Chương 62: V3: Chapter 3 - The Visitor

After a good night's sleep and breakfast at the Silver Pitcher Inn, Hadrian felt decidedly better. Not that he had been feeling much pain the night before — even after falling off the horse, which he only barely remembered — the mild hangover didn't bother him. A little headache was nothing compared to how he'd felt on the way to Roe, which was downright nauseated.

He and Royce had been hired to murder a woman in her own bed, and Hadrian couldn't think of anything more distasteful, aside from perhaps butchering small children who slept in their mothers' arms. He refused to be party to the killing, but Royce had accepted the job. It had been a lean year, but the project wasn't taken because of the money. Hadrian had volunteered to clean stables and share his pay if Royce turned the contract down; he refused. Royce wanted to kill the woman.

Not her in particular, anyone would do. Hadrian didn't know all the details, but he did know that Royce, who had been a thief all his life, had achieved the status of assassin in the criminal guild known as the Black Diamond. While abhorrent to most people, Royce's position was a highly respected occupation within a certain slice of the population, and he took pride in his work. However, since the two of them had teamed up four years ago, Royce hadn't had much opportunity to ply his trade.

They mostly made their living with theft. Not that they cut purses or picked pockets. Instead, they stole for others. Contracts for jobs were arranged by Royce and Hadrian's associate, Albert Winslow. Being a viscount, he moved in affluent circles. They stole baubles for ladies and ledgers for businessmen, intercepted letters, spied on spouses, and planted evidence for blackmail. On only two occasions had they come close to contracted murder. In Dulgath, they were hired to advise on how to perform an assassination.

But less than a year ago, they had received a true murder contract. Royce had been hired to kill everyone associated with the death of Genevieve Winter. The problem, as it happened, was that Genny was still alive. Royce had been teased with a dream job only to have it snatched away. This, Hadrian believed, had instilled an itch that Royce felt a growing desire to scratch. In many ways, Royce was an exceptionally talented artisan whose greatest skill was underutilized.

Hadrian understood this sense of wasted ability. He himself had been trained, practically from birth, to kill, but as a soldier, not an assassin. And while he rarely ever drew steel these days, he continued to carry three swords wherever he went. He and Royce were a pair of fish thrown up on land to gasp and flop, stranded in a desert and seeking a body of water to call home. But at least Hadrian hadn't been a party to the murder of a woman for money.

That was a low he had managed to avoid, at least for now, which meant this was a good day. It's the little victories that provide men the strength to keep moving. The weather was warmer but still cold, as it was apt to be that time of year. The displeasure was made worse due to the rumor that spring was close. That was the popular gossip, at least. Only the farmers and priests seemed to know.

And despite the wet snow that fell as they rode, the days were longer than they had been, and the roads were clear of drifts. The hazy white ball of light was nearly overhead as the two arrived back on Wayward Street in the Lower Quarter of Medford. Sun-afflicted icicles along the eaves of The Rose and Thorn Tavern dripped a soft rhythm on the roof of a coach parked out front. Coaches and carriages were not unheard of in the Lower Quarter. These days they weren't even unusual.

The popularity of Medford House, home for professional comfort and congeniality, drew wealthy merchants and nobles to the otherwise destitute little alley. What a delight it must be for the prim and proper; how thrilling to adventure into the dangerous dark streets where secrets lacked the legs to exit into the light of day. What Hadrian found odd was that this particular conveyance did not appear to be a merchant's coach or a noble's carriage.

It lacked the frills that made the fancy buggies look like debutantes desperate for approval. This was a no-nonsense, eight-seater, two-toned coach-and-four. The top half was lacquered black with sparingly implemented gold-painted filigree accents. The lower portion and spoked wheels were constructed from a heavily varnished and buffed-to-shiny red hardwood. On the door in elegant script was a bronze plate proclaiming Hanson and Son. Despite the snow, two men worked the coach.

The elder, who was in the process of blanketing the four horses, had gray in his beard and years on his face. He wore a thick wool wrap like those worn by carriage drivers in the Gentry Quarter. A younger man with a darker, shorter beard inspected the wheels and displayed his youthful indifference to the weather by making do with but a thin tunic and leather vest.

The two could be portraits of the same person painted thirty years apart, making Hadrian suspect they might comprise the titular Hanson and Son, though neither appeared wealthy enough to own their own coach. Royce delivered Hadrian a puzzled look as the two dismounted. Hadrian shrugged in return. After pulling their gear and returning their animals to the stable, the two entered The Rose and Thorn, which at midday had few customers. The usuals were there — those between jobs, without jobs, or incapable of work.

These were the sort who drank their meals. Dixon kept track of their tabs on a slate behind the bar. The present leader of the blackboard tally was a newcomer, a grizzled blacksmith named Mason Grumon who had recently opened a shop on Artisan Row but never seemed to work there.

"The boys are back!" Dixon shouted in his deep baritone as the two entered. Those at the bar clapped or hammered the wood with their mugs, as if Royce and Hadrian were walking onto a stage. Royce scowled, then sighed as the two crossed to the hearth.

"I think it's nice," Hadrian said, pulling off his cloak and shaking the wet out before hanging it on a wall peg near the fire.

"Sort of like having a family."

"If this were your family, you ought to sympathy-kill your parents."

"Okay, so it's not like I would brag about my siblings." He glanced around the common room, then approached the bar.

"Drink?" Dixon asked.

"I just loaded a new keg of Imperial Gold."

"No!" Royce shouted sternly from the back of the room, where he was still shaking out his cloak.

"Do not give that man a drink." Hadrian nodded.

"He's right. I emptied the barrel last night down in Roe. Doubt I'll be invited back anytime soon. But hey, I'm curious... whose coach is that out front?" Dixon stuck out his lower lip and shrugged his big shoulders.

"No idea. Been a topic of some interest for a couple of hours now."

"No one saw who got out?"

"That's just it," Mason Grumon said.

"No one did."

"Someone had to, Mason. You just didn't see 'em," Kenyon the Clean argued. Kenyon was the owner of the soapmaking shop that most days defined the hallmark smell of Wayward Street. He was a welcome customer because everyone in the Lower Quarter could breathe easily so long as he was in The Rose and Thorn rather than stoking his vats.

"I'm telling ya that thar coach rolled up empty, or I ain't no blacksmith."

"Not sure whose side of this argument you're on now, Grumon," Roy the Sewer said and laughed in a maniacal manner that displayed his famously hideous set of twisted yellow teeth. There wasn't any part of Roy that didn't teeter on that side of macabre. He had one eye larger than the other — different colors, too. Both were doleful, but one was milky. His thin, greasy hair lay plastered to his skull, like he'd just gotten out of a bath.

But if he had ever bathed, it was in the foul muck that ran in the stream behind the shops, which provided him with his unique smell and his well-earned title. After the sudden and disturbing outburst, everyone stared, causing Roy the Sewer to return to his occupation of swirling what was left of his stale beer as if trying to raise it from the dead. Each day he came in for a drink, but only one, and his name never appeared on the slate. Hadrian was certain that Dixon paid for his refreshment.

"Lucky me, sandwiched between these two," Grumon said, glancing at Roy, then Kenyon.

"Put 'em together, and I don't know if they'd make good bug repellent or if they'd attract every fly in the city."

"Is Albert here?" Royce asked.

"Diamond Room," Dixon replied.

"Diamond? Not the Dark?"

"He and Gwen are chatting with some old fellow. Really nice sort, very friendly, but odd. Actually, I think he came looking for you two."

"Odd how?"

"Dresses in fancy robes. Talks a lot — uses big words. And he has these little round circles of glass perched on his nose." Royce and Hadrian exchanged looks as they quickly headed for the archway that divided the bar area from the larger, diamond-shaped room. This was an addition that the owner, Gwen DeLancy, had built to join The Rose and Thorn to her other business — Medford House. The extension doubled the size of the tavern, but because it lacked a fireplace, it was chilly in winter, and patrons shunned it.

There were, in fact, only three people in the Diamond Room: Gwen, Albert Winslow, and...

"Professor Arcadius?" Hadrian said the moment they entered. The thin, elderly man, white-bearded and dressed in a blue robe, sat in the middle of a bench seat at the table tucked into the acute back corner of the room. At the sound of his name, he lifted his spectacles and peered up at them.

"Riyria, I presume."

"What are you doing here?" Royce asked in a sharp tone as he approached the group. Royce looked at Gwen.

"What's he been telling you?"

"Mostly how wonderful the two of you are." Gwen smiled at him, and instantly Royce stopped as if he'd hit an invisible wall. His shoulders lowered, his eyes relaxed, and he stood staring at her as if he'd forgotten what he was doing. Hadrian guessed it was more the smile than the words. Such a look from Gwen had the power to incapacitate the thief better than a blow to the head.

"What brings you here?" Hadrian asked the professor.

"You two, of course. Had to come, didn't I? It's been four years, and neither of you so much as bothered to ride the few miles to Sheridan to let me know you're alive." He leaned toward Gwen as if speaking to her in confidence, despite talking just as loudly as before.

"When I extolled that long list of virtues about these two, I left out their astounding thoughtlessness. We parted under less than perfect circumstances, you understand. I asked them to visit on occasion. Told them how I'd appreciate it if they eventually told me how things worked out, but they never did."

"The professor has been telling us how he brought you two together," Albert said. The landless viscount was dressed in his work clothes: a silk shirt covered by a lavish doublet, beneath a robe, and under a dress jacket. But like any common off-duty millworker, the collar of his doublet and shirt were unhooked and thrown wide. His legs stretched out into the room, shoes off, toes flexing within dark woolen hose.

"Quite the interesting tale, actually."

"Was it?" Royce found his voice once more, and it retained that unhappy edge.

"And what exactly did you tell them... professor?"

"Why, the truth, of course. How I persuaded the two of you to help me borrow a rare book, and how much you hated each other. It was just as likely that Royce would slit Hadrian's throat as it was for Hadrian to stab Royce through the heart. Was a dangerous gamble on my part, but I knew if they stuck together — if they were forced to stay united — they'd make a remarkable team. And I'm pleased to see I was right. Even a bit flattered that you adopted Riyria as your working name."

"Anything else?" Royce pressed. Arcadius shook his head, wagging his white beard so that it brushed the table.

"Like what? I mean, there really isn't much else to tell unless you want me to get into your ill-treatment of horses." He looked to Albert, then Gwen.

"They left theirs tethered in the wilderness for days. Poor things nearly died."

"So did we," Royce pointed out in a brutal tone.

"You found Dancer?" Hadrian asked.

"I did indeed," Arcadius said.

"Got worried about you and sent some of the older boys up north on a field trip. They failed to find you but brought your horses back to the university, and once I heard where you were, I had them delivered."

"Really?" Hadrian said.

"How did you think they ended up out front of The Rose and Thorn?"

"I don't know. I guess I just thought Dancer found her way back to me like one of those faithful hounds who sniff out their beloved master."

"And the note that was left in your saddlebag?"

"There was a note?" Royce stood up against the front of the table directly across from the professor. The only light in the room came from the winter-brilliant windows behind him, and his shadow ran across the table and over the old man. He leaned in.

"So, you did know we were alive. Then tell me, why are you here now?"

"Well, after you left, I heard rumors that two men narrowly escaped the ecclesiastical tyranny of Ghent. Seret knights seeking the fugitives followed their trail to Medford. And I later heard that a man covered in blood was seen on Wayward Street begging for help for his dying friend. Granted, that didn't sound at all like you. But it was remarkable that both of these men vanished without a trace.

Then, a year later, there was this unpleasant business with Lord Exeter and a spree of public executions that reminded me of someone — murders that were in retribution for harm done to the ladies of Medford House." He dipped his head toward Gwen.

"When I finally heard about a nefarious pair of evildoers calling themselves Riyria, well, you don't obtain the position of professor at a university by being stupid. Still, suspicions are not the same as knowing. The fact that neither of you had visited or sent word in four years had me worried. So, I came down to see for myself what had become of the two seeds I'd planted so long ago." Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

"Sorry we didn't visit," Hadrian said.

"We just —""Don't apologize to him," Royce snapped.

"He nearly got us killed. If it hadn't been for his idiotic demands —""You probably would have gone your separate ways," Arcadius said.

"And both of you would likely be dead. The men I knew were mere shadows of the two that stand before me now. You've done well for yourselves here. And this lady beside me is quite a gem to have in your pocket."

"This is Gwen DeLancy, and she's not in anyone's pocket," Royce said.

"Of course not. I only meant she's a wonderful friend to have on your side. She's both intelligent and loyal. And if you doubt anything I've said, take a moment and try to recall that other Royce Melborn, the one of four years past. That vicious little thief couldn't name a single soul he trusted, but this fellow before me — this Royce Melborn of The Rose and Thorn — he has two friends, and a fine pair they are.

Real wealth is not measured in the weight of useless yellow metal, but by the hearts of those that love you." The professor straightened up.

"But don't worry, Royce. Your debt has been paid. I only stopped by to see how my handiwork turned out and possibly have a meal. I'll be heading back to Sheridan in the morning."

"Fine," Royce said. There was still a hint of suspicion in his eyes, but the trail of recrimination had gone cold with nothing deceitful to show for it.

"How did the job go?" Albert asked, his voice gloomy and weighted with apprehension, as if inquiring about a beloved horse who had broken her leg. Albert personally knew Lillian Traval, and Hadrian guessed he liked her.

"Quite well." Royce drew out his purse and dropped it on the table, where it hit with a considerable thud.

"Got paid double." Albert looked lost.

"You got paid? I don't understand. That's my job. Was Hurbert there? Did he pay you?"

"Nope, and when you go to collect, tell Lord Traval his wife was alone when I found her."

"And was she?" Royce smirked. Albert's mouth opened and hung there. He looked at the bag on the table then back up at Royce.

"Then where did the money come from?"

"Lady Traval."

"She's alive?... But you were supposed to —""She offered more."

"She offered — oh. Oh! That's wonderful!" A wide smile broadened Albert's face, his eyes suddenly bright.

"You took a job to murder a woman?" Arcadius asked.

"A known adulteress," Royce replied.

"The job came from her husband."

"And you didn't kill her because she paid you more money?"

"Sometimes, even I get lucky."

"And you were fine with this?" Arcadius asked Hadrian. The tone of disapproval was obvious, and Hadrian knew what the professor was getting at. Arcadius had coerced Royce and Hadrian to work as a team so that Hadrian might prove to have a positive moral influence on the unprincipled thief. Before Hadrian could offer an apology, Royce answered for him.

"He stayed in Roe and got drunk. And just like the job you sent us on, I knew that this one didn't require the both of us. And once more, I was proven correct."

"I see." The professor glanced at Gwen, then out the windows, as if pondering something profound. But then, Hadrian imagined everything the professor thought was deep. Royce and Hadrian pulled up seats across from the professor, the viscount, and Gwen.

"Why are you all on one side?" Hadrian asked.

"For warmth," Arcadius answered. Gwen sat up.

"I was telling the professor how costly it would be to build a hearth and chimney in this room, and he suggested I might heat it by simply getting an iron box large enough to hold a few split logs. I could light a fire in it and use a big metal pipe to vent the smoke out through the roof. He thinks it would heat this whole room."

"It would indeed," the professor said.

"And we wouldn't need to huddle like newborn pups to keep from shivering."

"I was thinking of asking Mason Grumon how much he'd charge to make it."

"By the looks of the board behind the bar, he ought to do it in return for a clean slate," Hadrian said. Gwen gave him a wink and a nod.

"My thoughts exactly."

"Royce, Hadrian," Albert said as he counted the coins on the table, forming four piles that would be their individual shares. Royce and Hadrian's were the largest; Albert's was half their size and Gwen's the smallest, "I know you just got back, but I have another job lined up and ready to go."

"Something's wrong," Royce said, watching Albert count the coins. This caused the viscount to look up, concerned.

"You're actually doing your job. I don't know whether to be impressed or suspicious. What sort of assignment is this new one?" Albert gave a hesitant glance at Arcadius.

"He's fine," Royce said.

"I know where he lives."

"Though he doesn't appear to know how to get there," Arcadius lamented. Albert shrugged.

"I think you're going to like this one — the both of you. There's a Lord Byron down in Delgos who's interested in hiring the two of you to prevent a dwarf from sabotaging Drumindor."

"What's Drumindor?" Hadrian asked.

"Drumindor is an ancient dwarven fortress that guards the entrance to Terlando Bay and the city of Tur Del Fur," Arcadius explained.

"It was built many thousands of years ago over the top of Mount Druma, a very active volcano that made settling Terlando Bay impossible until the dwarfs tamed it with the construction of Drumindor. It's quite an ingenious engineering achievement. Not only do the two towers safely vent the volcano's destructive gases, thus preventing eruption, they also can use that same buildup of geological pressure to spew molten rock hundreds of feet and sink any unfortunate wooden vessel that might seek to invade the bay."

"That's right." Albert looked impressed.

"He's the lore master at Sheridan University," Hadrian explained.

"Oh." Albert nodded.

"The way Lord Byron describes it, Drumindor is a city utility, part of the Port Authority. Lord Byron administrates the Port Authority and is responsible for Drumindor. There's been some trouble down there with the dwarfs recently, and Lord Byron had to fire a great many that used to work at the fortress. One disgruntled fellow named Gravis Berling appears to have been particularly upset, and Lord Byron believes he may be plotting revenge."

"If this Lord Byron is the head of the Port Authority, doesn't he command a small army?" Royce asked.

"Why does he need us?"

"The real power down there is a trio of merchants known as the Triumvirate; they appointed Lord Byron to his position. Apparently, Lord Byron reported his concerns, and the Unholy Trio — as some call them — have refused to do anything about it. Lord Byron isn't a fool. He knows that he'll be held responsible if anything happens, so he's interested in purchasing an insurance policy through Riyria."

"Why won't this Triumvirate do anything?" Hadrian asked. Albert pushed up his lower lip in disregard.

"It's just one dwarf, and an old one at that. The poor fellow lost his job, so he's vowing revenge over cups at the local pubs. But what can one dwarf do to a several-thousand-year-old fortress?"

"All right," Royce said, "but what exactly does Lord Byron want us to do?"

"I suppose he wants you to find and watch this Gravis fellow, and make sure he's not planning anything."

"And if he is?"

"Well..." Albert gave sheepish looks at Gwen and Arcadius.

"We all know how you feel about dwarfs, Royce. That's why I thought you'd like the job. And seeing as how it's a public service sanctioned by the administrator of the Delgos Port Authority, it's not even against the law, which I thought Hadrian would like as well. Also, you can't beat the location. Tur Del Fur is one of the most delightful cities in the world. People of means travel there from all over. So many make a habit of it that they have a name for them — turists."

"What makes it so popular?" Gwen asked.

"For one, it doesn't snow down there. Because Tur Del Fur is situated on the southernmost tip of Delgos and warmed by the balmy Calian currents that bathe its coast, it enjoys an eternal summer. It's all tropical plants and cool ocean breezes. And, being in the republic, it has some of the finest eateries, public houses, and entertainment anywhere."

"But it's a job," Royce said.

"Not a vacation."

"Depends on how you look at it."

"That would depend on how much this Lord Byron is willing to pay."

"That's the interesting part." Albert pulled himself up before his little stack of gold coins and leaned forward.

"He'll only cough up sixty gold, but —""Sixty?" Royce balked.

"Tur Del Fur is a long way from Medford. And travel is not cheap. The price of horse feed is up this time of year. And how long does he want us to hang around and watch this guy? We could be there for months. That's a lot of expense, and it sounds like Tur Del Fur is pricey."

"It is, which is why I demanded he pay for all expenses."

"You did?" Albert smiled.

"How do you think I survived all these years as a landless noble?"

"You sold your clothes for liquor," Hadrian pointed out.

"Well, yes, but that was during a particularly low point. For years before that, I lived off the generosity of the wealthy. To be honest, the few gold coins they toss at Riyria is nothing compared to what can be had with an expense account. For whatever reason, it is a well-known fact that a miserly baron or prince, who would laugh at the idea of paying a fair wage to an employee, will happily expend a fortune to demonstrate his generosity in accommodations for those in his service."

"Why is that?"

"Honor." Albert said the word like it was a joke.

"If you're in a noble's pay, that makes you the noble's man. What you do and how you do it reflects on them. The likes of Lord Byron would be ashamed to have his men walking about in filthy rags and staying in a hovel. It would suggest he's poor, or cheap. And there's this old tradition of hospitality and generosity that — while it doesn't extend to fair pay — demands that guests, even contracted ones, be treated like royalty. In the world of the gentry, reputation is their currency.

To be seen as generous and true to your word is everything. And Lord Byron, while now a resident of the Republic of Delgos, is an old-fashioned noble, a transplant from Maranon. Like myself, he lost his family fief, but unlike me, he's a skilled and hard worker. Lord Byron realized he could make a fortune serving the merchant cartels of Delgos if he just swallowed a bit of pride. And he was right. Still, I can tell the man laments the loss of his noble heritage.

He still attaches the title of Lord to his name in a place where that's more of a detriment. As a result, while we might not return with a dragon's hoard to squirrel away for our old age, we can look forward to an absolutely wonderful free holiday."

"We?" Royce asked. Again, Albert looked abashed.

"I took the liberty of explaining that it would be more than merely the two of you. That an operation of this sort would require additional support."

"Which includes you," Hadrian said.

"Of course. You'll need your liaison to meet with Lord Byron, secure lodging, make reports, provide updates, and collect the fee when the task is complete. And have you seen it outside?" Albert pointed toward the windows where the snow was coming down harder.

"My frail constitution born of blue blood was not meant for such harsh conditions."

"That's brilliant," Arcadius said.

"In fact, I think we should all go. Tell me, Gwendolyn, how long has it been since you've set foot outside of Medford?" Gwen looked surprised by the question, shocked that she was being included in the conversation.

"I haven't left since I first came here, years ago."

"Exactly. And I can say from personal experience that Tur Del Fur is, in fact, the most beautiful and enjoyable place on the face of Elan. The waters of the palm-tree-lined harbor are sapphire blue. The sunsets and sunrises are wonders to behold, and the music is so enchanting that a person could lose themselves in it. The food and drinks aren't merely sustenance but rather works of art crafted by master artisans.

And there are dozens of theaters performing a variety of acts: everything from original dramas and comedies to acrobats, animal acts, and displays of magic. And this is in addition to the uncountable smaller shows in every danthum."

"What's a danthum?" Gwen asked, her face bright with the imagery that the professor painted.

"Oh, it's sort of like an upscale tavern, except they have entertainment every night and serve exquisite meals to order. They're very popular. You see, being a free city of the Republic of Delgos with a very liberal sense of itself, Tur Del Fur has attracted many great artists, poets, writers, dancers, and philosophers. With so much talent and so few restrictions, the city is a wellspring of creativity and an intellectual lodestone. A truly marvelous place that everyone ought to see at least once in their life.

Besides"— he leaned toward her and winked — "have you seen it outside?" Arcadius then faced Royce.

"Having Gwen along sounds like an excellent idea. Or do you think that after all she's done for you, she doesn't deserve a few weeks' break from her toil and drudgery? Certainly this wonderful lady deserves a holiday."

"I'm more interested in how you fit into all this," Royce said.

"Chaperone, my boy. Really can't allow a gentle fawn such as Gwendolyn DeLancy to be traveling abroad with three wolves such as yourselves. This is what old men such as I were made for — one of the few things we're still capable of."

"How thoughtful," Royce said.

"But I doubt Albert secured an allowance for five."

"Actually"— Albert rocked his head side to side — "I never said how many would be needed. An argument could easily be made that Gwen is your domestic help, and you have a particular fetish about never allowing anyone else to touch your things. That's actually quite a common eccentricity — some might say affliction — among the pampered gentry, something they'll understand and accept even if it seems absurd to you.

And given that the professor is a teacher of lore at Sheridan, it's an easy argument that he's indispensable for his contributions of historical and cultural information that will allow you to unravel the complex nature of the dwarven culture and the history of the fortress."

"Albert," Hadrian said with a dash of awe, "you're amazing."

"That's nothing. I once lived for five years in a palace with an eight-person staff, my own personal carriage and driver, and three separate concubines, one of whom was the niece of the high chamberlain."

"What happened?"

"The chamberlain found out. Barely escaped with my life."

"What do you say, Royce?" Hadrian asked.

"Job sounds easy enough. We go, check out this guy for a week or so, maybe even warn him off, and spend the rest of the time pretending we're wealthy merchants. Worst case scenario, you might have to kill a dwarf." Royce picked up and slipped away his stack of coins, his expression taut with irritation, as if struggling with a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"Seems a bit too good to be true."

"And what do you think, Gwendolyn?" Arcadius asked. She took a deep breath and looked at Royce, that magical smile filling her face and making her dark eyes shine.

"It does sound wonderful. I haven't ever been any place people would call nice. I couldn't afford it. And..." She looked around.

"I certainly couldn't ask for better company. But I understand if taking me would bother you, Royce. I'm certain I would get in the way, and I don't want to be a burden. You all go. I have work to do here. The bathtub needs a good scrubbing." Royce sighed.

"We only have the two horses." Once more, Albert grinned and drew himself up like a child at the adult's table.

"Don't even need those, not when you're in the service of the nobility. I took the liberty of chartering a coach for the trip. That's it outside. Hanson and Son Stagecoach Service."

"Stage coach?"

"Oh, yes, the Hansons have been very successful with their innovative idea. They drive the coach, splitting the time on the reins and only stopping to switch horses at stages along the route. They claim they can get us from here to Tur Del Fur in only two to four days — depending on weather."

"Two days?" Hadrian said.

"I know! Normally it can take ten days to two weeks."

"And we're going to do it in two days?"

"Well, that's what they claim. There's a scheduled overnight stay in the small town of Kruger," Albert said.

"But that's optional, so I told them we'd prefer to get there as quickly as possible." Looking at Gwen he added, "But I could change that if you prefer."

"I can handle sleeping in a luxurious coach. And it can take all of us?" Gwen asked, excited.

"Yes, it seats eight with luggage. Four inside, four out, so one of us will need to brave the elements."

"I'm certain Hadrian won't mind," Arcadius offered. Hadrian didn't, so he nodded. He was used to poor-weather travel, and he certainly wouldn't expect the professor or Gwen to take a high seat in the cold and wet. As Albert had arranged for the coach, he also ought to have an inside seat, and Hadrian knew that Royce, while he would never say it, might literally kill to ride beside Gwen.

"Oh — but we can switch along the way," Gwen told him.

"I don't mind a little snow in my face."

"It's settled then," Arcadius declared with a clap of his hands.

"And if those poor men have been out in the cold minding their coach, we shouldn't keep them waiting much longer."

"I'll need to grab some things from the House and let the girls know I'm leaving," Gwen told everyone as she stood up, her eyes wide, her voice absolutely effervescent. She was all smiles.

"This is so exciting."

"You sure?" Hadrian asked, "You seemed to be looking forward to scrubbing soap scum from that tub." Gwen slapped him playfully on the shoulder.

"This is going to be wonderful." Gwen, Albert, and Arcadius moved off to pack, leaving Royce and Hadrian alone in the room. They watched the others exit, then stood there for a full minute in silence until Hadrian finally said, "You're terrified, aren't you?" Royce continued to stare at the door.

"I'm honestly considering drinking a beer."