Like the rest of the city, Mill Street had been transformed. The quiet thoroughfare of dignified stone homes was festooned with whimsical decorations. Nearly every house had garlands of spring flowers and pastel-colored ribbons in loops beneath windows. Some homeowners extended the loops beneath two windows, creating smiling faces with flowered lips and crisscrossed-glass eyes. Here, too, groups of residents gathered in small clumps, chatting on a street devoid of its normal traffic. Five men in tall hats spoke in the middle of the road. A larger group of women in hoop skirts gathered near the lamppost, which had been trimmed with a spiraling green ribbon. One bent down to pet a little pug-nosed dog.

“Where have you two been?” Evelyn burst out the moment they entered the house. With arms tightly folded, she stood beside a table of uneaten food. “Just when I thought you’d been tamed, you prove that wild animals can never truly be domesticated.” She looked at the grand banquet she had prepared, as if she might cry. “But even a wild animal . . .” She waved at the table. “It’s food after all. Even a cave-dwelling beast will make a habit of being on time for a feast.”

“Our sincere apologies,” Hadrian said. “We were unavoidably detained.”

“Whose prison?” she asked.

Royce wiped his feet on the doormat and removed his cloak. Hadrian took off his sword belt. They needed her cooperation and couldn’t afford to irritate Evelyn any more than she already appeared to be.

“Did the duke catch you, or was it some underworld thug who locked you up?”

“What makes you—”

“Oh, honestly.” She scowled and grabbed her skirt while stepping to the head of the table. Royce moved quickly and pulled out the chair for her. She frowned. “If I look that simple-minded to you, I suggest investing in canes to help you walk like all the others Novron punished with blindness. The only surprise about you two is that my silverware hasn’t gone missing, which, incidentally, is the only reason you are still here. I have friends in the duke’s court. My husband was very popular there, you know. In a way, he, more than the duke, paid their salaries. I would have seen both of you in chains if so much as a toothpick had been pilfered.”

“I didn’t even see the toothpicks.” Royce glanced at Hadrian.

Hadrian shook his head.

Evelyn tilted hers and peered sternly at the both of them. “At this point, there is nothing either of you can say to redeem yourselves. I told you no jiggery-pokery, did I not? No shady business. But here we are. I’d throw you out now, but I can’t stand wasting food. So, sit down and eat your last meal under my roof. Immediately afterward, please gather your things and leave. I’ll have no more to do with either of you.”

“But—” Hadrian started.

She shut him down with a raised hand. “No! No, I don’t want to hear your excuses! Just eat and get out. The eggs are ruined, and the pastries are likely hard, but that’s your fault.”

They settled into chairs. Hadrian reached to uncover the food plates but Royce stopped him.

“What are you waiting for?” Evelyn asked, annoyed.

“We haven’t given thanks.” And before Evelyn could reply, Royce bowed his head. “We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food Mrs. Hemsworth has made for us, and apologize for being late. We weren’t in a prison. Well, Hadrian was, sort of, but only because he volunteered to risk his life to save the Duchess of Rochelle. She’s still alive, by the way, but being held prisoner by a murderous mir—the same one who brought the stone gargoyle to life and hurt all those people in the plaza. Oh, and it killed Mercator Sikara, a mir who was only trying to keep peace between the Pitifuls and the nobles. More would have died if I hadn’t managed to lure the thing to the top of Grom Galimus and cause it to fall, shattering on the plaza. Despite all this, we would have still been on time except we haven’t yet found the mir holding the duchess, and we’re in a bit of a hurry because he may kill her at any moment. Oh, yeah, and he’s intent on unleashing a great deal of bloodshed later today. So, Lord Novron, we’ve been a tad busy. We hope you understand and forgive us for our tardiness.”

Royce looked at Evelyn, who stared at him incredulously.

“May we prove worthy of your kindness.” She concluded the prayer with wide eyes that looked back at Royce, dumbfounded.

Hadrian gave her a big smile as he uncovered the food and scooped spoonfuls onto his plate, then passed it on to Royce.

“Are you . . . was that true?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t lie to Novron,” Royce told her through a mouthful of eggs, which were not at all ruined.

“Who are you?”

Royce glanced at Hadrian. Normally this was where his less experienced partner would put them in jeopardy, openly admitting everything because someone had gone to all the trouble of asking. Hadrian, however, kept himself occupied with the meal. Neither of them had dined the night before, and Hadrian was fond of repeating the military axiom: Never pass up a chance to eat or sleep, as you don’t know when you’ll get another opportunity.

Royce turned back to Evelyn Hemsworth, who waited with a cringing expression, a look that was half dread and half curiosity. She wanted to know, and at the same time she didn’t. Royce used the moment it took to chew and swallow to mentally sort through the most reasonable replies. None worked for this. After his acrobatics, and his admission that they were seeking to save the duchess, he couldn’t exactly pretend they were traveling merchants or agents for such. He toyed with the idea of saying they were undercover Seret Knights, but Royce was certain Evelyn knew more about the Seret than he did. He also considered refusing to answer at all, but that wouldn’t do. They needed her help, and while his message of grace had blunted her anger, she was many leagues from trusting him.

With all other options eliminated, and this being an absurd situation, Royce tried something utterly ridiculous. He once more borrowed from Hadrian’s example. “We were hired by Gabriel Winter of Colnora to come to Rochelle and find Genny Winter, his missing daughter. Mister Winter thought she might have been murdered. What we discovered was she hadn’t been killed but kidnapped. She was taken by a loose coalition of the city’s underprivileged, who hoped to influence the duke’s policies by a route that avoided a full-scale revolution. However, it turned out that not everyone wanted to avoid the insurrection. A mir named Villar intends to use dwarven magic to create another stone golem to kill everyone at the Feast of Nobles today.”

Royce waited for the explosion. He expected Evelyn to demand that they leave, or to see if she would shout for the city guard, calling for their arrest. At the very least, she would loudly deny everything he said. He also expected a good helping of disbelief concerning the raising of golems. Royce had arguments ready, but they weren’t good ones. The truth was a poor weapon when fighting faith, but he was prepared to do battle nonetheless.

“Oh my blessed Novron!” she exclaimed in shock. Her hands came down, two wrinkled fists pounding the table, soundly ringing the porcelain plates. “Then why are you just sitting here?”

Royce and Hadrian looked at each other, surprised.

“You . . . you . . . believe me?” Royce asked.

“It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

“It does?” Royce looked at Hadrian, who had a mouthful of pastry and could only shrug.

“Absolutely,” Evelyn said. “And besides, everyone saw you and the golem wreaking havoc through the gallery and across the cathedral. That’s hard to argue with. So, shouldn’t you two be out looking for this Villar fellow? If what you say is accurate, he’s been recruited to murder every noteworthy noble in Alburn.”

“We are,” Hadrian said. “We didn’t actually come for breakfast.”

She watched him chew a huge mouthful. “No?”

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

“We need to ask you about Rochelle,” Royce said. “We’re looking for any special places, ancient churches or something that might be considered deeply sacred.”

“Grom Galimus,” she replied instantly.

“Besides that,” Hadrian managed to say after he swallowed.

Evelyn thought a moment. “Well, there is supposed to be an ancient burial ground up in Littleton. Dates back to the early imperial age. I’ve never been there. Littleton, or ‘Little Town’ as it was once called, is the dwarven ghetto. Not a safe neighborhood, you understand.”

“We’ve been there,” Royce said. “But that’s not it, either. There has to be another place, maybe something related to mir?”

Evelyn pondered while pouring tea for herself. Royce and Hadrian watched as she deposited two cubes of sugar and stirred. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyplace else like that. Of course, you could visit the gallery. That’s what I’d do.”

“Already been there, twice,” Royce said.

“And from what I’ve heard, I shouldn’t send you a third time lest the entire place be destroyed, but there are old maps. One in particular hangs on the third-floor wall. It’s very big and believed to have been drawn by the original surveyors who laid out Rochelle. You might find what you’re looking for on it.”

Royce and Hadrian pushed away from the table.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Evelyn said.

Royce stopped and looked back. He reminded himself he hated this strict, authoritarian, erudite woman, but with no success. Had life seen fit to give him a mother, Royce suspected she really would have been something like Evelyn. Anything less would have been useless. “You might want to leave,” he told her.

“Leave?” Evelyn said. “Leave what?”

“Get out of the city.”

“Are you suggesting I flee?” She signaled her indignation with a raised eyebrow.

“Look, Villar harbors a good deal of resentment against those he feels suppressed his people. You’re pretty much the face of that fellowship. Everyone knows about your hatred for mir, and if you’re—”

“I do not!” she snapped. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because we learned about your room for rent from one.”

Hadrian nodded his support. “A young mother living on the street just a block down from here with her child. Said she could knock on your door all day, but you’d never take her in.”

“I can assure you, she never came here. I don’t see how she could conclude such a thing if she never bothered to so much as knock.”

“When the Dirty Tankard refuses to let you a room,” Royce said, “it doesn’t seem too likely that the wealthy widow on Mill Street is going to invite you into her parlor.”

Evelyn looked at the rug with a thoughtful frown.

“Would you have let her a room?” Hadrian asked. “A mir with a child in her arms?”

Evelyn hesitated. “I let you two in, didn’t I?”

Royce nodded. “And what does it tell you when you compare two shifty foreign men to a homeless mother and her child? I’m just saying, if we can’t stop Villar, there’s a good chance he might seek vengeance in places like Mill Street. Leave. Stay. It’s your choice, but if I were you, I’d disappear for a while.”

Evelyn folded her arms with her normal self-righteous indignation. “Well, I think we can be quite thankful that I’m not you. Now get out of here.”

Royce picked up his cloak and a pastry. Hadrian grabbed his sword belt, strapping it on as they headed for the door.

“Wait!” she called to them as they started down the hill toward the gallery.

“What?” Royce asked.

Evelyn once again hesitated as she stood on the stoop, then said, “Don’t be late for breakfast again, or I really will throw you out.” With that, she stepped back inside and slammed the door shut.

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

No one stopped Royce and Hadrian from entering the Imperial Gallery. The two didn’t draw attention even when they climbed the steps and slipped through the bent gap in the bronze doors. Inside, the grand hall was a mess, debris everywhere. What looked to Hadrian to be a giant scaffold lay strewn across the floor. The snapped wooden beams were splintered and wrapped in cloth that had been ripped and torn. The thing had a papier-mâché head like an alligator and huge leathery bat wings. Little more than thin material stretched over bowed sticks, it reminded Hadrian of toys he’d watched kids play with in Mandalin. They would run with playthings tethered to strings until the wind blew the toys into the sky. Maybe that’s what this is, a giant wind toy.

Under the ripped cloth and broken timber were shards of broken vases, the remains of chalky, white busts of dignified people, and toppled pedestals. Tears of blood, dried drips on statues and paintings, had yet to be addressed. He surmised this was where Mercator had been killed—torn apart, Erasmus Nym’s widow had said. There had been an uncharacteristic look of revulsion on Royce’s face, but such sights weren’t unfamiliar to Hadrian. In Calis, men were ripped apart by bulls or torn to shreds by lions, both in the name of entertainment, and while arenas always had sand-covered courtyards that could be raked, the walls were dyed a ruddy brown from the layers of splatter. Gore on a grand scale was one more love letter addressed to Hadrian from an unwanted past. They were stacking up.

The gallery had an odor. Hadrian knew what death smelled like, and it wasn’t that. At least, it wasn’t the stench of decomposing bodies, nor even blood; but it was similar. The scent reminded him of rotting straw, or a stagnant pond, a musty, almost spicy fragrance of decay.

Hadrian had an urge to look around. The gallery was filled with so many strange and wondrous items set out as exhibits. Weapons both refined and crude. A large bow hung on the wall beside a spear and a series of swords, two of which bore a close resemblance to the one on Hadrian’s back. There were shields, cups of painted clay, woodcarvings, sets of armor, musical instruments, furniture, cloaks, hats, lamps, rakes, and still-corked bottles; even a window, complete with its frame, hung on the wall. He only managed a glance as Royce led him in a rush up the stairs to the third floor.

The marble steps bore sharp chips and cracks and indents the size and shape of large feet. The golem? Hadrian wondered. Looking down, he placed his own feet in the same spots. The golem would have dwarfed him. A giant stone beast wasn’t something he wanted to fight.

The map wasn’t as easy to find as it should have been. The thing was huge and took up one whole wall, but it didn’t look like a map. The ones Hadrian had seen comprised fine lines of iron gall ink on parchment. This was a tapestry. A massive wall hanging with needlework so fine it must have taken years to complete. The artwork was colorful, filled with shades of green for the forests and blues for the ocean and rivers; in the fields were dazzling splashes of yellow, pink, and purple wildflowers.

The perspective of the image was as if the viewer were a bird flying at a slight angle so that buildings and hills had depth and dimension. The coast was easy to recognize, as were the Roche River and Governor’s Isle, but little else was familiar. The map showed a bridge linking the banks and the island, but there was no building on the isle itself. Instead, cows grazed on what looked to be a pasture. The plaza wasn’t on the map, either, nor Grom Galimus. Instead, a little clump of trees marked that spot. There were roads, but few followed the same paths as the modern ones. Mill Street was nothing but a path that led to, not surprisingly, a mill. The city center was located farther to the east, centered on the smaller stream that today ran through Little Gur Em and the Rookery. A dock was there, not far from the modern one, and several small homes clustered up the slope. The town was tiny, rural, and more a village than a city. The focal point of everything, in the exact middle of the tapestry, was a round building east of the Rookery. It possessed a dome like Grom Galimus but was significantly smaller. Pillars held the roof up, forming a circular, open-air colonnade that stood on a raised dais.

“What’s that?” Royce asked, pointing to the same building Hadrian was puzzling over.

“A church?”

“Doesn’t look like any church I’ve ever seen.”

“A temple?”

“To whom?”

Hadrian peered at the map, but there was no writing. He shrugged. “How old do you think this map is?”

“It obviously predates the city, or maybe this was the start of it. The graveyard and Grom Galimus aren’t shown, so . . .”

“So, what? Imperial times?”

“At least; maybe even earlier.”

“What does it mean?” Hadrian asked.

“It means we should have dragged Evelyn here, because I have no idea.”

“But that”—Hadrian pointed to the temple—“that looks like something special, right? Something . . .”

“Sacred?” Royce finished for him.

Hadrian nodded. “Do you know where it is?”

Royce shook his head. “Up on a hill. Looks like if we go to the Rookery, head east, and search for high ground, we might find it.”

“How long do you think we have before Villar attacks?”

“The Feast of Nobles is midday, right? That’s when it’s held in Colnora and Ratibor.”

“Same in Hintindar and Medford.”

Royce looked at the windows. “So, we still have a few hours if Villar sticks to the plan to catch all the nobles at the feast.”

“What are the odds of that?”

“At this point?” Royce scowled. “We should hurry.”

Hadrian agreed but was disappointed. “We should come back here. I’d love to look through this place.”

“Absolutely not,” Royce said. “We are never coming back.”

“Be careful,” Hadrian warned him. “My father used to tell me: Never say never on any endeavor; it sounds like a dare to gods that don’t care. If the likes of us prosper, fail, or falter; it matters not while they roll with laughter on an altar, at our miserable, sad little lives.”

Royce looked over and smiled. “I think I would have liked your father.”