The bronze doors of the Imperial Gallery—one with a massive hole torn in it—were open by the time Royce reached the street. A skittish crowd remained in the plaza, and given the way they scuttled back at his approach, they had watched his upper-story jiggery-pokery. That was most certainly what Evelyn would have made of his chase across the rooftops if she’d been in the crowd. Royce considered for a moment whether she’d been one of those people the gargoyle had injured in its murderous march across the plaza. No one would have fared well before the golem’s onslaught, but an old woman would lack any ability to get out of the way. His teeth clenched in anger. He didn’t know why. He hated that old woman.

He took a breath before entering the gallery, and then another. He’d just survived a race with a golem and felt he deserved to take a moment. His back was sore, and his wrist ached where the stone monster had held onto it, but at least it wasn’t broken. Not exactly Hadrian’s luck, but better than his normal lot.

Few spectators had found the courage to venture inside. Those who did hugged the wall nearest the exit. A handful of men dressed in the uniform of the duke’s city guard made a semicircle around the bloody mess in the middle of the rotunda. Most stood awkwardly, shifting their weight, unsure where to look or what to do. Three others pulled back the broken remains of the fallen dragon, revealing the extent of the gore. Everything within twenty feet of Mercator’s body wept blood. The remains bore as little resemblance to a once living person as did a slab of bacon. A young man in a crisp new set of clothing clapped both hands over his mouth; when that didn’t work, he ran for the door, brushing past Royce in his dash to the street.

As a general rule, Royce disliked everyone. Strangers began at a deficit that required they prove their worth just to be seen as neutral. Mercator had jumped that bar in record time.

And a mir to boot, he thought. How remarkable is that?

Royce couldn’t help feeling he’d blindly brushed past greatness. An opportunity had been lost, a treasure squandered. That was how he framed it in his head, as an abstract business failure. But looking at Mercator’s blood and the blue-stained lumps of meat that had once been the most remarkable mir he’d ever known, Royce clenched his fists.

A shriveled-up biddy and now a mir. I’m becoming soft. This is all Hadrian’s fault.

“You there!” one of the guards shouted. “Grab him!”

Not twice in one night, Royce thought as he took a step back, dipping into a crouch.

The guard wasn’t a fool. He recognized the body language, which must have looked like a badger raising its fur, teeth bared. The man didn’t rush him. Neither did anyone else. Instead, the guards fanned out.

Royce heard movement behind him. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Roland Wyberg, just coming in through the torn bronze door. “Well, it’s about time,” Royce said. “C’mon, we gotta go.”

“Go? What are you talking about? Where’s Hadrian?” Roland asked, puzzled. He looked at the hole in the door then at the bloody mess in the center of the room. “What in Novron’s name happened here?”

“I saw this man running across the rooftops chased by . . .” The guard faltered.

“Chased by whom?” Roland asked. His stare extended to everyone in the room, finally settling on Royce.

“Not a who, a what,” Royce replied. “One of the stone gargoyles from the walls of Grom Galimus.”

“A gargoyle?” Roland asked, pronouncing the word with distinct incredulity.

Royce nodded. “A stone statue, normally content to sit on a ledge outside the cathedral, decided to climb down. It took a particular dislike to myself and”—his eyes tracked to the blood pool—“a mir named Mercator Sikara.”

Roland stared. He opened his mouth. It hung there for a moment, then he closed it again, his eyes shifting helplessly. “I—I don’t know what to make of that.”

“Luckily, I do,” Royce said. He pulled out two parchments. “Here, this one’s for you. It’s from Hadrian, explaining why you need to take me and Mercator to the duke and insist on an audience. Although now we’ll have to settle for just me.”

“And the other?” Roland pointed at the parchment but made no attempt to take it.

This guy is a lot smarter than I gave him credit for. And that’s good because whether either of us likes it or not, we’re about to become a team.

“This?” Royce held up the letter from Genny Winter. “If we’re lucky, it’s a weapon we can use to prevent a slaughter tomorrow.”

Roland continued to look puzzled; then realization dawned. “The Feast of Nobles?”

“Exactly. We need to see the duke. Right now.”

----------------------------------------

Governor’s Isle was an odd name for the ancestral residence of dukes, but Royce guessed it had something to do with all that gibberish Evelyn had blathered on about. The place didn’t look anything like a ducal castle. The Estate had the typical ugly wall surrounding the grounds, but it appeared out of place, newer and more slapdash than anything inside, all of which was extraordinarily precise. Brick paths wound through open lawns and alongside trimmed hedges. One led through a small orchard and garden to a stable, a coach house, barracks, and a kitchen built separate from the main structure, all constructed from a smooth rock with no visible mortar.

The Estate itself was a rambling country home built of the same precisely cut stone—something the elite of Colnora might have referred to as a grand villa. The house was three stories high with gables and a centered portico complete with stone pillars. Royce counted five chimneys and twenty-nine glass windows facing front, including a round one set at the portico’s peak. At the very top, the ducal flag flew just below the colors of Alburn. The entry path formed a circle before the front doors, and fine gravel lined a neatly edged lawn, well-trimmed hedges, and early purple flowers that Royce couldn’t identify. The style was relaxed, opulent, and open, nothing like the homes of western nobles, which skewed toward the dull and solid—with an emphasis on solid. In places like Warric and Melengar, a duke’s residence was barely discernible from a stronghold. Even successful knights lived in gray stone citadels with narrow, glassless openings. But this place . . .

If the wall was a relatively recent addition, Royce struggled to imagine how the Dukes of Rochelle could have lived in an open, defenseless house. The idea was both incredible and unfathomable. The lack of walls suggests an absence of enemies, but no ruler fits that description. Had the ancient governors been so ruthless that sheer terror replaced the need for walls? Perhaps in place of stone battlements they had encircled the island with posts laden with corpses. Or . . . An odd, alien thought popped into Royce’s head, one that was as unlikely as his walking alongside the captain of the guard into a ducal estate. Could there have been no need for walls because it was a more virtuous world? The sort of place where Hadrian would have fit in? Royce pondered all this as he walked past the yellow-flowering forsythia bushes, listening to his feet crush the gravel. Hadrian is one of those people born too late, and I? Am I born too early?

Royce wasn’t surprised that obtaining an audience in the dead of night was difficult even for the captain of the duke’s guard. Wyberg had to browbeat the soldiers at the gate, who complained about his lack of an appointment. At the front doors, Roland had to remind the pair of men about his rank in order to gain entry to the foyer.

Looking up, Royce spotted an open third-story window. He could have already entered the duke’s bedroom by then, though the meeting might not have been as cordial with that approach.

Inside, the Estate continued to impress. The duke’s foyer was ballroom-sized and decorated with sculptures and paintings instead of swords and shields, the normal ornaments for any serious lord intent on projecting a sense of power. Royce was genuinely impressed by some of the art. When he’d visited such places in the past, the homes were always dark, and he was in too much of a hurry to notice the furnishings. The place was elegant, but he wouldn’t want to live there. The residences of the rich always felt cold.

“Duke Leopold does not meet with his soldiers in the middle of the night,” said the duke’s chamberlain, a portly, balding man who displayed a well-worn frown beneath a neat mustache. While unarmed and unimposing, he was proving to be a worthier adversary than the gate or door guards. With thumbs hooked on the breast of his robe, chest thrust out, he stood blocking the way. “We have a hierarchy to handle problems.”

“Exactly, and I’m captain of the guard,” Wyberg declared.

“But did His Grace request an audience?”

“No, this is an emergency.”

The chamberlain’s frown deepened. “Aren’t you supposed to handle emergencies? Why does the duke have you in charge, if not to provide him the luxury of sleeping at night? As you can see, the sun is down. We don’t bother him with trifles when he is sleeping.”

“Trifles!” Roland burst out. “I just said—”

“Tut-tut!” The chamberlain placed the palms of his hands together then tilted the tips of his pressed fingers toward Roland. “This is what you will do. Tomorrow morning—and not too early—you can come and make an appointment to speak to the ducal clerk. Given the feast, I’m sure he’ll be too busy to receive you, but if it truly is an emergency”—he looked at Wyberg skeptically—“he’ll get you in to see the duke’s secretary, who will evaluate your request and determine if it warrants an audience. If it does, your request will be passed on to the Ducal Council of Attendance, which will review His Lordship’s itinerary and try and find time in the schedule for you. Now, doesn’t that sound like a better way to go about this? I’m sure whatever the problem is, you can manage it for a while.”

“This can’t wait!” Roland exploded.

Royce stayed out of the confrontation. He had entered behind the captain, acting as Roland’s shadow, and soundlessly moved about the foyer, feigning interest in the art. With all of Wyberg’s outbursts, the chamberlain only gave Royce a cursory glance, then ignored him altogether. Royce inched behind the chamberlain, slipping beyond his peripheral vision. Spotting a painting of a stag in a river valley, Royce moved toward it. While it wasn’t the best art in the room, it was near the corridor. Moving over, he leaned in to inspect it further.

“I must see the duke tonight!” Wyberg shouted and thrust his arms out in a rage. “You have no idea what’s going on! If I don’t—”

“Calm yourself!” the chamberlain snapped, throwing up his hands and cringing as if he felt Wyberg was about to attack.

Royce took that opportunity to slip into the unguarded hallway.

Wood paneling, tiled floors, and an arched ceiling complete with painted designs in the ducal colors greeted Royce as he trotted down the corridor, moving fast—far faster than if he were burgling. It felt odd. This was wholly without precedent, and Royce wasn’t certain how to proceed. What do I do if I spook a servant or, worse, a guard? He guessed his normal solution might not be the best choice in this instance. He was there to talk to the duke, not kill him or his servants. He was acting blind. Moving boldly through a lit house, unannounced and unwanted, was strange when doing so with none of the normal tools he used in such situations.

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This is more like something Hadrian would do. The man is becoming a serious liability.

As he searched the vast estate for clues to the duke’s whereabouts, Royce reviewed the pros and cons of continuing his partnership with the man who didn’t seem to live in the same world. He genuinely liked Hadrian, although at that moment he wasn’t able to bring to mind a single reason why. But is liking something a good enough reason to offset the risks? I like Montemorcey wine, but too much will kill me. The more he thought about it, the more similarities he found between them. They both impede my ability to think sensibly, resulting in bad judgments, and too much of either gives me headaches.

Still, the best argument was also the worst. Hadrian was wrong. I do have a unicorn in my world, and the damn thing goes by the name of Hadrian Blackwater. He’s a mythical beast impossible to believe in, even when he’s right in front of me. Royce had never had the need to believe in anything before, but that was the effect of the unicorn on a mortal man. It made him consider things he thought impossible. Because if unicorns were possible . . . what else might be? In that way, Hadrian was less like Montemorcey and more like Alverstone. Perhaps that was why Royce could never throw either of them away.

Finding another stair, Royce took it, guessing the duke slept on the highest floor. Reaching the top, he found the residence to be more inviting. Deeply stained wood and tapestries softened the hard edges. Small tables topped with bouquet-filled vases added a dash of personality through spring blossoms. Expansive windows framed with thick green drapes invited moonlight in and made the house feel more like a home—a three-story one with a footprint the size of a large island and filled with priceless art. Royce passed an open door and spotted a chambermaid turning down a bed. She didn’t see him, and Royce slipped quickly past.

A boy in a white tunic, who carried a tray of porcelain cups and plates, did see him, but the lad didn’t say a word—just walked right past.

I’ve been doing it all wrong, Royce thought. Apparently, I can saunter into any mansion, lift what I like, and stroll right back out.

He looked at the corridor of closed doors and considered his next move. Should I knock? The idea felt absurd.

Royce heard a noise behind him and spun to find the chambermaid stepping out, holding a pile of white linens. She, too, saw him; he was certain she had, but the maid—like the boy—didn’t raise her eyes to the level of his face. As she turned to leave, Royce had an insane idea. It was the sort of crazy notion that Hadrian would propose.

“Excuse me,” Royce said, feeling ridiculous. “Where might I find the duke?”

As soon as he said it, Royce knew he’d made a mistake. He wasn’t Hadrian, and such things only worked for him. Maybe if I was wearing polka dots . . .

“I believe His Lordship is in the library, sir,” the maid replied. “He’s having trouble sleeping again, sir.”

Royce stared at the woman, dumbfounded.

Apparently, mistaking his bewilderment for an unfamiliarity with the Estate, she added, “Around the corner. First door on the left, sir.”

“Ah . . . thank you,” he replied.

She nodded and walked off with her armload of sheets.

What sort of place is this? Yes, please. Right this way, sir. The duke is right in here. Have at him, sir. Slit his throat. Would you like tea with that? Royce shook his head while watching her vanish down the steps, then remembered why he was there.

The door to the library was open, and Royce walked in. What wasn’t windows was bookshelves, though there weren’t many actual books. Most of the shelves were filled with painted plates, potted plants, intricately carved boxes, models of sailing ships, and even skeletons or stuffed figures of small animals set in poses. A large map hung from the ceiling above the fireplace’s hearth, where a meager fire halfheartedly burned. The duke stood at one of the windows, looking out at the night sky. He was a balding, plump man, the sort that might have been strong and stocky in his youth, but years and wealth had transformed him. He was barefoot, wearing only a long nightshirt that exposed the gray hairs on his calves.

“My lord?” Royce ventured, trying his best not to sound like a thief. The duke failed to react and continued to stare out the window. Royce inched forward as if sneaking up on a skittish rabbit that might bolt. “Duke Leopold?”

The man turned. “Oh,” he said. “I see.” He nodded some understanding that eluded Royce. Perhaps he thought he was there to retrieve dishes or turn down the bed.

The duke lifted a decanter filled with an amber liquid and poured some into a crystal glass. He held up the decanter in offering.

Royce shook his head.

“Do you mind if I . . .” He didn’t wait for approval, and drank, then took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“For what?” Royce asked.

“You’re here to kill me, right?”

Royce was stunned.

“You look surprised.”

“I ah . . .”

“What else could you possibly be doing in my residence unannounced this late at night just before the crowning? And your cloak and hood—well, it just screams killer.”

At least someone is awake in here. That’s what separates the duke from the chambermaids—paranoia.

“Not going to get any complaints out of me,” Leo said. “Honestly, you’re doing me a favor.”

“I’m not here to kill you.”

The duke looked over with an expression that could only be described as annoyed. “No?”

“No.”

“That’s disappointing.” He turned. “So, who the blazes are you, then? And why are you here?”

Footfalls rushed up the steps.

Royce pulled the parchment from his belt and held it out. A moment later soldiers burst into the library. They would have to wait.

“To give you this.”

The duke stared at the parchment, puzzled. “What is it?”

“A letter,” Royce said as a guard stepped toward him. “From your wife.”

----------------------------------------

He waited in what they called the parlor, but Royce saw it as just another overly polished medium-sized room with too much art and too few chairs. He was left to himself. No guards watched, the door was open, and he hadn’t been shackled or tied. No one had even tried. This was a good thing for everyone involved. After reading the letter, the duke had ordered his thugs to let Royce go. Then Leo Hargrave had merely asked him to wait. Royce appreciated that it hadn’t been an order. He’d actually used the word please. Nevertheless, waiting wasn’t something Royce was fond of, especially as the night was short, and there was so much left to do if Hadrian was to be extricated from the pickle barrel he’d jumped into. Roland had been ordered to wait as well, but then he was called up for questioning, leaving Royce alone. That had been some time ago.

The Estate had many paintings. In that room alone, there were eight. Only one caught his eye: the portrait of a man who was unmistakably Leopold. The work was exquisite, and Royce felt uneasy, as if the painting were an actual person in the room with him. The sensation was so pronounced that he went over to inspect it. His eye caught the artist’s signature: SHERWOOD STOW. Should have known.

Royce had no idea what Wyberg was telling the duke, and that made him uneasy. Just being in an expensively appointed room filled with carvings of elephants and deer, not to mention a silver tea set, made him jumpy. He didn’t stay in places of this sort, but he did often visit, and he couldn’t help noticing how easily the carvings would fit under his cloak or avoid calculating what a small fortune they would bring on the black market. The room was chilly despite the fireplace because no one had bothered to light it. This left Royce sitting on the velvet-and-wood chair, feeling the cold seep in and wondering why he was still there.

He thought I was here to kill him. If this job had turned out the way I had expected, I would have been.

Royce pictured two different paths running side by side, so close, yet so different. He’d come to Rochelle to kill Leopold. That’s what Gabriel Winter had wanted. Make that goddamn duke and all those working for him bleed. Turn the Roche River red for me, for me and my Genny. Royce had arrived on that road, but somehow he’d gotten off it. Now he was on another path, but the duke had assumed he was still on the first. Royce felt as if he’d performed sleight of hand, so subtly that the world itself had been duped.

I was duped, too.

Even as he sat in that cold, empty room, he could see himself on the other path. I would have stood behind the duke as he stared at the stars and slit his throat—careful to catch his glass so it didn’t shatter. That reality feels more authentic than this one. That’s what I should have done. That’s what I was supposed to do.

Royce found it surreal that he should be standing beside that path, looking down and seeing a history that didn’t happen. His trajectory had altered course, just a smidge, a tiny tilt, but it was enough to change events from bloodbath to letter delivery.

Were you expecting a finger?

Royce had been expecting a whole lot of fingers and even more heads. Instead, he sat in a luxurious room, waiting on the ruler of the city to . . . he had no idea. That was the problem with this new path. Royce didn’t know where it went. He’d never gone this way before. Just as he was deciding that waiting on a duke was about as smart as listening to Hadrian, the duke showed up.

The man was dressed, but not in the finery Royce would have expected for a ruling noble. Wearing a crisp shirt, waistcoat, and casual trousers, he looked more like a modest merchant. He was followed by half a dozen men, who were better dressed but appeared worse for wear. Whereas they looked as if they had just woken up, Leo Hargrave beamed as if born again. Bright and smiling, he strode up to Royce and nodded.

“So, old man Winter hired you,” Leopold said and studied Royce’s face for his reaction.

Royce didn’t give one.

“He hates me, you know. You’re in the Black Diamond, right?”

Royce remained silent, his sight shifting briefly as Roland entered. For better or worse, Wyberg was his advocate, his lifeline out of this, and it was reassuring to see he was still there. This way when the bastard betrayed him, Royce wouldn’t need to hunt him down to slit his throat.

“Doesn’t matter,” the duke said, and then chuckled. “And you can relax. Right now, you’re my best friend, and I owe you.” Leo shivered. “Why is it so cold in here? Did they leave you so ill attended? Idiots.” The man scowled, then lifted the parchment in his hand, grasping it as gently as if it were a newborn. “My Genny is alive.”

“She won’t be if you don’t—”

“I know,” Leo said. “It was all in the letter. Grant the dwarves the right to work. Give the Calians the right to trade. Bestow on the mir the right to exist. Not something I can simply change overnight. Guilds are powerful things but Genny . . .” He shook the letter again. “Never a dull moment with her around and never a moment’s peace. The woman was already working toward those ends. She was fixing the problem that is Rochelle. She’s a businesswoman, you see. Rochelle is a horrible tangle. This city is choked with regulations and procedures, layers upon layers of protocol, and ages steeped in narrow-minded intolerance. She doesn’t know anything about such things. Had no idea of the impossibility of the task. That’s the way with her, you know. Don’t ever tell that woman she can’t do something. She’ll take it as a challenge. In this case, she came up with a plan where the existing members of the merchant and trade guilds will receive a percentage of the money earned by the Calians and dwarves. She also indicated that if they refused, I should raise taxes on trade goods. Nothing speaks to businessmen like money, or someone threatening theirs. And as it turns out, the daughter of a Colnora merchant baron is fluent in such matters. She was getting close to an agreement, but then she disappeared.”

“I need to get back,” Royce said. “I need to bring proof you’re planning to do something.”

“Yes, I know. Genny mentioned an uprising. Lovely handwriting.” He grinned. “She has these pudgy little hands, but her penmanship is beautiful. Years of keeping books, she told me.”

“What proof can we provide?” Royce pressed.

The duke gestured at his companions. “These gentlemen are leaders of the city’s merchant and trade guilds, the ones Genny met with. They are quite eager to assist, especially after I explained that if my wife dies, I’ll charge them as complicit in the murder and execute every last one of them.” Leo focused on the sleepy men and glared.

“The king will condemn the murder of prominent merchants,” one of the men said.

“What king?”

The man looked uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry,” Leo smiled. “I will definitely hold a trial immediately following your deaths in order to get to the bottom of this conspiracy. And while we are doing that, you can voice your concern to his late majesty King Reinhold when you see him.”

I like this guy, Royce thought. “Guess we’d better get going.”

“Captain Wyberg will go with you. Good luck . . . Royce, is it?”

He sighed and nodded.

“Royce,” the duke said to himself as a curious, thoughtful look came over him. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Let’s go,” Royce told Roland and quickly headed for the door. He didn’t want to discover what revelations the duke had uncovered.