Royce and Hadrian had agreed to sleep late the following morning. They planned to start their climb just after sunset and knew they would need plenty of rest. Despite this, both were up with the sun.

"Was I making too much noise?" Hadrian asked from his seat at the little table in the courtyard, where he was eating the rice-and-lentil dish that either Gwen or Auberon had left in the icebox.

Royce shook his head as he sat down. "Just the opposite. It's way too quiet. The city is practically empty of people, but . . . " He looked up. "Do you hear that?"

Hadrian shook his head.

"Exactly," Royce said. "Every morning, I've come out to this courtyard and suffered the incessant chatter of birds."

"You hate birds now, too?" Hadrian asked in between mouthfuls that he was scooping up with his fingers. "I thought it was just dogs and dwarfs."

"Birds are new to the list. I added them the morning after dancing with Gwen."

"Oh." This Hadrian understood. "Yeah, loud noises, bright lights — I once cursed the sun for shining. As for the birds, we have been here for a month. It's spring. They fly north."

"All of them?"

Hadrian tilted his head back and listened. Royce was right. Not a sound. He looked to the sky. Nothing moved except clouds. "Strange."

Royce pointed at the bowl. "How is that?"

"Good. Want some?"

"Maybe. It looks light and easy to both carry and eat."

"You know," Hadrian said, "the last time we climbed a massive tower, you wanted to kill me. You had hoped I'd fall."

"Third time's the charm."

"Then you're out of luck. This will only be my second."

Hadrian scooped another mouthful and chewed as he watched Royce, who appeared perplexed.

"No, that's not right," Royce finally said. "We climbed the Crown Tower twice."

"You did, I only made the one trip. The first time you went up alone, remember? Left me in that little town in Ghent. I don't even recall its name anymore. Then you went off by yourself and stole the book. Arcadius wasn't happy, so the next night, I went with you, and together we put it back."

Royce shrugged. "Maybe, but we didn't put it back the next night . . . did we?"

Hadrian considered this. He remembered being mad that Royce had abandoned him. When he returned to Sheridan, Royce was already back with the book. Arcadius said Hadrian and Royce had to put it back, and also . . . "The professor told me Pickles had been killed while we were away, and I remember leaving right after that."

"That's right," Royce said. "You were too angry to make dinner. And now here we are doing the same sort of thing again. Funny how life can repeat itself."

"I wouldn't call it funny."

Baxter entered the courtyard, looking especially fresh and dapper and in a better mood than Hadrian had ever seen. "The Crown Jewel is leaving this morning," the ghost announced.

"You disappeared yesterday," Royce said. "I was worried."

Baxter rolled his eyes. "I'm officially done with you two, but Cornelius requires his key back. You can give it to me if you like."

Royce made a sound like laughter and flashed an expression similar to a smile. "You're cute."

Baxter frowned. "Just make sure you get it back to him before the ship sails."

"Or what?" Hadrian asked. "If we succeed in this, he'll owe us more than a lousy key. And if we don't, the key will be buried with us at the bottom of the sea under brand-new rock, I would suspect."

"Is Cornelius still in his palace?" Royce asked.

Baxter shook his head. "He's on the ship."

"We should see him off, then," Royce told Hadrian.

"Why?"

"Because you're right. If we pull this off, he will owe us. I just want to make sure he knows that."

The Crown Jewel was a ship in the same way Cornelius DeLur was a thief. The vessel was huge — twice the size of the Ellis Far. It had five masts with five sails each and three jibs. The hull was painted a pristine white with blue trim and gold hardware, which even included the anchor. Royce had made the early assumption that the massive, bifurcated hooks designed to be dropped into the ocean to keep the ship from drifting were wrought iron that was painted gold. In the month he'd spent in Tur Del Fur, he now had reason to doubt that bit of common sense. The extent of Cornelius DeLur's extravagance was not to be underestimated.

At the dock, two lines had formed, one at each of the dual gangways. One admitted last-minute supplies and luggage dragged up by shirtless men with glistening backs. The other accommodated passengers: travelers dressed as if they were on their way to a summer gala. Most wore white, but some stood out in brilliant oranges, reds, and dazzling yellows. Ladies sported immense, broad-brimmed hats and full-length gowns while holding aloft delicate parasols. The men wore doublets, hose, and capes.

Royce plowed ahead of Hadrian up the ramp, using the key to cow nobility of all ranks. No one wanted to be on Cornelius's bad side that day, leaving Royce to ponder how much the Big Guy had made each of them pay. Given the priceless opportunity, he guessed that for many of them, it was more than money. On the way up, Royce spotted Lady Constance — all in white — standing in line with another woman of equal extravagance — all in yellow.

"Why . . . Mister Hadrian, isn't it?" the woman in yellow addressed them. "How lovely to see you again." She held out a hand.

Hadrian looked awkward as he gave the woman's hand a firm shake.

"You're supposed to kiss the back, my dear," the lady explained.

"Oh, sorry." Hadrian gave her hand a quick peck, then turned to Royce. "This is, ah, the Countess Ridell of Warric."

"Oh, please."  The woman frowned. "We're still in dock. Until we return to the misery of civilization, call me Estelle." She smiled wickedly. "And please do call me . . . any time . . . either of you . . . or both, if you wish. My stateroom is said to have a very large bed."

"We aren't staying on board," Hadrian said.

"No?" She appeared perplexed. "But this is the last — you aren't staying here, are you?"

Lady Constance then asserted herself as only she could. "Oh, my goodness gracious, are all of you still in the city? Do you require assistance? I will speak to Cornelius the moment we get aboard and —"

Royce held up the key, causing Lady Constance's brows to rise. She stared at the bit of jewelry, transfixed. "So then . . . " she stumbled. "Now I don't understand in the slightest."

"Gwen, Albert, and Arcadius left on the Ellis Far," Royce explained. "We're staying, and I am here to return this."

Constance looked back and forth between the two. "Are you insane?"

Both Royce and Hadrian hesitated, then rocked their heads side to side. Each noticed the other and smiled.

Constance's eyes went wide, and she brought both white-gloved hands to her cheeks. "Oh no, you can't be serious." She turned and looked up at the tower that loomed overhead. "You wouldn't. It's suicide."

"Care to let me in on the madness, dear?" Estelle asked.

"They're going to try to stop it by climbing the tower and killing Gravis."

Estelle looked at Hadrian. As she did, her shoulders drooped, her head tilted back, and her eyes took on a longing look of awe. "By Mar, where have you been all my life? If I had but known there were men like you walking the face of Elan, I'd have poisoned my husband years ago."

"If all goes according to plan, you'll be able to toast us next year at The Blue Parrot," Royce said.

"And if it doesn't?" Lady Constance asked.

"Then toast us in Medford. I don't see that it matters much to you."

Lady Constance looked as if he'd slapped her. "I . . . " She hesitated. "I wish you the very best of luck. I truly do."

"Please don't," Royce said. "Luck and I have never gotten along."

"Same here," Estelle said. She gestured at Hadrian. "Before me stands a god of a man whom I'd murder my husband for. Just this morning, I learned he is suddenly available once again, and here I am forced to flee. Luck hates me."

"Suddenly available?" Hadrian asked. "What do you mean?"

Estelle looked surprised.

Constance took hold of Estelle's wrist. "He doesn't know," she whispered, and Estelle stiffened.

"Know what?" Royce asked.

"I'm sorry," Estelle said.

"What do you mean by I'm available?" Hadrian asked again.

Estelle looked to Constance, as for once the countess appeared at a loss for words.

"Millificent LeDeye died last night," Constance said. "Her body was found up on the Eighth Tier."

Hadrian looked like he'd been stabbed but refused to fall. His teeth clenched. "Who did it?"

"One of Cornelius's men. Andre DeButte. He was the one who introduced her on stage at The Blue Parrot."

"Anyone know where he is?" Hadrian asked the ladies, then looked at Royce.

"We've got time," Royce said. "And I'll help or just watch if you like."

"He's also dead," Constance reported. "According to Alessandro Ugarte, the two had a fight. Miss LeDeye started it by stabbing Andre in the stomach. Apparently, he had the time and inclination to return the gift in kind."

"Sounds like this Alessandro Ugarte may have killed them both," Royce said.

Hadrian shook his head. "No, it doesn't. It sounds exactly like Millie." He put a hand to his stomach. "Gwen was right."

When Royce and Hadrian reached the rear of the vessel, they were stopped by armed guards who didn't step aside at the sight of the key. Instead, after hearing their request, one entered the doors they protected while the other stared at the two of them menacingly.

Hadrian wasn't looking good. His eyes held a faraway gaze that didn't bode well for their climb.

Maybe I should leave him behind. No, that won't work. If I had done that last time, I'd be dead. And there is Falkirk to consider. Besides, death isn't an unexplored frontier for Hadrian, and he is stronger than he looks.

The door opened, and the now-familiar woman with dark eyes and raven hair stepped out. "I'll deliver the key to Cornelius," Cassandra told Royce and held out her hand that was now devoid of baubles and bracelets.

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"Everyone is so eager to play courier this morning," Royce replied. "But it's not in my nature to trust anyone. I'll hand deliver this to him or keep it as a souvenir. Your choice."

"Do you think Cornelius keeps these in his pocket? He's not even going to see it. He doesn't want to. He has courtiers and clerks who handle these trivialities. I will pass the key on to the treasurer and inform Master DeLur that you returned it."

Royce shook his head.

She frowned. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

Royce smiled. "Look up there," he told her and pointed at the North Tower. "Around sunset this evening, I'm going to free-climb that using finger grips half the size of the buttons on your gown, fighting winds that would threaten to capsize this ship, and I'll be doing it at night, so Gravis doesn't see me coming. If I make it, I'll need to get inside the fortress — a place I've never been — kill Gravis and figure out a way to undo whatever the dwarf did, which I am told is like untangling a ball of twine after a cat has played with it for an hour. There's also a good chance I'm going to encounter a guy who can't be killed but might want to stop me. And if I fail to do all this before moonrise tomorrow night, I will have a front row seat for the uncontrolled eruption of Mount Druma, which is expected to not so much vent as explode, taking the city, the bay, and most of the cliff with it. Do you really think I care who you are?"

In truth, Royce had a good idea. He'd gotten her name from Baxter; the rest came from simple observation. Cornelius was the founding father of the world's biggest and most successful thieves' guild. He had managed to transmute this illegal success into a legitimate career as a self-made king, but the business was in his blood. He'd spent most of his life navigating the shoals and jagged teeth of the shadowlands — the place where trust was nothing but a lever, and friendships had the lifespan of a mayfly. More than any monarch who murdered an uncle or older brother to claim the throne, Cornelius awaited treachery with the same confidence as the coming of winter. And with his money, he could afford to buy the best furs to guard against the cold.

In the substratum society of thieves and their associates, there were believed to be five assassins in the world who could claim the title of Bucketman with a capital B. Royce knew this because he and his onetime friends and fellow Black Diamonds, Merrick and Jade, were three of the five. The remaining two were a mystery, which meant they were not members of the BD. Royce had a strong belief that Cassandra only pretended to be DeLur's chancellor. Perhaps she, too, had grown tired of the blood and longed for a legitimate career in a place where such things seemed possible. For her, this might represent a second chance. For Cornelius, she was a guard dog like no other. To get to him, everyone had to go through her. Royce was confident none made that journey alive.

"Why do you want to see him?" she asked, and the singular tone of the word was unlike all her previous ones. Here now was not the exalted chief executive of DeLur Enterprises. This was the voice of a Bucketman.

"To talk," he replied. "Nothing more. I don't bite the hand that feeds me, and I'm here to inquire about a feast."

Cornelius DeLur lay upon a luxurious divan the size of five beds. Plush aqua upholstery lined a whimsical golden frame made to mimic an ocean wave. The recliner rested inside a stunning room the size of the entire stern of the ship, made to appear all the larger by virtue of the rear wall being all glass. Royce had never seen windowpanes of such size and clarity. Altogether they provided a breathtaking view of the bay. The rest of the room was like a parlor in a mansion: with fancy rugs, potted plants, filled bookshelves, and paintings with elaborate frames. The whole space had a high ceiling and a sweeping staircase that led to . . . Royce had no idea other than up.

With Cornelius were the usual suspects: Ernesta Bray, Oscar Tiliner, and a handful of other unknown but equally wealthy faces. These were the merchant barons of Delgos, the men and women who pretended to have prestige equal to the northern nobles just as the northern nobles pretended to possess wealth equal to the merchant barons. In the relative wasteland of the room's dark side, Lord Byron stood, leaning on the opulent framework of a dark fireplace. Despite the insurance of the double-blind system that required Albert Winslow to proxy for Riyria with clients, Royce had followed the viscount, unannounced, to a couple of meetings. Royce had been bored, and he also wanted to see the face of the man who'd hired them, just in case the too-good-to-be-true assignment was just that. He found the man to be the human equivalent of the color gray. Neither tall nor short, nor fat nor thin, he nevertheless managed to stand out by being dull. In a room of shiny gemstones, he was a lackluster clod of dirt. Appearing to know this, he receded into the shadows, where he stood with as much dignity as he could manage.

Cassandra led the two of them in, and all conversation halted.

"My good friend, Royce," Cornelius greeted him without rising, or even sitting up. "How are you, my boy?"

"Thanks to your boy, Baxter, I'm sure you already know, along with the name of my barber's second wife."

"You don't have a barber."

"Exactly."

Cornelius grinned. "Indeed, but I still don't know where the diary is."

"You do; you're just not willing to believe what I say because if it's true, you can't get at it."

"I know only what you told me, and what you allowed Baxter to see. That's the trick for any good magician, isn't it?"

"Not being a magician, I wouldn't know. But as a professional liar, I can see that telling the truth has created an uncrackable riddle that I admit is entertaining."

Cornelius chuckled. A moment later, the rest joined in.

"All that is history now, as everything else will soon be," Cornelius said with a hint of melancholy. "So, tell me, what brings you to my vessel? Returning the key? It will be worthless after today."

If any statement illustrated Cornelius DeLur, that was it. He was the only man who could describe a solid gold key with a flawless diamond in the stem as worthless. And say so with sincerity.

Royce produced the bit of jewelry. "It clashes with every outfit I own." He handed it off to Cassandra, who stood disturbingly close. "But there was one other matter."

"How am I not at all surprised?"

"How much is Tur Del Fur worth to you?" Royce asked.

"Be more specific."

"At moonrise tomorrow night, this whole place will be erased. Everything you've worked for, everything you and your associates here have built for the last few decades will be gone. Everyone has had weeks to stop it. No one has. So, I'm asking, what would it be worth to you if I did?"

Cornelius smiled, which was a small thing on that massive face. His eyes, nose, and mouth were kept to a limited area of his head like a child drawing a face on a pumpkin and fearful that they may run out of space. "Not nearly so much as you might hope, dear boy," Cornelius said. "While this is the trophy city of my holdings, I still control all of Delgos. I am fully prepared to start over down the coast, making this but an inconvenience. I also don't understand this proposition. We already have a contract for that job, and just as when Lord Byron hired you, the results have been far from successful. So why come to me now asking for more?"

"That other contract failed to include extreme hazard pay. The requirements got a lot harder, so the price has gone up. And it isn't like you have nothing to show for your investment in me. I provided the information that turned your death sentence into — how did you say it — an inconvenience? That was worth more than the price of a room and a couple of dinners at The Blue Parrot. Now, I could leave with everyone else and let this place sink, or I could risk my life climbing Drumindor in the hope I can get in, kill Gravis, and vent the pressure before the full moon tomorrow. I just want to know: if I go to that much trouble and succeed, what would you pay?"

Cornelius stared at Royce for a long moment, and the room went silent. The big man's little tongue licked his little lips. Watching this, Royce considered how the man's face wasn't small — his eyes, nose, and mouth were all normal-sized — everything else was just so big.

Finally, Cornelius put his fingertips together, and pumping them like a spider on a mirror, he took a deep breath and replied, "Nothing."

While Royce had hoped for a ridiculous fortune, he knew he wouldn't get it. Cornelius was too shrewd for that, but he expected something — certainly more than nothing. Shock turned to irritation that quickly shifted to anger. Royce looked to the floor to hide his expression.

Fine, I'll let it all sink. The city, the whole point, can blow up. I don't —

"But . . . " Cornelius said. "I would be willing to pay for the book."

Royce looked up.

"We have an existing contract with regard to Gravis Berling," Cornelius said. "But we've never made one concerning the book. If what you tell me is true, and given it's in the neighborhood, it should prove no great hardship to pick it up and give it to me. The way I see it, to fulfill your earlier contract, for which you have already been paid but haven't completed, you're forced to go up the tower. Failure to do so would leave you in willful breach. Being that I lack the courtesy of the noble-minded Lord Byron, I will require that you repay all the funds provided thus far. If need be, I have means of getting that money from you. And we both know that three week's rent on a Tier Four home in Tur Del Fur and multiple dinners at The Blue Parrot are not cheap. So, unless you plan to work for me for several years to pay off this debt, you will be going up the tower. Preventing the destruction of Drumindor will wipe out your debt. However, returning the book to me is something I'm willing to pay handsomely for."

"How attractive is handsomely?"

"What would you like?"

Royce was feeling oddly off balance, and it had little to do with the rocking of the ship, which was just another distraction. He'd gone from risking his life for nothing to an invitation to name his price. It made sense. Cornelius wasn't so much offering to pay a fortune for the diary as ensuring, without looking weak, that Royce had the necessary incentive to save the city. And like any good negotiator, Cornelius pushed for what he knew he could get. Even if the diary didn't lead to a treasure, it could be sold, and the profit would likely defray the cost of doing business with Riyria. While the offer was intoxicating, Royce knew such a thing was fraught with peril. This was like a nursery tale where a magical creature offers a wish that always turned out to be a trap. Royce was amazed at how realistic children's stories always were.

For a moment, he thought of asking for the world. This was Cornelius DeLur, the richest human being on Elan. Nothing would be too extreme, and Royce's mind imagined wonders beyond anything he'd ever thought possible. He could have a home, a real one. Not a cot in a room of many, not a stairwell, or a shed, or a wagon, but a place with its own door and maybe a window with glass, and a bed of feathers with sheets. He could keep things there, have possessions in a number greater than he could carry. His house could be a place with streets that smelled of flowers instead of urine. It could be somewhere that Gwen might like, and that they could one day share, a home where a wolf might not mind curling up before a fire.

When Royce failed to speak, Cornelius provided a suggestion. "How about this ship? It is four hundred and thirty-nine feet and has a fifty-four-foot beam and twenty-eight sails. And as you can see, it has every conceivable amenity. You could live on board free of all laws and explore the world at your leisure. You could be a pirate. Captain Melborn, scourge of the high seas."

Royce took this as a repulsive joke, but the others in the room gasped and whispered amazement at the offer. Some even suggested Cornelius had lost his mind, just not loud enough for the Big Guy to hear.

"This ship?" Royce said, knowing full well he was back in the realistic realm of a treacherous fairy tale where the magical mage offered horror in the guise of insane promises. "I appreciate the offer, but I hate ships. To run this . . . " He looked around at the little indoor garden and the crystal chandelier above it. "I'd need a crew of hundreds, I'm guessing, and that just seems like work."

Cornelius chuckled and nodded. "All right then, what about a nice little danthum? You seemed to enjoy The Blue Parrot. Perhaps you'd like your own. You could settle down to a life as a successful businessman, much like Calvary Graxton. It just so happens that a cozy little place called The Cave just became available."

"That's the one up on the Eighth Tier?" Royce asked Hadrian, who nodded absently as he stared out the stern windows. Royce peered at Cornelius. "Are you seriously offering to reward me with life in a salt mine?"

Cornelius frowned. "How callous of me. Yes, I can see how that would be out of the question. You tell me, then," Cornelius said. "What is it you want? A big chest of coins?"

Royce considered this. Gold was practical, or would be once he was back in Medford. The problem was transportation. Gold was heavy, cumbersome, and hard to hide. With all these witnesses, word would spread, and an army of thieves would descend on him like seagulls on a freshly caught fish. By the time he returned to Melengar, he'd have an empty box.

Once more, Royce returned to the beautiful idea of a little home. But what good was a house in a place he couldn't ply his trade? He'd carved out a territory in Melengar but didn't think the Trio would grant him a free hand here in sunny Delgos. He'd have no income. And how could he ask Gwen to leave Medford House? She was dug in. And if she didn't come, what value was there in an empty house?

"What do you want?" Royce whispered to Hadrian.

"I don't care," he replied with an oblivious shrug of his shoulders. "Whatever you decide is fine."

Royce stared at his partner for a moment, frowning. The biggest windfall they could imagine, accompanied by perhaps the most dangerous mission, and yet Hadrian was indifferent to the point of boredom.

What Royce needed was something of high value but low weight, hard to steal and easy to move, and it had to be practical to use. "How about you just make the privilege of the key permanent?"

Cornelius narrowed his eyes as he considered this. "The key opens doors and grants favors. People will give you things for free, true, but it doesn't buy everything. It has limitations. And it only works here."

"That's fine. And as I'm not planning to stay, you'll be able to sleep at night, knowing I'm not going to bankrupt Delgos."

"What will you use it for, then?"

"Maybe I'll become a regular turist." He smiled. "Mostly, I'll keep it as insurance against disaster. Auberon advised us to find a new line of work. Doesn't have to be fancy, he says — don't need a lot of money to be happy. But I was thinking that one day we might need a place to disappear. A key to the city could make that happen."

"That's an oddly sensible request," Cornelius told him, which was something no children's story wish-granter had ever said to the likes of a greedy child on their way to an early doom. The big man drummed his fingers on the blue cushions as his eyes took in the room. It would be harder to go back on a deal brokered in such a public manner with such a well-appointed set of witnesses. On the other hand, given that it was a reasonable deal, it didn't surprise Royce when Cornelius answered, "Bring back the book to me, and you'll have your key."

When they came out, Royce and Hadrian found Baxter leaning on the ship's rail. His head was back, his eyes closed as he appeared to be sunning himself. Beside him was a young woman. She had short, boyish hair, wore a loose, sleeveless top, and on her arm was the tattoo of a butterfly.

"Well, if it ain't Hadrian the Handsome and the Brooding Bad Boy," the woman greeted the two.

"You're familiar," Royce said.

"She's the cloakroom girl from The Blue Parrot," Hadrian told him.

"Do you hear that, love? The girl from the cloakroom." Baxter laughed. "You'll need to forgive them. They aren't very well connected. I suspect they normally live in a hole or under a bridge somewhere." The former ghost hooked his thumb at the girl. "This is the famous Whiskey Neat, also known, in certain local circles, as Paradise Patty. Up north you used to go by a Black Diamond name of some sort. What was it?"

"Opal," Royce said, surprising all of them. "I thought I knew you."

The woman stared at Royce, confused.

"Yes," he said. "You were part of that new group of kids who made the cut that summer. You were only what? Thirteen, maybe fourteen? I remember Jade liked you. She didn't think you had the killer instinct, but I suppose that's why she liked you."

As he spoke, the woman stiffened. "Oh, bugger me!" she sort of screamed, but the outburst was stifled into a quiet, desperate cry.

"Funny," Royce said to Hadrian. "Scarlett Dodge greeted me the same way when we met her in Dulgath." He leaned in toward Opal, who shuddered. "You'd have known her as Feldspar."

"Is she still alive?" Opal asked, her voice quavering.

Royce rolled his shoulders. "It's not like she sends me letters."

"What's going on?" Baxter asked. "Why are you acting so strange?"

"I'll tell you later," Opal said, then looked at Royce, terrified. "There is going to be a later, right?"

"Goodbye, ghost," Royce said as he walked away. "Happy hauntings."

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