Royce and Hadrian were on time for breakfast.

Evelyn Hemsworth presided at a table covered in three cloths—blue upon yellow, with pristine white on top—and on this lay a vast collection of tableware. Porcelain creamers, cups, plates, and spice towers had been placed with such precision that Hadrian wondered if the woman had used plumb lines and T-squares. Crystal glasses lorded over the silver forks and knives, which guarded napkin-covered plates. Great silver serving trays with ornate lids were set with equal precision in a circle around a two-foot silver sculpture of a palm tree, at the base of which three men in turbans and Calian garb stood holding candelabras. While no food was visible, the entire house smelled of fresh pastries and sizzling bacon.

At the head of the table, Evelyn sat. She looked exactly as she had the night before: hair in a bun, formal dress, high tight collar that made Hadrian swallow in sympathy. She stared at the two of them with large piercing eyes and judgmental brows, her lips drawn up like a tight purse.

Royce looked at Hadrian, who stared back, both unsure what to do next: sit, offer a morning greeting, or ask permission to join her?

“Good morning,” Hadrian ventured as lightheartedly as he could.

“You’re late,” she said.

Hadrian glanced at the window. The morning sun had only just pierced the glass, replacing the illumination of the diminishing fire and making the crystal stemware sparkle in rainbow hues. “You said dawn.”

“I did. Dawn was eight minutes ago.”

“But the sun—”

“The sun doesn’t reach this house until eight minutes after dawn because Lardner’s Cabinet and Wardrobe Shop, on the hill at the intersection of Cross and Howell, is a full four stories tall and traps my home in shadow.”

Hadrian opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing to say.

“Sit,” she ordered.

They both complied. Hadrian sat in the middle. Royce took the seat farthest away.

“It smells wonderful,” Hadrian said, reaching out to peek under the silver lid directly before him.

“Tut, tut!” Evelyn said, and clapped her hands sharply, stopping him. “What’s wrong with you people?” She glared accusingly.

Once more Hadrian glanced at Royce, mystified. The truth was he could answer that question a dozen different ways.

“Have you no sense of propriety? No piety?”

Hadrian still hadn’t a clue what she was getting at, and apparently it showed. She frowned his way.

“We need to give thanks to Our Lord, Novron, for this meal.”

“Oh,” Hadrian replied.

“Oh?” Evelyn intensified the disappointment in her eyes. “What sort of comment is that?”

Fearful of another verbal blunder, Hadrian shrugged.

“Now he’s acting like a monkey,” she said to Royce, as if he would understand and agree. Royce sat rigidly, staring back. Hadrian imagined he was entertaining himself ticking through all the ways he planned to kill her, mentally trying each out.

Evelyn turned to Hadrian, waiting. A long minute passed, and her brows rose with the passage of time. “Well?”

“Well what?” Hadrian asked.

Evelyn looked dumbfounded. “Are you telling me that you . . . am I correct in my assumption that you’ve never offered thanks to Novron for your good fortune? How is that possible? Were the two of you hatched in a cave somewhere such that you don’t understand the basic concepts of civilization and devotion to our god?”

Hadrian looked to Royce for help, and he wasn’t surprised to see his partner lifting his hood.

“We do not wear hoods at the table.” Evelyn’s words were so firm that the declaration came out as an indisputable fact.

Royce froze like a raccoon caught in a trash bin.

“Honestly, the two of you . . . it’s like living with animals.”

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian said. “We’re not from around here.”

“Obviously. The two of you live in a forest, most likely in some worm-filled burrow.”

“If it’ll get us closer to eating, we’re all for whatever thanks giving you have planned. Right?” Hadrian looked at Royce, who remained stationary with his hood partway up, watching Evelyn with a menacing fixation.

“Fine.” Evelyn sighed with abundant disappointment. Then she bowed her head. “We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food before us. May we prove worthy of your kindness.” She lifted her head and looked at Hadrian.

“Am I supposed to say that now, too?”

Evelyn gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Just—just eat. Please.”

Lifting the lids, they found a steaming feast of eggs, pork, cheese, whitefish, shellfish, honey, almonds, pastries, and whey. For a moment, Hadrian was overwhelmed. “Did . . . did you prepare this all yourself?”

“Of course not. Didn’t you see the army of fairy-cooks that filed out while you were insulting Our Lord? I particularly like their tiny aprons, don’t you?”

“I—” Hadrian wasn’t certain she was mocking him.

“Eat,” she ordered.

They passed trays, loading up plates. Hadrian felt horribly selfish and decadent while piling up so much, but Evelyn insisted she’d cooked it for them and they had best eat it.

“I don’t recall hearing you come in last night,” Evelyn said, pouring herself tea from an elaborate pot made in the shape of an elephant.

To Evelyn Hemsworth and Royce, the pot was likely the whimsical design of a creative artist, but Hadrian had firsthand experience with the animals. He’d seen them during his years in Calis, where they were used as both beasts of burden and war machines. Much of the tableware setting was inspired by, or likely came from, Calis. The port of Rochelle was perhaps the first stop in the trans-Goblin Sea trade route. Even the spice shakers had monkeys on them.

“But I noticed you left quite a puddle on my rug and a nasty trail of wet up the stairs. I’ll ask you to please remove your boots in the future. I’m an old woman and have more than enough to do. I don’t need you providing me with extra work. And be aware, I lock the door promptly with the third chime of the bell tower after sunset.” She reached for the sugar and paused. “You’re not up to anything shady, are you? I won’t stand for any higgery-jiggery or jiggery-pokery for that matter. Not in this house. Understand? While you’re here, I’ll expect the both of you to conduct yourselves properly. And you”—she indicated Royce with a tilt of her head and the raise of a brow—“don’t wear a cloak to the meal table. And wash your hands before coming down. Who were your parents? That’s what I’d like to know.”

They ate for several minutes in silence. The food was wonderful, but Evelyn didn’t eat much at all.

“Might I ask, what became of King Reinhold?” Hadrian ventured and received an apprehensive look from Royce. Both of them visibly cringed in anticipation of the response. Talking to Evelyn was like searching for wayward eggs in a dark henhouse.

Evelyn sighed.

“I’m sorry if that’s not a polite thing to discuss over breakfast,” Hadrian added.

“What? Oh, no, that’s fine, but well, His Majesty . . .” Evelyn frowned over her plate, which consisted of only a single small roll and a slice of orange cheese. “It was quite the tragedy, you understand. His ship, the Eternal Empire, sank in a storm off Blythin Point about five months ago. The entire royal family was aboard, along with most of the royal court. That’s why stewardship of the kingdom has fallen to Bishop Tynewell.”

“Why the bishop?” Hadrian asked.

“Tradition mostly. When the last emperor of the Novronian Empire died, the Bishop of Percepliquis was the one who assumed the mantle of steward to the empire.” She peered at both of them for a moment expectantly. “Neither of you has any clue what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Not really,” Hadrian said.

She sighed. “It’s like talking to children. You’re like a pair of five-year-olds dressed up in big people’s clothes. I’m afraid to let the two of you wander the streets alone. You might accept candy from strangers and be whisked off to darkest Calis.”

“He would.” Royce pointed at Hadrian.

“Don’t point,” she said. “It’s not polite.”

Royce rolled his eyes.

“Watch yourself, young man. You’re treading on thin ice, you are.”

Royce smiled at her malevolently. “I’m actually quite good at that.”

Hadrian didn’t like the look in his friend’s eye, which had changed from surprised raccoon to hungry panther. “I think you were going to tell us more about the death of King Reinhold?”

“Actually, no. I was explaining common history, of which you and your friend are as stunningly ignorant as you are lacking in suitable personal hygiene and proper manners.”

“Right,” Hadrian said. “That was it. Go on.”

“Oh, yes, well, history is something of a passion in Alburn, you understand. The people here are quite proud of their heritage—we are, you see, unique in the world. It’s our claim to the past that defines us as a people. Which is why it’s so disappointing to encounter the likes of you two, who appear so nescient of that which is so important to us.” She paused either to take a breath or to allow Hadrian the opportunity to prove her point, perhaps by asking what nescient meant. He didn’t take the bait.

“Well, what I was going to impart was that after the death of the last emperor, his family, and the destruction of the capital city of Percepliquis, Bishop Venlin stepped in and took over. It was the bishop who officially moved the empire from somewhere in the west to here. At that time, this was the Imperial Province of Alburnia. The bishop—that’s what the patriarch was back then—actually ruled the remains of the empire out of Blythin Castle until he finished his cathedral.” She gestured, but didn’t point, toward the east. “Even back then, Rochelle was a thriving port city. You need to understand that at that time, everywhere west of the Majestic Mountains was locked in complete and utter chaos because petty warlords were grabbing land and power.”

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Hadrian wanted to point out that not much had changed, but he wasn’t about to interrupt. He hoped that Evelyn’s ramblings would shed some light on more recent events. Royce didn’t appear to be listening at all as he scraped eggs off his plate with a knife.

“Everyone loyal to the emperor’s banner came here. The Calders, the Killians, the Hargraves—they had all been prominent families in the court of the last emperor. Alburn became home of the empire in exile. Everything that could be salvaged was brought here for safekeeping: artifacts, books, statues, paintings. So you see, Alburn in general, and Rochelle in particular, has very strong links with the traditions of the Novronian Empire. So when the king and his entire family sank in the Goblin Sea, the bishop naturally stepped in to act as steward. Simple as that.”

“That was simple?” Royce asked and licked his knife clean.

“It’s called thinking, dear,” Evelyn told him. “If you work at it, the mind gets stronger.”

Royce shifted his grip on the knife, taking hold of the blade.

“So what happened?” Hadrian quickly asked. “Why isn’t this still the empire in exile? Why isn’t the patriarch still here? How did Reinhold become king? He isn’t a Calder, Killian, or Hargrave, is he?”

“No. That was all Glenmorgan’s doing. He was the big winner of the monarch sweepstakes. The biggest thug of the west, if you will. When Glenmorgan invaded Alburnia, the patriarch avoided being sacked by anointing him the almost-emperor, otherwise known as a steward. Then when Glenmorgan set himself up at Ervanon in the north, the patriarch was obliged to join him. Still, while the church’s head may have gone to Ghent, its heart remains here. For example, the Seret Knights are still headquartered in Blythin Castle, just as they always have been.”

“And Reinhold?”

“His great-great-great-grandfather, or something, was appointed governor of Alburn by Glenmorgan. He set up his government at the westernmost city, Caren—as far away from all the traditional imperialists as he could. After good old Glenny the Third was executed at Blythin, the governor—by then it was his son—just kept on running things, but now as king.”

“Because they were all lost at sea, there are no more descendants of that bloodline. Is that right?” Hadrian asked.

“Indeed, and the bishop will be making his choice during the Spring Feast.” Evelyn looked down her nose at Royce and scowled. “You’re not eating. For Novron’s sake, you’re thin as a brittle bit of last year’s grass. That’s why you wear that big cloak, isn’t it? You’re embarrassed at how little you are. Well, eat. You won’t grow big and strong like your friend unless you do.”

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

“We need to find a new place to stay,” Royce said the moment they were clear of the house and moving with unusual speed down the street.

The rain had stopped, the weather warmer, and aside from a bit of fog and some puddles, it was a relatively pleasant day.

“There isn’t any other place. Remember?” Hadrian replied, stretching his legs to keep up with Royce, who was practically trotting. “We spent forever searching yesterday.”

“We looked for a couple of hours.” Royce gave his third glance back, as if Evelyn Hemsworth were fast on their heels.

Mill Street was alive with activity. Carriages rolled by; a girl sold early spring flowers from a handcart; a man with a wagon delivered milk and cheese door-to-door; a tiny dog with a pug nose begged for scraps; and pedestrians with canes and overcloaks dodged street traffic, standing puddles, and one another. Everything was so different from the night before.

“What are you griping about?” Hadrian said. “Do you remember what the Dirty Tankard looked like? The Hemsworth house is really nice. And the food! That may have been the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“The woman is insane.”

“I actually kind of like her.”

Royce stopped walking. He stood in the middle of the street between two separate but equally sized piles of horse droppings, glaring at his partner with a shocked expression that bordered on disturbed.

Hadrian continued walking two steps before noticing. “What?” He looked back with equal parts innocence and guilt. “She’s nice . . . in an authoritarian, priggish, self-important sort of way. Think of her as the mother you never had.”

Royce made a bitter face. “If my mother was anything like that, I’m glad I never knew her.”

They resumed walking, moving clear of the milk wagon coming their way. The flat bed of the dray was laden with a half a dozen barrel-sized covered pails that cried white tears.

“She’s right, you know,” Hadrian said. “You should eat more if you want to grow up to be big and strong like me.” He grinned.

Royce pulled up his hood. “Don’t talk to me.”

They climbed a hill that granted an expansive view of the city, most of it dominated by roofs and smoking chimneys. Yet with the rain gone and the fog restricting itself to the area around the harbor, Hadrian was finally able to form a mental map of the place. Rochelle straddled the Roche River as it poured into Blythin Bay—most of which was lost to the fog. Split in two as it was by the waterway, the city had been built with one half on either bank, the big harbor dominating the mouth of the river. In the middle of the Roche, a long thin island was joined to the two banks by a pair of stone bridges.

The island, aside from its role as the only means of traversing the river from one bank to the other, appeared to be reserved entirely for the duke. This was evident by the imposing wall that ringed the palatial estate. The areas nearest the bridges on both banks were the most affluent. The farther away from the river, the more destitute and neglected things became. The area just on the east side included the cathedral and its huge plaza. Hadrian suspected this was what people referred to as Old Town. Just east of there was another square surrounded by shops. Hadrian guessed it was the Merchant District—although the far side of the river had just as many shops, so he couldn’t be sure.

Royce headed south toward the foggy bay and into narrower, dirtier streets. Hadrian remembered the area from the night before, and daylight only made the neighborhood worse. The Meat House was just ahead on the right.

“What are we doing back here? We just ate.”

“Not looking for food this time. Need to find . . . there!” Royce pointed at the building next to the Meat House.

A ghastly looking two-story structure of gray mottled wood was fashioned in the general shape of a barn. A tall double door was stained with red handprints near the edge and along the latch. A row of wagons was parked in a line out front. They rocked and jiggled from hosts of restless passengers—mostly pigs that snorted and squealed.

“It’s a slaughterhouse.”

Royce nodded. “The cook said they got their supply fresh from next door. The wagon that nearly killed us yesterday was a livestock wagon, just like those.”

“Royce, I’m sure there are hundreds of wagons like these in and around the city.”

“But none as conveniently available to someone who overheard our conversation.”

Royce approached the wagons and began walking up and down the row, studying them. They were old and worn. The sides were tall and bleached by the sun. The big spoked wheels had manure and straw stuck to the rims. Hadrian imagined what it might have felt like having one, or perhaps two, roll over him. Death by slaughterhouse wagon wasn’t on his list of best ways to go.

“Is there a problem with my wagons?” A man came out of the building wearing a blood-splattered apron and a dingy leather skullcap. He held a bloody rag in one hand and a dripping hatchet in the other.

“Yes,” Royce said. “I think there is.” He pointed to the third in line. “That one’s axle hub—see it? The metal looks raw, like it was recently filed, or perhaps scraped against a brick wall.”

The butcher didn’t bother to look. “That’s not a problem.”

“It is for me.” Royce took a single step toward the man. “Was it stolen? Did it disappear last night? Did you have to search for it this morning?”

The butcher mused a moment with his lips then spit on the ground between them. “Nope. Been there all night. Hasn’t moved. How is that a problem for you?”

“You’re right. It’s not.” Royce smiled as he took another step closer. “But it just became a problem for you.”

Hadrian was fascinated by just how catlike Royce became when preparing to kill; his eyes became dilated, his pupils growing with his excitement. Hadrian didn’t know for certain if Royce would kill the butcher. He generally didn’t murder in plain sight on a busy street in daylight, but the body language was unmistakable.

“Someone tried to kill me with that wagon last night, and since it wasn’t stolen”—Royce took another step—“I’ll have to assume it was you.”

While the butcher processed the accusation, Royce rushed forward.

With Royce, half seconds mattered. Luckily Hadrian had seen the attack coming even if the butcher was oblivious, and he stepped between the two. The butcher finally realized his peril and shuffled backward.

“Out of my way!” Royce snapped as Hadrian extended his arms, blocking the thief from dodging around him.

“Keep him away from me!” the butcher shouted. “That guy is crazy. I didn’t do anything.”

“He’s not crazy,” Hadrian tried to explain. “He thinks you tried to kill him . . . err . . . us, actually.”

“Help! Help!” the butcher shouted, backing up.

Royce shifted left then right, but Hadrian blocked him both times. To the butcher—to anyone watching—it would have appeared that Royce was doing his best to get past. He wasn’t. Royce could dance with an angry rattlesnake and never get bitten. He once boasted about his ability to dodge arrows; Hadrian had never seen him do that but believed he could. If Royce really wanted to get around, Hadrian probably couldn’t stop his lithe partner.

“Step aside,” Royce snapped. “I’m going to kill him.”

The butcher’s eyes widened, and his pleas became frantic, “Somebody . . . anybody . . . help me!”

“Calm down, both of you,” Hadrian said.

A number of people on the street had stopped and were staring. An elderly man and two women took the most interest but posed no danger. Two laborers stacking bags of feed farther up the street, on the other hand, were worth keeping an eye on. They, too, had paused and turned. At that moment, everyone’s expressions displayed puzzlement, but it wouldn’t take long for that to change.

Hadrian addressed the butcher, “Look, we just want to know who tried to run us down last night.”

“It was him,” Royce insisted, and, reaching into his cloak, he drew out Alverstone. “And I’m going to treat him like one of his pigs. Time for the slaughter, you rat-tailed sow!”

The butcher looked at the gleaming white dagger, and with a squeak, which sounded a bit like the squeal of a pig, he turned to flee.

Hadrian tripped him. “Don’t run! Whatever you do, don’t run! He really will kill you then. Your only hope is to stay near me.”

This was only partially a lie. Royce was intentionally scaring the man in the hope of getting information, but Royce was still Royce, and the cat analogy was a little too perfect. There was a good chance this man had been involved in the attack, and if he proved unhelpful, if he stopped being a potential lead . . .

“Help! I didn’t do anything,” the butcher cried from the ground where he lay on his back. He dropped the meat cleaver and rag, both hands up to fend off the expected attack. “I don’t know how the wagon got like that. I didn’t watch the thing all night. I was asleep. Maybe someone did take it. Maybe they took it and put it back. I don’t know. But I didn’t do anything!”

“Hold! In the name of the duke!” Running up the street were a trio of men in chainmail and blue-colored tabards—city guards.

Hadrian frowned as he realized that Royce’s theatrics had taken a potentially serious turn. He had seen the guards around the city, but previously only in pairs. The reason there were three became instantly apparent. The lead man wore a helmet with the yellow horsehair crest of an officer, his face vaguely familiar.

“What’s going on?” the officer demanded while trotting up. He spotted Royce’s dagger, and his hand moved to a sword. His fellow soldiers followed suit.

Royce dropped into a full crouch, the ruse ended. The thief was poised to fight.

“Roland Wyberg?” Hadrian asked. “By Mar! Is that really you?”

No one moved.

The officer’s eyes narrowed as he stared. His mouth opened in shock. “Blackwater?”

Then to the utter amazement of everyone, including the spectators on the street, the two clasped hands.

“You’re still alive.” Hadrian clapped the officer’s back. “Who would have thought.”

“Me? You’re the one who disappeared. I expected—well, everyone thought you were dead. Rumors said you were knifed by a Warric patrol.”

“Excuse me!” the butcher shouted from where he still lay on the ground. He pointed at Royce. “This man is about to kill me.”

Roland glanced from Hadrian to Royce. “Friend of yours?”

“He is.” Hadrian nodded. “We think the butcher might have tried to kill us last night.”

“No,” Royce said, putting his dagger away. “He’s just an idiot.”

“You saw him. He was going to kill me.” The butcher pointed at Royce.

In a fair imitation of Evelyn Hemsworth, Royce said, “It’s not polite to point.”

“What’s this all about?” Wyberg asked.

“Someone tried to run us down with a slaughterhouse wagon,” Hadrian replied. “That one over there.”

The officer studied the wagons for a moment, eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Sure it wasn’t just an accident?” He focused on Hadrian with a new scrutiny. “Is there some reason why someone would want you dead? What exactly are you doing here, Blackwater? And for that matter, what made you disappear in the first place?”

Royce nodded at the crowd, which, despite the diminished chance of violence, had grown. A dozen people stood in the street, and more were arriving. “Is it possible to continue this conversation somewhere less public? The central square, perhaps? A community stage, maybe?”

Roland looked around and frowned at the audience. “There’s a guard post just up the street.” He hooked a thumb at the two other soldiers with him. “I was checking up on these two when we heard the shouts. I can offer you some coffee, not allowed to have anything stronger.”

“Aren’t you going to arrest them?” the butcher asked, still lying on the ground as if unable to get up.

“For scaring you?”

That made the butcher huff dramatically.

The officer pointed to the Meat House as they passed by. “If you’re hungry, we could grab something to eat. Doesn’t look like much, but the food is good.”

“No!” Royce and Hadrian said together.