When Hadrian and Millie reached the Sixth Tier, it started to rain. Hadrian felt a drop, then saw a pair of wet dots on the street. Soon he heard rain on rooftops and the soft patter on cloth awnings. By the Seventh Tier, it was really coming down.

"My dress! My hair!" Millie shouted and sprinted for the shelter of a nearby arched doorway. It wasn't much but had the benefit of being illuminated by a nearby lantern.

Millie climbed the three shallow steps and put her back to the closed door as if the rain would kill her. Hadrian joined her in the small space, and seconds later, the patter became a pour. A foot away, a curtain of water appeared like a solid thing, and the world was lost to a violent roar as if they stood beneath a waterfall.

Millie's hand fluttered about, checking her hair and dress for dampness and damage.

"So, it does rain here," Hadrian said, peering out, fascinated by the volume of the noise.

"It rains everywhere," Millie declared.

Hadrian almost replied but thought better of it. Some things had to be experienced to be believed.

"I hate rain," Millie said, wiping the wet from her forearms as if it were something vile.

"How can you hate rain?"

"It's a killer." She pointed toward the street but didn't extend her arm for fear of getting wet. "In another few seconds, I would have melted away." She waved a hand up and down her body. "This takes hours of hard work, a labor the rain can destroy in seconds. Do you know what rain can do to curled hair or makeup? It doesn't just wash off, it bleeds. Long ugly streaks of black and red tear down my face, turning me into some grotesque melted-wax freak. And then, with enough water, it's all gone, all of it. Millificent LeDeye dies an ugly death and all that remains is Millie Mulch."

"Is that so bad?"

She stared at him as if he were insane. "I don't want to be Millie Mulch. I don't ever want to be her again. If I could cut her throat, burn her to ash, and then scatter those ashes to the four winds, I'd do it. Millificent LeDeye is so much better. She's beautiful and not afraid of anything, or anyone."

She stopped wiping her arms and turned sharply to face him. The frustration, fear, and anger at the near-death experience faded, and Millificent LeDeye stared at him with predatory eyes. She moved closer, pressed against him, and laid her head on his chest. "I'm cold; keep me warm."

He put his arms around her bare shoulders. She didn't feel cold. Her skin was almost hot, like something was burning inside. She sighed into him. The lantern on the street went out, killed by the rain, leaving the two in darkness. Everything else was consumed by the deluge that drowned out the rest of the world.

This was the stuff of dreams, the sort men never share — not because they're lurid, but because the experience can't be summed up in words any more than a flavorful dish can be described by its ingredients. Any attempt to express sensation, atmosphere, anticipation, or excitement always fell short. But at that moment in an exotic foreign city while sheltering from the storm and tenderly embracing a strange and beautiful woman, Hadrian knew this was one of those times. They didn't come often, and he was determined to cherish it.

"Thing is," she said, and he could feel her voice against his chest, "I'm so close to my dream. I can see it. My future is right there, but I can't quite grab it. I have talent, but that's not enough. It's the money. Whoever has it holds the power, and those with power are misers. I get the dregs, and I always will because they know if the tides turn, I'd flip the table. I would make my own decisions and cut them off. But I can't do anything without money. If only there was a way to make a small fortune on my own."

Hadrian caressed her back. The dress was cut low, the material nonexistent. His fingers glided over smooth, damp skin.

Her head turned. She rested her cheek on his chest and looked up into his eyes. He thought she might be inviting a kiss, so he squeezed her tighter as he —

"Have you heard about the courier who was killed?" she asked.

Hadrian hesitated, wondering if he had somehow misread the cues or if Millificent LeDeye was more peculiar than he thought. Flighty was one thing, scatterbrained another. "Actually, I have."

"Cornelius DeLur has offered a handsome sum to get his hands on what the courier carried, and I know what it is: a book," she went on, still resting her chin on him so that her head bobbed as she talked.

Then Millie sighed, and he felt her body mold to his.

Beyond the shelter of the archway, the rain continued to pour. And as mini cataracts spewed off the roofs of neighboring buildings, a small river washed down Berling's Way. Hadrian continued to caress Millie's back, feeling the contours of her body. He lowered his hands to her waist and felt the damp fabric.

"Mmm," she purred, rubbing her cheek against his shirt as her hands began their own exploration of his body. She found the open V of his loose shirt, pushed aside his medallion chain, and kissed his chest. "Unlike Millie Mulch, Millificent LeDeye is a brave adventurer."

"Brave is good," Hadrian whispered. "And I like adventures."

"If Millie had the book, she'd sell it and use the money to go independent, but if Millificent LeDeye had it, she would never sell it."

"We're back to that, are we?" Hadrian said, more than a little disappointed.

"It's a treasure map, you know?"

"I've heard that."

"It shows the way to a dwarf king's gold. Can you imagine? The accumulated wealth of an entire nation, a dwarven kingdom! You know what they say about them: they hoard treasure like a dragon. There are probably rooms upon rooms of gold bars, bags of coins, goblets, statues, and who knows what else? That's what everyone with a brain really wants — not the book." She pulled back a bit to look into his eyes again. "You have it, don't you?"

"What?" he asked, suddenly lost.

Hadrian was still trying to understand how this conversation about a book and treasure had anything to do with the two of them. He assumed it didn't. She was making small talk the way some people hummed while working or taking a bath. He'd also thought it might be some sort of fancy metaphor where he was the book and she the treasure. Millificent LeDeye seemed the sort to think in abstract romantic terms. He liked that. It made her seem more intriguing, like a person who could see more colors or knew multiple languages. But now . . .

"Andre told me you do."

"Andre?"

Clearly not abstract at all.

"How could he know anything about me?"

"Oh, he works for Cornelius DeLur. A lot of people do, but Andre is high up the ladder. He hears lots of things. He knows you and your friend are the ones who killed the courier and took the book. You don't look like the sort to kill anyone, so maybe it was your friend that did it. Unfortunately, you don't have the book on you at the moment." She sighed. Her exploring hands fell away, and she straightened up. "Cornelius's men searched your place the other night, but Andre said they didn't find anything." She drew farther away. "I'm guessing this other guy, this friend, has the book, right? He's the brains. Carries it wherever he goes. That would be smart in this town."

"Is that why . . . " Hadrian stared at her. "Did Andre send you to search me?"

She nodded. "His exact words: do anything necessary to get the book."

Hadrian was disappointed but impressed by her honesty, at least. "Oh."

Seeing the look on his face, she followed up with, "I wasn't going to give it to him. That's what Millie Mulch would do, and I'm Millificent LeDeye, remember?" She smiled. "So, here's the deal. While I don't have a fortune, I do have money, enough to pay for supplies: a wagon and a donkey. You get the book from your friend, and the two of us can slip out of town real quiet. If we meet anyone, like the Port Authority, we can pretend to be newlyweds off to start a new life. We'll travel up to Neith — two days, tops — and hire a few dwarf diggers. They have a lot of them up there. We won't be able to afford too many. I don't have that kind of money, and this might take a while, so we need to pace ourselves. The important thing is that we must do this on the sly. No one can know what we're up to, which means we can't let the dwarfs leave once they take the job. Can you handle a sword?"

Hadrian stared at her, watching the atmosphere wash away like so much makeup in a rainstorm.

She's right. The result is ugly.

"I've used one before."

She looked him over. "But you don't have one." She sighed. "Something else to spend my money on. Given that I'm investing my life's savings in this, I hope you'll understand that I will be making the decisions. You're cute but don't impress me as all that bright. If things work out the way I see them, you and I will have a wonderful adventure secretly digging up ancient dwarven treasure by day and, sharing a tent at night." She gave him a wicked wink. "After all, we'll need to keep up the newlywed ruse. And I figure, since the church worked on this for almost a year, all the really hard work is probably done. So, in a couple weeks, a month tops, you and I will be the richest lovers in the world. Then I can build my own theater and realize my dream. And because you're handsome and don't have a dream of your own, you can be part of mine. What do you say?"

Neither Royce nor Hadrian had returned, and Gwen had no idea where Albert had disappeared to. Tim Blue had also left. She was alone and didn't feel like sitting at the big table by herself, so she took a seat at the pretty bar, which was made to look like a festive jungle hut. The countertop was made of dark teak, the front face adorned with vertical bars of bamboo and completed with a brass footrest. Overhead, thatch made an unnecessary awning while equally uncalled-for wooden posts were wrapped in maritime rope as if to moor a ship. All the stools were painted bright green.

Several seats were open, so she claimed one and sat. The man behind the bar had his back to her as he fiddled with a troublesome tap. Holding tight to her purse, she waited.

Jollin had given her the little bag as a birthday gift a year ago. Nothing more than a cinch-sack, but it held the four gold coins. Jollin, Mae, Etta, Abby, and Christy had saved the money and presented it to her as a thank-you and repayment for the four coins Gwen had spent to save them all from Grue. Just like the original four, Gwen refused to spend these. While not sacred talismans anymore, these coins were sentimental keepsakes. At least they were until Gwen informed the girls she was going on a trip to Tur Del Fur.

"Take the coins," Jollin had told her. "Take them and buy something wonderful for yourself."

"Oh no!" Gwen protested. "Those are —"

"They're money, Gwen. You're supposed to spend money. Look, you buy us stuff all the time. This is a chance to get something for yourself; that's why we gave them to you. We're doing good now — great even. You don't need to worry anymore. Enjoy your life. Use the coins. Get something nice, something fun to remember the adventure. Then that can be your keepsake. You might even get a nightgown that could appeal to a certain someone who moves with the speed of a legless turtle."

They were doing well, but Gwen still worried. The ladies of Medford House had become her responsibility the moment she convinced them to stand up and leave Grue. But Jollin was right. What good was money if you never spent it, and she already had plenty set aside for a storm. But how do you spend symbolic gold? No trinket would ever do.

She'd given the coins to Tim.

It was fitting, even necessary. In doing so, Gwen was paying off a debt, one she owed to a man whose name she never knew. This was the fitting fate of symbolic gold, and the only way the coins could honestly be spent. The question of whether she'd done the right thing, however, lingered, and she still didn't know if her plan would work. Fate might find a way to correct her well-intentioned meddling. Tomorrow morning, someone might still find a dead body wearing a sky blue doublet on the coastal rocks. There was even a chance that because she broke some cosmic law, the sun itself might never rise again. Wondering if she'd just caused the end of the world came with no small degree of stress.

I could really use a drink.

As Gwen waited for the bartender, someone took the seat beside her. Turning, she saw a well-dressed man she guessed to be in his late fifties. His intense black hair looked to have been slicked back with tar. Gwen knew some women who dyed their hair, but she'd never heard of a man doing it — and so badly. His vanity didn't stop there. He was dressed in a doublet and a pair of hose. The doublet was of the new short style — tight to the waist and splitting strategically just above the codpiece that was prominently displayed and decorated in jewels.

He smiled at her. "I've not seen you here before. You're from Calis, yes?"

If his voice were legs, the man's swagger might be crippling.

"Melengar," she replied.

The man looked puzzled, then laughed as if she'd made a joke. "You're very beautiful, no matter where you hail from. Absolutely gorgeous eyes."  The comment was odd as he wasn't looking at her face.

"I'm with someone," she explained.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Is he a duke? Because I am." The man squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "You know what a duke is? Only a king or prince outrank me."

Gwen knew all too well what a duke was, although at Medford House they called them something else, something similar, but which better described the two dukes who had visited. Both were terrible: conceited and demeaning. The fact that this duke wore an overly large codpiece strongly suggested he was a licensed member of that same club.

He put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in. He might have intended to whisper something to her, but she suspected a kiss was on its way. Dukes were busy people and couldn't afford to waste time. She knew this because they so often reminded everyone of this terrible hardship along with having to suffer living with a hag-wife who they were forced to marry. The ladies of Medford House described the haste of dukes in less flattering terms, but followed it by pointing out, "the faster the better, really."  They considered it proof that Novron was a benevolent god.

"Good evening, Your Grace," Lady Constance said, coming up from behind the duke. She looked a little less perfect after her stint on the dance floor. Her skin glistened, and a few strands of hair were out of place.

After their initial introduction, Gwen never wanted to see Lady Constance again, but now, when trapped with the Duke of Dark Hair who was visually molesting her and no doubt plotting to advance to the real thing, Gwen welcomed the lady's company.

"Ah, Lady Constance, how nice to see you again."  The duke greeted her with the level of contempt in his voice usually reserved for hated mothers-in-law and despicable ex-wives. Then he frowned and expelled a disappointed sigh.

"I'm sure," Constance said with an iron smile. "Now, allow me to save your life by informing you that this woman is already taken."

"So she has told me," he replied, this time using a tone that declared he didn't care in the least, and eyes that, despite the presence of Lady Constance, continued to roam Gwen's figure as if it were a banquet and he a starving wretch. Gwen was certain about the wretch part.

"And she is not joking."

"Lady Constance, I have to say I don't appreciate your interruption or your advice. I'm a busy man, and I don't have time to . . . " He hesitated. "Wait . . . "  The duke narrowed his eyes at Constance. "What are you saying?"

"Just this. When I tell you I am trying to save your life, I'm not joking, either."

The duke looked back at Gwen. His eyes did another lap over her body, only this time apprehension filled his face, and he leaned back as if she bore a plague. "Who? It's not Frederick, is it?"  The duke raised his head like a bird in high grass as he surveyed the room.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I honestly think it best not to say."

The duke stood and looked around once more. He gave Gwen a nasty glare as if she had been plotting against him all along. He took Constance's hand. "Thank you, my lady."  Then in a quieter voice he added, "I owe you for this."

Lady Constance whispered back, "Yes, you do — more than you know."

The duke quickly strode off, bumping a table and nearly toppling a drink. Both women watched his struggles to get clear of them. Then Lady Constance took the seat the duke had vacated. She looked at the empty counter before her, and then at the little purse Gwen clutched. "You are not attempting to purchase a drink for yourself, are you?"

"Actually, yes, I was."

Constance shook her head. "Oh, no. That is not allowed."

Gwen let her shoulders fall as her head shook. "Which is it? A woman can't drink at the bar, or are we not allowed to purchase alcohol?"

"What? No," Lady Constance said, shaking her head, then she clapped her palm on the bar. "Hello? Jareb?"  The bartender turned, revealing a thin mustache. "The lady here would appreciate a drink."

"And what does the lady want?"

"I am not certain, but whatever it is, charge it to me, and anything else she cares for. Her coin is no good here. To be blunt, Jareb, if she manages to pay for anything, I will be most disappointed — do we understand each other?"

"We do indeed, ma'am."

Gwen stared, baffled.

"Do you want a list?" Jareb asked, coming over. "Wine perhaps?"

"Ah . . . no, had too much of that before," Gwen replied. "Do you serve good old-fashioned beer?"

"Is ale acceptable?"

"What kind?"

"Regal is our house tap."

"Never heard of it."

Jareb shrugged. "It's what I drink after closing the bar."

"Then pour away, good sir."

"Coming up," Jareb said smartly and reached for a metal mug with the engraving of a parrot on it.

"Make that two," Lady Constance said.

Gwen stared at her, knowing such a thing wasn't proper and that the lady would most likely see it that way. She would be offended and affirmed in her belief that Gwen was an uncouth tramp — a common woman of the streets.

Gwen wanted to hate her, and yet . . .

That duke was definitely going to kiss me. And a Calian madam can't slap someone of that rank and expect to keep her hand.

"Ah . . . thank you for stepping in," Gwen told her. "Nobles are . . . " She hesitated, knowing full well who she spoke to, but she was done walking on eggshells. Gwen had just challenged Fate to an arm wrestling match for the lives of  Tim Blue and his wife, worrying about insulting Lady Constance was no longer in her. "Difficult." She finally settled on, but quickly added, "The higher the rank the more challenging. Dukes in particular are unpleasant. I can't insult them, but I also can't stand them."

Constance suppressed an unexpected laugh. "I could not agree more. And if Royce were to walk in and see him mauling you —"

"Oh! You know, I didn't even think of that."

Lady Constance's brows rose. "That was all I could think of. Your boyfriend doesn't respect rank. He'd murder the Lord Our God Novron if he tried to do what Duke Ibsen was contemplating."

"Why do you say that?" Gwen asked as Jareb delivered the pair of mugs. The liquid was a deep amber color. Both had foam spilling down their sides, and each was garnished with a slice of orange.

"I have hired Riyria, remember?" Lady Constance said. "On numerous occasions. As such, I very much know their reputation, which I can assure you is considerable."

"I know all that. I meant the boyfriend part."

The lady laughed once more and put a hand to her face as if ashamed of herself. "Well, I have eyes — two in fact — and they both work. The man is in love with you, and about as jealous as a squirrel with one acorn facing an endless winter."

This made Gwen laugh. She made no attempt to hide it.

"I didn't mean that as a joke," the lady said.

"Oh, sorry. I just had this image pop into my head of a squirrel wrapped in a dark hood and cape."

Lady Constance put her hand back over her mouth, but Gwen could see the snicker in her eyes. "Oh, wonderful. Now the same picture is in my head." She stared off for a second. "All you can see is his little snout poking out of the hood, right?"

They both laughed together, loudly enough to make Jareb stare.

"What's so funny?"

They both waved him off, shaking their heads.

Constance looked at Gwen fondly. "Since I can see we are having a moment . . . " She raised her mug. "To Tim Blue and his good luck charm."

Gwen froze and stared at her.

"I saw what you did," the lady said.

Gwen looked down at the teak counter with the two puddles of dead foam. "I thought women weren't allowed in the casino?"

"You are correct." Constance took a sip, then set down her drink. "But you caused enough of a ruckus that no one cared — least of all the casino guards, who abandoned their posts to watch."

"Am I in trouble?"

Lady Constance made a most unladylike face and spewed a pfft sound through her lips. "Not with me, certainly. You know, it is rare to witness a truly genuine act of kindness. I am guessing you barely know him. Tim Blue is what? A customer at Medford House who uses a false name while there, I suppose?"

"He used to be a patron. Tim got married, and we never saw him after that. Usually, that isn't the case. I guess that's one of the reasons why I like him. Most of the girls do, too."

"They say you walked in with four gold and walked out with over a hundred. But I know that's not true. You didn't walk out with anything. Baron Everbryant, as everyone else knows him, collected all the money."

Gwen held up her purse. "I got my four coins back."

"Wait — that was your money he wagered? And you let him keep all the winnings?"

"I didn't let him keep anything. He did all the gambling. I just watched."

"Of course you did." Lady Constance grabbed one of the green cloth napkins that perfectly matched the hue of the stools and set her drink on it. Just as before, she set it in the precise center, as if to do otherwise would be a sin. "And were you simply watching when he wanted to keep playing, but you told him . . . what was it now? How did you put it? 'We're not doing this to get rich, Tim. You have what you need to save Edie. It stops here.' "

Gwen didn't reply. That Lady Constance had heard was awkward, that she recalled it word for word was concerning. Gwen lifted her drink to take a sip, then made it a gulp.

"Baron Everbryant has been struggling," Constance said. "Everyone knows that. He and his wife haven't been doing well, but I suspect few knew the depth of his situation until tonight."

"He's paying his debt now," Gwen said. "Left as soon as the casino paid out."

Constance took another sip, this one bigger than the first, and the two sat for a moment, watching Jareb fill the order of a trio of men at the far end of the bar, all three of whom smiled in their direction. Then Constance swung her knees around on the stool and faced Gwen straight on. "I am sorry if I made you feel awkward earlier. That was not my intention, but well, my vocation is courtly politics. I flirt with the men and eviscerate the competition — which is usually women. At this point, it is a reflex. You see, I was unaware that —" She paused and thought a moment. "I did not know that I was in the presence of a real lady." Constance took a breath. "I must say with regard to your profession, my dear, you are as pure as starlight." Constance wiped her mouth, then stood up.

"Are you leaving?" Gwen asked. "You haven't finished your drink."

"My intention was to apologize, not intrude."

"I would have sat at the table if I wanted to be alone." She looked at her drink. "Weren't we going to toast Tim's good fortune?"

Lady Constance smiled. "Generous, kind, and now gracious. Careful, you are likely to ruin my cynical worldview of women, which I daresay, might hinder my livelihood because most of my clients and clients' victims are of the fairer gender."

"Sorry . . . I guess?"

Constance sat back down, and they toasted Tim, then watched as the last open dance was played out.

"Are you and Albert a couple?" Gwen asked.

Constance smiled thoughtfully. "Albert is one of the few people who understands me. We get along because we are alike — both blatant pursuers of self-interest. We love wealth, gossip, fine liquor, wild parties, and lives of reckless debauchery, all while making everyone else believe we are a pair of chaste virgins. And both of us adore the politics of power — and we're good at it. I often wonder how good. It is easy to overestimate oneself, especially when you must play the game properly, but I have often wondered if he and I were to join forces for more than a profit or a laugh, what it is we might be capable of accomplishing. After seeing you in the casino, you must feel the same way about Royce."

She shook her head. "We're not that far along. I've been in love with him for over three years — longer than that, if I'm honest. And while I'm certain now that he loves me, too — and that there's never been any other woman . . . he . . . ah . . . well . . . it was only two nights ago that he finally kissed me. And he was so drunk that I'm not sure he remembers. We're an odd couple. Both broken, I guess, and it's hard for two shattered hands to mend one another."

"Another round, ladies?" Jareb asked.

The two looked at each other. "Oh, absolutely."

The dancers left the floor, and the band adjusted for the late-night set of acts, leaving The Blue Parrot in unaccustomed silence, at least of the musical variety. Plenty of plates and glasses clinked and fists pounded on tables, and a hundred conversations continued to rumble like a loud wind or rushing river.

Jareb delivered the new drinks, placing them on the puddles left by the prior ones. Lady Constance promptly cleaned up the mess with her napkin. Then she procured a new one and reset her mug in proper order.

"So, how did you do it?" she asked Gwen. "How did you beat the casino?"

Gwen took a sip of her drink. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

Gwen, who was just starting to feel the ale, spoke into her cup. "I can see the future."

Lady Constance smiled and shook her head, dislodging another wayward strand of hair. "Very well, keep your secret. I suppose I would be reticent to reveal such a thing, too. And not to me of all people. Secrets are my stock-in-trade, and I would sell you out in a minute."

Gwen stared at Constance again, but this time she really looked, not at the imposing noble lady, but at the person. Constance had a small rebellion taking place with her hair, as a host of locks had escaped the tower, causing her to brush them aside. Her face was a bit flushed. Her forehead and neck glistened because The Blue Parrot had heated up, so much, in fact, that the main doors were now propped open. She sat with her elbows on the bar. Her lips lost their neutrality, choosing more often to smile. Gwen saw an actual woman behind the façade of the perfect lady.

"I don't think you would," Gwen said.

"No?"

Gwen shook her head. "You aren't a cold-hearted, selfish mercenary. That's a mask you wear. You're hiding a lot and have your own secrets that you can't tell anyone. Makes me sad, really. Maybe it isn't just me and Royce. Maybe, deep down, everyone is a little broken. Some are just better at hiding it than others."

Lady Constance reached for her ale and toppled the cup. "Oh dear, look at that. I am clumsier than I thought."

Royce returned to the Parrot and felt an awful sinking in his stomach when he didn't see anyone at their table.

"Where are they?" he asked.

The man who had entered with him remained silent, and very well could have been mute.

"You realize that if your boss harms any of them, you'll be the first to die. Nothing personal. You're just the closest."

The man smirked. Royce didn't know his name and didn't care. He still had Alverstone. Cornelius's men hadn't searched him. Royce didn't know how to interpret that.

Incompetence? A show of trust? Or a demonstration of how little they fear me? Maybe a bit of all three.

"Royce!" Gwen shouted and waved from the little jungle bar where she sat beside Lady Constance.

Relief washed through him. He made quick work of the crowd, slicing across the room to where the two women sat. Gwen was on her feet, a great grin on her face. Royce fought a terrible desire to hug her. If they were alone, he would have, but not with Lady Constance there, and absolutely not in front of the ghost. "Are you all right?"

"I'm great," she said, smiling more than usual. "How are you? I thought you'd be back sooner. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything is fine. Where is Hadrian?"

"He hasn't come back yet."

He had expected her to say he went to the gorilla or was off with Albert and Arcadius. Royce was already picking the words to berate him for leaving Gwen alone. Now, he had another worry.

Two steps forward, one step back.

"Do you remember him saying anything about where he was going?"

She shook her head. "Just said he'd be right back."

"Are you going to introduce us to your new companion?" Lady Constance asked, her eyes gesturing at the ghost.

"No."

"It is most rude to ignore a person, Mister Melborn."

"He's not a person. He's a ghost."

"Seems pretty real, Royce," Gwen said, as she now also stared at him.

"I don't mean a real ghost. He's . . . "

In the Black Diamond, everyone understood the term ghost just as they did bucketman, or sweeper, but the terms never fully translated to the outside world. You could say a bucketman was an assassin and a sweeper a pickpocket to convey the essentials. But still this failed to explain the totality of the details, and ghost was even harder to define. Royce struggled to think of a word that came close. "Well, he's . . . I don't know . . . like a chaperone, I guess. His job is to watch me — that's all. So, he's just a ghost, understand. Ignore him."

Gwen and Lady Constance looked at each other, appearing a bit amused and a little too chummy for Royce's liking. "Have you been drinking?"

Gwen nodded, then proudly stated, "We both have. Regal Ales." She looked at Constance. "Isn't that right?"

Constance nodded. "Indeed, two cups each."

"Yes!" Gwen agreed, and she grinned at the Lady. "Are you good with numbers? You are, aren't you? I should have you do my accounting. Better yet, I should accept Arcadius's invitation to study at his school."

A drumbeat that began outside grew dramatically louder. A few shouts of surprise and curiosity erupted near the entrance, and the crowd pulled back as through the open door a procession of dwarfs entered The Blue Parrot.

Royce counted twenty, all dressed in fine clothes, their beards braided and adorned with metal clips and rings. With a long beard and dressed in silver and gold, the lead dwarf wore pieces of old-fashioned battle armor and carried a blue-and-black flag with a mountain crest. Behind him, a drummer beat a marching rhythm. Each dwarf wore an empty scabbard. They all filed down the middle of the hall and walked right up to the stage, where they turned and faced the crowd. The drum went silent, as did the room.

Royce noted the congestion near the exit and calculated exactly how best to get Gwen out before trouble started. He reached to take her by the wrist, but then the dwarfs started to sing. The song began softly and all together as a choir. Their voices were deep, and united as they were, the sound shook the room. Then another, much higher set of voices joined in, floating above the rest, as a second group entered the Parrot. These were female dwarfs dressed in lavish gowns of vibrant colors. They entered in a slow procession, stepping with the beat of the drum.

Royce didn't understand the words. Yet, ignorant as he was of the dwarven language, he felt the impact as the voices dropped low, rumbled, then burst into a soaring chorus. Tears glistened on the faces of the singers as they held the notes until their breaths gave out.

Silence followed as everyone stared, stunned.

Then, just as they entered, they left.

"What was that?" Albert found them at the bar as the last of the dwarfs passed out of  the Parrot.

Lady Constance replied, "The Belgric Royal Anthem."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.