwarfs to leave Tur Del Fur before the next full moon."

"Why would he do that?"

"That's a question I've been asking myself from the start. Why would Gravis Berling announce his plans for revenge? Why would he disappear? And why would he lock himself in Drumindor? At first, I assumed he was merely angry and irrational, like some pouty child making a scene. You likely thought the same or Gravis would have suffered a fatal accident weeks ago. But then I learned the guy is some sort of genius. That made a temper tantrum harder to believe. So, I figured he was looking for leverage to get his job back. What else could it be? But as it turns out, I was wrong again."

"So far you are not impressing me with your intelligence."

Royce smiled. "Tell me, why does Drumindor put on a light show every full moon?"

Cornelius shrugged, which for him looked more like his head and neck were sucked down and then popped back up. "Just a standard operation, a regular drill to make certain the machinery works."

"Everyone thinks that . . . except the dwarfs, who know the real reason. But I'm guessing you don't rub elbows with the native population much."

"And what is this reason?"

"In order to understand, you need to realize what Drumindor actually is. Everyone here keeps calling the twin towers a fortress, but only because everything the dwarfs build is militaristic. Given even the little I know about their history, it makes sense. You and I are prudently cautious because of our line of work, but dwarfs have been persecuted for centuries. They've acquired a sort of generational paranoia. Their homes, shops, warehouses, and temples are citadels because they need to be. It's how they build everything. For example, this palace of yours was once a dwarven building. A temple, or something, right? And with very few defenders, this place could hold off a small army."

"So, what is Drumindor if not a fortress?"

"For one thing, it's the largest and most advanced forge in the world. You want to make something out of metal — anything — Drumindor is the place to do it."

"So, what is Gravis making?"

"Nothing. He's not a smith or metal worker — turns out not all dwarfs are handy with a hammer. His skill, his specialty, is Drumindor itself, which apparently, he knows inside and out. But Drumindor wasn't built to be a forge any more than it was built to be a fortress. You see, there's another thing dwarfs are renowned for — securing treasures. It's hard for us to imagine, but those two massive towers are not much more than a pair of pins in a tumbler lock."

Royce felt like a fisherman trying to land the legendary big one, and he was pleased that Cornelius hadn't snapped the line and gotten away, but now it was time to set the hook. Royce harbored his doubts that the grand master of all thieves' guilds, who went by the underworld moniker The Diamond, would believe what he was about to say. Royce was working on unfamiliar ground and at a terrible disadvantage because in this case he was telling the truth.

"Everyone knows Tur Del Fur was once a volcano named Mount Druma, which was whittled down and tamed by Gravis's ancestors, but I suspect few understand what that means. I certainly didn't, not until I had a talk with a very old dwarf."

"Auberon," Cornelius said. "You've been chatting with the freedom fighter."

"You called him that before . . . why?"

"Because he is. Auberon was born in the Barak Ghetto of  Trent. Attempting to help his people, he waged a two-century-long war against the Lords of Lanksteer. In the process, he became a hero to the helpless but lost everything. Now he owns a handful of rolkins that he rents out but lives on his little fishing boat, the Lorelei."

Royce nodded. It explained why the old man used a crossbow as a fishing rod.

"And what did the old freedom fighter tell you about Drumindor?" Cornelius asked.

"That no one can cap a volcano. There are forces deep underground that want to get out, forces so powerful that nothing can stop them."

"And yet I live in a paradise where no volcano bothers me."

"And that's because Drumindor is a cap with a vent. If you put a lid on a boiling pot, the lid will blow off and make an awful mess. But if you frequently lift it, just a little, you can avoid disaster by letting some of the steam escape. That's what Drumindor is: a locked cap with a vent. Whenever the dwarfs want, Drumindor has the power to spew molten lava in defense of the city, but every full moon the volcano must vent its excess pressure, or the lid will blow."

Cornelius sat back and stared at the ceiling. "You are suggesting that Gravis is going to blow this lid?"

"I'm telling you that he has likely already locked the cap, and in two weeks and three days, if someone doesn't get in there and pick that lock and vent the pressure, there will no longer be a Tur Del Fur. Your wonderful paradise will be a memory."

"I can't say that I like your prophecy."

"I'm not too thrilled about it either, which is why I should be booking passage on the first ship north before the general population gets wind of this and takes all the best seats."

"Why aren't you?"

"Funny, I keep asking myself the same thing." Royce paused, and not at all for effect. He wasn't acting. Doing an honest job had also forced him to be awkwardly sincere, something he was neither good at nor comfortable with. "Look, I don't like failing, and as I said, it's bad for business. Not to mention, I really do hate sailing." Royce looked around them. "You've got a nice place here that you've spent a long time building. You're going to want to save it, but you can't unless you get into that tower. If there is one thing everyone seems to agree on it's that Drumindor is impregnable. You're going to need all the help you can get, and at the risk of sounding modest, I'm better at breaking into locked buildings than anyone you've ever known. You want me here working on this project. But, seeing how pricey everything in Tur Del Fur is, I can't afford to stay. So, here's the deal. You continue to pay my expenses and provide me with the resources I need, and I'll get you in."

"What will you require?"

"First, tell me exactly what happened this morning."

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