“I suppose you two were involved,” were the first words out of Evelyn’s mouth as she poured her obligatory morning tea.

“Indirectly,” Hadrian replied.

The lids came off the food. That morning’s thank-you to Novron had been a mere communal bowing of heads. As usual, the breakfast table was impeccable and laden with a feast fit for kings, emperors, and at least one pair of very quiet thieves.

Evelyn didn’t look at either of them, focusing instead on the amber stream spilling into her porcelain cup.

“The Seret will be coming soon. Such a thing happening in their own backyard must be addressed. They’re not known for being prudent. It’s likely they’ll seek justice, and it won’t matter who they choose to hold responsible.” She looked up. “A pair of no-account foreigners would be tops on their list. I think it best if the two of you returned from whence you came.”

“You’re kicking us out?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes,” she said simply and with an ever-so-curt nod. “I am.” Evelyn set her spoon down sharply and frowned. “Truth is, I’ve already rented your room to someone else. So, please pack your things and be out by midday, thank you.”

Hadrian stared at her and smiled. “You’re concerned about us, aren’t you?”

Evelyn glared back. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re abominable people, and I’ll not have you spoiling my house with your unsavory ways any longer. There, you wanted the truth, you have it. Stop smiling. I’m not doing this for you. I’m not. Stop it.”

A knock at the door ended the one-sided debate as Evelyn stood up and, with an exasperated huff, marched to her home’s entrance.

“Hullo!” a loud voice bellowed.

“Oh good gracious.” Evelyn gasped. “Your Ladyship!”

Royce and Hadrian abruptly stood. Leaving the dining room, they entered the foyer at the same time as the Duchess of Rochelle who was dressed in a long black gown, black shawl, and a matching wide-brimmed hat, the sort that demanded special care when moving in tight spaces. Large though she was, her presence was twice as big. She commanded attention like a loud bee in a small room. Her face, round and happy, beamed a smile that made crescent-moons of her eyes.

Evelyn smoothed a lace doily that was already perfectly placed. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were coming. Please forgive this terrible mess!”

“Oh, nonsense, my good lady!” the duchess said. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. Dropping in unannounced at this hour and after such a tragedy. I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if you turned me away. Kicked me to the gutter. A fine woman such as yourself would expect that I know better than to act so abominably.”

“I . . . I . . . ah . . .” Evelyn stammered, lost.

“She’s met her match,” Royce whispered to Hadrian.

“But you see, I do have a reason, and while it might not be readily apparent, nor may you find it entirely important, I assure you that to me it most certainly is. And being the duchess of this city, that counts for something, doesn’t it? Of course it does. So, I do hope you’ll pardon this intrusion.”

The large woman pushed deeper into the home, sweeping the hem of her gown to make certain it wasn’t stepped on. As she moved clear of the doorway, Hadrian spotted an elegant carriage waiting on the street and a surprisingly large contingent of armed soldiers, including Roland Wyberg, working as the woman’s security detail.

“I’m looking for two—” The duchess spotted them and smiled. “There you are, aren’t you?”

She said this as if she expected some sort of answer, but neither Royce nor Hadrian had any clue how to respond. The pause took only a single beat as her smile widened. She spread her hands toward them. “My saviors.”

She crossed the room and enveloped Hadrian in a hearty embrace; no bear could do better. Apparently, she didn’t remember his comment about Royce and hugging, for she took hold of him as well. Royce went rigid, enduring the embrace as best he could.

“Our pleasure, Your Ladyship,” Hadrian replied.

“To you, dear boys, I’m Genny, your most grateful damsel in distress. I thought you would like to know. My husband sent men up the eastern slope to look for any signs of Villar. They found the ruins, burned and destroyed, along with two bodies.”

“Two?” Royce asked.

“Villar and the original inhabitant, Falkirk de Roche, a first-century monk after whom the river and city were named. De Roche was in a tomb under the dome. Villar, on the other hand . . . well, I’m guessing it was Villar . . . was burned beyond recognition. They also found the inanimate statue of Novron. That monster killed nearly every noble in the city. Armand Calder and I came within a heartbeat of becoming two more Spring Day casualties.”

Evelyn, who still hadn’t found her tongue, continued to stare.

“Now then, if I know my father, my rescue wasn’t his only request. I’m sure your remuneration is contingent upon returning me to his side. Well, that’s not going to happen. My husband loves me and I him, and I’m not going anywhere.” She held out a sealed parchment, and Hadrian took it. “So, here is a letter for my father, explaining that I’m safe and couldn’t be happier, and that he should pay you the full amount he promised. But just in case he doesn’t see it that way . . .” She turned and bellowed, “Wentworth!”

A little man with his hair in a ponytail rushed forward and held out a purse. Royce took it.

“Inside, you’ll find seventy-five gold tenents to hold you over and pay for expenses. I’d give more, but it’s no longer just my money, you understand. My husband and I are going to get the city’s finances in shape, and we have to watch our expenses. Still, I wanted to make sure you weren’t left empty-handed. So please accept this along with my undying gratitude.”

“Thank you,” Hadrian said.

“Oh no, dear boy, thank you! If not for your intervention, I’d be dead, my husband would be heartbroken, and Alburn wouldn’t have such a fine new king!”

“Has the bishop crowned your husband?” Evelyn asked.

“Ha-ha! No, no. Rochelle will just have to be content with us here. My husband took himself out of the running when he didn’t show up at the feast. Apparently, finding me was more important than a crown. No, the bishop chose Armand Calder, the only noble to attend the feast and live. He might walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but it looks like he will make a complete recovery. He seems like a decent sort, which is good, and he likes me, which is better. Alburn is in need of many changes, and I think King Armand will listen to my ideas about reform. Did you know Mercator Sikara?”

They both nodded.

“Remarkable lady. She died trying to get my letter to Leo, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Royce said.

The duchess nodded. “That poor woman. All she wanted was a better life for her people.” The duchess raised her hand and shook a finger. “I’m going to ensure the mir are treated better—in Rochelle if no place else. Leo and I are going to make this city a beacon for the rest of the world. A safe haven for the mir, the Calians, and the little bearded folk. When people see the prosperity that harnessing so many talents can produce, they’ll surely want to emulate our success. Well, I really must be going. So, thank you again, Hadrian Blackwater and Royce . . . Royce. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your last name. What is it?”

Royce sighed. “Melborn.”

Evelyn glared. “I thought your names were Baldwin and Grim!”

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

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

Returning from the stable that had quartered their animals, Hadrian led their horses down Mill Street. He’d felt guilty about not checking in on Dancer all week. The stable hand had complained, saying he should have been warned if they were going to abandon their horses for so long. In truth, the man was probably more disappointed when Hadrian showed up. Any hopes he might have had of selling a set of orphaned animals had vanished, and now he would have to settle for the ridiculously steep caretaking fee that he imposed. Dancer showed no signs of ill treatment or ill will, nuzzling Hadrian’s shoulder as they walked.

Returning to Hemsworth House, Hadrian found Royce waiting on the stoop out front, surrounded by their gear like a man washed up on a deserted island.

“What did you do now?” Hadrian asked.

“Nothing,” Royce said, standing up and throwing Hadrian’s saddlebag at him. Royce hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The new occupant is here, and Evelyn wanted me and our things out so we didn’t upset her.”

“Her?”

“Yep.” He wore an odd smirk, part surprised, part amused. “The new guest is that mir mother who told us about the place.”

Hadrian put his little finger in his ear and made a show of wiggling it before pulling it out and saying, “Sorry, sounded like you said Evelyn let the room to a mir.”

Royce nodded. “Don’t know how she did it, either. Tracked the mir down somehow. I suppose she’s lived here her entire life and knows this city pretty well. Old woman is full of surprises.”

Royce tossed his own bag on his horse, but before tying it, he lifted and hooked the stirrup on the horn, double-checking the cinch.

“Seriously?” Hadrian leaned on Dancer, shaking his head in disgust. “You had to check? You don’t think I know how to cinch a saddle?”

Royce didn’t even look up as he ran fingers along the strap, checking its tension. “No, I don’t.”

“Trust. You have to learn to trust people, Royce.”

He dropped the stirrup without making any changes. “No. I don’t.”

They finished lashing bags to their mounts. The animals stood impatiently, stomping hooves to express their desire to be on the road. Along the street the milkman was back to delivering his jugs, and a flower girl was going door-to-door with a basket of fresh-cut purple pansies. Only a day later and the city was back to old routines.

Hadrian pulled himself up onto Dancer and grasped his reins, but Royce hesitated. He had his things secured but remained staring up at the window of what had been their room.

“Forget something?”

“The rug.”

“What rug? Oh, wait . . . you’re not serious!”

“It’s just that it would definitely fit nicely through that window and hit the street with hardly a sound.” Royce looked up and down the thoroughfare. “There are never any constables on this street. I bet we could sell it in Little Gur Em for five gold, maybe six.”

“I’m leaving.” Hadrian started to urge Dancer into the traffic, then stopped.

“What?” Royce asked. “You’re having second thoughts about the rug, aren’t you?”

Hadrian gave him a sharp look. “No.” He pointed across the street at a little pug-nosed dog sitting on a patch of recently turned earth. “Must be a stray. I’ve seen that dog around here a lot. I wish I had some food.”

“It’s not a stray; it has a collar,” Royce said and continued to stare. Then his eyes narrowed and a stunned looked filled his face. “That’s not possible.”

“What’s not?”

Royce abandoned his horse and crossed the street.

Royce famously hated dogs, and, thinking he might harm the animal, Hadrian leapt off his mount and raced over, catching up just as Royce bent down to study the little mangy pup’s collar.

“I can’t believe it.”

“What?” Hadrian asked.

“It’s Mister Hipple.”

“No! That’s not possible. You don’t mean . . .”

Royce nodded. “Lady Martel’s dog. The one who sounded the alarm at Hemley Manor and nearly got poor Ralph the guard killed. How could that dog possibly be here?”

Hadrian looked around at the unkempt field filled with crooked posts. “This is a cemetery, a paupers’ graveyard. Maybe this is Lady Martel’s grave.”

“Lady Martel wouldn’t be buried in a pauper’s grave in Alburn. She’s the wife of a wealthy Melengar lord.”

“But didn’t Puck say something about the diary belonging to a monk named Falkirk?” Hadrian asked.

“No. He said the diary was written by someone named Falkirk, and that she got it from a monk.”

“Whoa, that’s really weird. Wonder what she’s doing here, and how she died.” Hadrian looked at the dog, sadly. “That’s one loyal pet. I’ve heard stories about things like this. The dog gets so attached that it waits on its owners’ grave for them to come back. Some end up dying because they just can’t leave.”

Royce didn’t say anything. He merely stared at the dog and the grave.

“Maybe we should take Mister Hipple with us,” Hadrian said, bending down and reaching out.

The little mongrel with the flat face and folded ears snapped at him. “Or not.”

They returned to their horses and climbed up.

“Perhaps Evelyn will adopt him,” Hadrian said hopefully.

“Or maybe he’ll be crushed under the wheels of a milk wagon. I’m not sure which would be the worse fate,” Royce added.

The streets were just as congested as on the day they had arrived, but this time the current was all in one direction, out. Like Royce and Hadrian, everyone was leaving the city, heading home. At the bottom of the hill, they found that the plaza had been cleaned. The sound of hammering announced that the door to the gallery was being worked on, and the bells of Grom Galimus were chiming on time, but no vendors had set up shop. In their place, flowers had been laid out in bunches around the empty pedestal where a seventeen-foot statue of Novron once stood. Wreaths, candles, and lovingly drawn portraits were mixed in with the bundles of recently gathered blossoms. The odd thing—no delineation existed between the memorials for servants and nobles. No line separated the privileged from the poor. Grief blended them all together, ignoring differences as readily as death had.

“Don’t understand how all this connects,” Hadrian said as they waited to cross the bridge to Governor’s Isle behind a trio of wagons filled with families. “How could reading the diary of a several-thousand-year-old monk get Lady Martel and Virgil Puck killed? Maybe some ancient ghost wants his book back. Which brings up another mystery.”

“What?”

“Who killed Erasmus Nym?”

Royce shrugged. “I suppose a golem got him.”

Hadrian shook his head. “Only Villar, Griswold, and Erasmus knew how to raise them. You were chasing Villar across rooftops when Erasmus died.”

“So, it must have been Griswold.”

“Nope. He’d run away from the cemetery. Besides, the two of them were friends. He’d have no reason to kill him.”

“I have a friend, and I think about killing him all the time.” Royce said with a straight face.

“Oh, so you admit it now. We’re friends?”

“I never said anything about you. Don’t be so presumptuous.”

The wagon ahead of them began moving, but slowly. They were at the edge of the bridge where the big gargoyle pediment Royce had perched on was still guarding the entrance to Governor’s Isle.

Hadrian looked around at the congested city of towers and grotesque statues dominated by the cathedrals and bridge spires. Even in the daylight, with the many shadows cast by the tall buildings, the old city felt dark. Who knew what other secrets it kept to itself.

Royce turned sharply around in his saddle and looked behind.

“What?” Hadrian asked, looking back as well, but he saw only the city and more throngs of people.

“Nothing.”

“What is it?”

Royce gave a second glance back and sighed. “I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“Why Lady Martel might have been buried in an unmarked grave. It’s because her body wasn’t claimed. No one identified her.”

“I think that’s obvious. If they’d known who she was, her body would have been sent back to Hemley Manor.”

“And why do you think that was? I mean, why didn’t anyone identify her?”

Shock crossed Hadrian’s face. “You don’t mean . . .”

Royce nodded. “What if Lady Martel didn’t have a face?”

Hadrian grimaced and pulled his blue scarf tighter.

Crossing the river, they started up the far hills, heading west. When they reached the crest, they turned back for a final look. From that distance, the city, nestled in the valley surrounded by the mountains and the sea, appeared quaint, even romantic.

“What’s that up there?” Royce pointed to what appeared to be a fortress down the coast.

The castle was nothing but an outline on the top of a distant mountain, but even from that far away it appeared intimidating, dangerous, powerful.

“Blythin Castle,” Hadrian said. “I think that’s where they imprisoned Glenmorgan the Third, and it’s now headquarters to the Seret Knights. Creepy place. Wanna go look?”

Royce pulled up his hood. “No. Let’s get home. I’m never coming back here.”

Hadrian laughed. “Never say never on any endeavor . . .”

“Quit it.”

“It sounds like a dare to gods that don’t care . . .”

“I mean it.”

“If the likes of us prosper, fail, or falter . . .”

“You are seriously annoying me now.”

“It matters not while they roll with laughter on an altar . . .”

Royce kicked his horse and trotted off up the road.

Hadrian looked back once more at the city. He thought of Seton and the night he first met her amidst the smell of blood and the cries of widows. He remembered his father who’d made him butcher a chicken, the first life he took. And he thought back on his years of war and slaughters within the arenas of Calis. “At our miserable, sad little lives.”

Royce was right. They were never coming back here again.