With a touch of Auberon’s hand, a solid stone wall in the bare-faced portion of the cliff rolled back revealing a hidden room. As it did, and for the first time since Rehn’s death, Hadrian bothered to notice his surroundings.

The four of them had been walking up Berling Way in the pouring rain. Hadrian didn’t know where they were headed and didn’t care. The flood of water rushing down the pavement served to remind him of that first night alone with Millie. How the storm had trapped the two of them in that darkened doorway. And how nice and warm she felt pressing against him. Millie was different: ambitious, brave, playful, exciting, and incredibly talented. He felt she was just the sort of woman he could spend his life with. Someone who would challenge him, push them both to be more than either thought possible. He really suspected he might find happiness with her…right up until he realized she was only after the diary. Every time Hadrian thought of that book his hands clenched into fists. That diary had caused the deaths of Lady Martell, Virgil Puck, and the courier. Then, that very same night, it nearly killed Rehn Purim. Hadrian had told Rehn to give the diary to the Gingerdead man to save the kid’s life. He thought it worked, but three weeks later the diary was at it again. This time Rehn died. If there was ever an evil book, the Diary of Falkirk was it.

Hadrian was deep inside this moist and muddled world of hatred and regret when the sliding wall of stone drew his attention. Like an elephant balancing on a stool, it just wasn’t something you saw everyday. The power of this novelty would have worn off, leaving Hadrian to slip back into his comfortable depression, except for two additional things: One was the crowd of dwarfs inside and their abrupt silence at the sight of Royce and himself. The other was the smell of ale.

Auberon led the way into what looked to be a well-to-do cave. An eerie green light illuminated the small space that was graced with a fine floor, but rough-cut stone walls. Unlike the Turtle this didn’t appear to be a stylistic choice so much as laziness. In the same manner the ceiling was low and no effort had been made to smooth or finish the furrows and gouges left behind by a chisel, which endowed the ceiling with a interesting textured pattern. While all of this was intriguing, Hadrian’s eyes were drawn to a stone counter laden with cups that looked enough like a bar to give him hope. Filling the place was more than a dozen dwarfs who stood shoulder to shoulder…motionless. Some held cups nearly to their lips; others held mouths open as if about to speak; heads were all turned to face them; eyes stared in shock, but not one moved.

“Auberon!” The lady dwarf with the towel that Hadrian remembered from the day before broke the spell. She rushed out from behind the bar with that same towel slung over one shoulder. Her eyes were just as wide as the rest as she approached holding her hands out as if to stop them.

“Good day to you, Sloan,” Auberon greeted her.

“Auberon! Are ya outta yer mind?”

“Relax dear, everything is fine,” the old dwarf assured her.

“Fine? And how is it you calculate that figure, I want to know? By Drome’s beard nothing is anywhere near close to being fine today.” She pulled the towel off her shoulder and used to as prop to speak with whipping it in the air like a tiny cloth whip. “Humans are all abandoning the place like ants scrambling from a hot skillet. No one can get into Drumindor, and Gravis bloody Berling is going to blow this whole place off the map. And now,” she whipped the end of her towel in their direction. “You walk in here with them? The name of this place is Scram the Scallie and here you stroll in with three of them? Are you daft, sir?”

Auberon smiled mischievously and gave her a wink. “Set the four of us up with a pint of your best ale, and I’ll explain why it is you’re going to kiss me as if I was a dashing young colt again.”

The old dwarf shooed away those at the bar, who scattered at his approach. When he reached the brass rail, he turned and faced the crowd. “First allow me to introduce our friends. This is Royce Melborn an assassin and thief of notorious reputation, and his partner Hadrian Blackwater a one-time soldier, turned mercenary, turned disillusioned seeker of truth. They were hired by Lord Byron to murder Gravis before he caused any trouble.”

“Not terribly good at their profession, are they?” Sloan accused as she walked back behind the bar and pulled cups from the rack. She took her time doing it as if she hoped serving them was a sentence that still had time to be repealed. “And who’s the other one?”

“That’s Karl Baxter, agent of Cornelius DeLur sent—I assume—to make certain they did what they were supposed to.”

Sloan turned around with four cups in two hands. “So, all three are worth about as much as a gold tenent made of wood, is what you’re telling me. Maybe I ought to wait before pouring these drinks until you clear up this rainstorm you invited in.”

Auberon leaned forward across the bar. “They’re going to save us all, dear.”

Sloan looked unconvinced.

“Besides,” he gestured at the barrel behind her. “Who you saving the ale for? If what I just told you isn’t true, does it really matter if these three know about the Scallie? And if it is the truth, don’t you think they deserve a drink?”

This bit of logic left her trapped and she filled the cups, and Auberon handed the drinks out. Royce declined his and it was left on the counter.

Sloan took note of this and glared at him. “It isn’t poisoned, you know. I’ll admit I’m not pleased Auberon betrayed a thousand years of trust by showing you the door to our only decent sanctuary—which is also a sacred shrine of sorts, or was at least.” She shot the old dwarf a stabbing look. “But if you’re under this roof and I’m serving you, it’s the best I’ve got. And it’s served in a clean cup.”

“No offense intended,” Royce replied. “I’ve just never cared for any barely-based brews. And it won’t go to waste; Hadrian will drink it.”

Sloan scrutinized them both as if trying to decide something. In doing so she noticed Hadrian had already emptied his cup.

Sloan shrugged, then shook her head.

“How are they going to do it?” The tallest dwarf in the room asked.

Auberon took a sip from his cup, wiped a thin line of foam from his mustache and smiled then once more winked. “They’re going to climb the north tower.” He pointed at Royce and Hadrian. “Baxter I think will be on the Crown Jewel when it leaves tomorrow, yes?”

The ghost nodded.

“With everyone gone who will make sure these two get the job done?” Sloan asked, her voice laced with cold cynicism.

“Ah,” Auberon grinned at her undaunted and gestured at the room with his ale. “We will.”

“We?”

“Aye, my dear. Starting right now, you and I and every Dromeian in Tur Del Fur will do whatever it takes to help these two.”

Sloan shook her head. “I still don’t understand what’s going on in your head. The Unholy Trio with an army of workers, a treasure house full of gold, and three weeks to work with tried and failed to do anything. What makes you think these two have any chance at all?”

“I don’t,” Auberon admitted. “As I’ve often said, I’m an idiot. I spent centuries spilling blood only to realize I had become what I was trying to stop.” Auberon put the cup down on the bar and looked hard at Sloan. “No one should ever take my advice, or listen to my council. That much is very clear. But that’s not what I’m asking you to do because I’m not not the one who’s saying these two are going to save us. I’m merely delivering the message.”

“Who is it then that says this?” she asked with a sneer, her tone showing that she expected disappointment.

Auberon stood up straighter and in a clear voice declared to the room, “Beatrice Brundenlin, daughter of King Mideon.”

The sneer vanished from Sloan’s face. Confusion replaced it. Then her eyes shot to Royce and Hadrian who she stared at as if they had just that moment materialized before her. “You’re not implying…these two, you say?”

Auberon nodded. “Aye. These two.”

Sloan moved out from behind the bar to gawk at them anew. “By Drome’s beard.” She muttered. Then asked, “And you say they’re gonna climb the tower?”

“Day after tomorrow, I think. Asked for rope and a few other things.”

Royce nodded. “If we could start earlier we will. No sense waiting until the last second. Just need the gear and for the rain to let up.”

Sloan was walking in a circle around them nodding her head. “Yes, yes,” she glanced at Auberon. “I can see it. Yes, I can see it.”

“They’re going to need an assortment of tools and things. They can tell you what those things are, even draw pictures if needed.”

Royce nodded.

Sloan pulled over a crate and used it to climb on top of the bar, which brought her head close to the stone chiseled ceiling. “Listen to me everyone!” she shouted. “Here we were up all night emptying the kegs, singing the old songs, toasting the end and lamenting the burning of our world and our lives. And while we were preparing to make our peace with Drome, wouldn’t you just know it, Auberon wasn’t done fighting for us. If you want to live. If you want Tur Del Fur to survive, you’ll fetch your tools, come back here, and do whatever these two men ask of you.” She slapped the ceiling with a palm. “By Drome, we’re not done yet!”

With that said, she jumped off the bar, grabbed hold of the old dwarf and kissed him.

“It’s not a big deal,” Hadrian said again. He was certain he’d repeated this at least once before, but he always had trouble with short-term memory and numbers when he drank. A perfect example were the empty cups on the counter. He wasn’t certain if they were his or someone else’s because he had no idea how many he had. The number eluded him, but by the swing of his head he could tell he’d had a pleasant number, but far from enough. He also couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been cleared. Usually the bartender did that to keep the counter tidy, but he reminded himself, this was no ordinary alehouse.

The lack of tables and chairs was a huge giveaway. This absence of seating forced him to remain standing which he couldn’t completely manage. The ceiling was so low, he was forced to alternate between slouching and bowing his head. Luckily, everyone he talked to were dwarfs and looking down was mandatory anyway.

“Why are there no chairs?” He asked.

“Tradition,” the thin dwarf with the short brown beard replied. Hadrian was all but certain his name was Trig the Younger. He’d been introduced to so many so fast that—like the cups—he’d lost track. “In ancient times, our people had a problem with drinking.”

“Lack of beer?” Hadrian asked.

The dwarf chuckled. “No, too much. Everyone drank all the time. People were passed out all over. Nothing got done—‘cept the brewing of ale. So the king—we had one then, that’s how far back this goes—he ordered that no alehouses should have chairs. And he further proclaimed that no one who can’t stand up can remain in a public house. Most folks don’t like to stand in one place for too long, and if you drink too much, standing at all becomes a challenge.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah, and it’s also too small in here for both people and furniture.”

They both laughed and Hadrian wondered if young Trig had made all that up, or not.

“You’re really gonna do it?” Kiln the Miner asked. He was a little fella with hands and arms that looked capable of choking a tree. “Climb Drumindor, I mean.”

Hadrian nodded. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal.”

“Are ya sure about that? I’m asking because I don’t think a scorpion could climb either one of them towers.”

“You don’t think so?” Trig asked. Trig had become Hadrian’s drinking partner and this honor came with a certain obligation to match his colleague in cups, and to defend his side of any argument. “Scorpions can climb anything, I thought.”

Heigal heard this and felt the need to add his opinion. “Can’t climb smooth surfaces. They got these pincers on their feet.” He made a claw out of his hand opening and closing it. “They grab hold, but they got nothing to grab if it’s smooth.”

“What about a squirrel?” Trig asked.

“Same thing. Still need something to grab.”

“Okay, but how about a cockroach or—no—what about an ant? They go straight up anything. I bet an ant could climb it.”

“Do you know how far the top of Drumindor would be to an ant, lad?” Heigal said. “It would take the thing a week. It’d die of starvation or thirst before reaching the top.”

“That’s assuming it didn’t blow off.” This important observation was added by Loc, who stood beside Heigal, and who was equally bound by the rules of drinking to side with his brass-rail associate.

“A slug then,” Trig said. “A slug won’t blow off.”

Heigal shook his head. “A slug would move slower than an ant.”

“Oh, you’re right. But how about a spider? That’s a wall crawler, for you. And they can make a web and catch food on the way. What do you think of that?”

Those close enough to have heard the debate all shrugged, leaving Trig with a proud smile.

“Hear that,” Kiln said to Hadrian. “The lad here thinks you’ll have an easy time of it. Just don’t forget your web.”

“Royce is as good as any spider,” Hadrian said, and looked around for the thief before remembering he had left with Auberon and a few others. They were going to get started on crafting their equipment. No one saw any reason for Hadrian to go—especially Hadrian. He was more than satisfied with his prowess at climbing into cups and had all the necessary gear.

“I certainly hope you can manage it. I surely do,” Sloan said. “But I fear getting to the bridge is only going to be the start of it.”

“Bah!” the tall dwarf heard this and waved a dismissive hand. “Gravis Berling is an old, insane, fool. And look at this man. Look at his swords!” he spoke with a tone of awe. “Why it will be like a ruddy pig slaughter, it will.”

“Watch yer mouth, Baric!” Sloan snapped. “This is just as much your fault as anyone’s.”

“Mine?”

“You pushed Gravis into it. Insulting him, making fun, daring him. The poor soul has nothing. Lost his life’s work, his home, and then his wife, and you go on spitting on him. He’s a Berling! His reputation is all he has. But you had to show him, didn’t you? And now he’s showing you—showing all of us.” Sloan looked near to tears as she leaned hard on the bar. “We’ve all suffered. Suffered so much we’re turning on each other when we should be…” She looked down and sniffled.

“What did you mean about getting to the bridge is only the start?” Hadrian asked.

“I don’t know exactly,” Sloan wiped her face with the towel then held it over her mouth so that her words were muffled. “I just have this feeling, you know? This sense of dread. Up until now, I was convinced we were all certain to die, so that’s understandable, isn’t it?” She lowered the towel and looked about the little room with far-seeing eyes. “But it’s more than that, really. I guess a lot of it comes from the fact I haven’t been sleeping well. Keep having awful dreams—nightmares about something beneath the towers pounding as it—or maybe them—tries to break out. It terrifies me and I wake up screaming and crying like a child.”

Sloan stopped speaking as she noticed all around the Scallie random conversations had stopped, and the room had gone frighteningly silent. Everyone was looking at her wide-eyed.

“I’m not the only one who has had that dream, am I?”

The Bristol Foundry and Metal Works was located on the upper west side of the city. Located behind a row of identical warehouses, each featuring unlovely yards of ugly rusted rubbish, the place appeared out of step with the rest of the cliffside oasis. No flowers, no palms just dust and stone defined this neighborhood known as the Seventh-and-a-Half-Tier—for no reason that anyone bothered to tell Royce. They were, however, quick to point out that it wasn’t Bristol’s foundry at all. It belonged to Diederik Dolin, who had built it and whose family ran it, for seven hundred years. Dolin, as it turned out had the misfortune of being a dwarf and apparently this Alan Bristol fellow from Swanwick, did not suffer the same curse making it possible for him to purchase the workshop—not from Dolin, mind you, but—from the Unholy Trio. This was presented with all the melodrama of someone naive enough to believe that power was only cruel to short people.

Royce was as sympathetic as any man in the rain listening to another soaked person complain about the weather. The dwarfs with him might perceive the situation differently, but then everyone saw everything differently. It made neither of them right, but did make for a interesting, albeit a generally disagreeable, world. Yet even that was up for debate because there was such a thing as a Hadrian.

None of it mattered as the entire tier was deserted. They hadn’t seen so much as a stray cat since leaving Scram the Scallie. And the rain couldn’t be blamed. The storm had passed. Although, what remained was a humid drizzle that left a person unsure if they were soaked with rain or sweat.

To everyone’s surprise the foundry’s gate was locked. Alan Bristol was apparently a complex man. Optimistic enough to believe anything of value would survive the cataclysm, but also a pessimist in his expectation of being robbed. By virtue of this magnificently twisted worldview, Royce thought he might very well find a kindred spirit in Mister Alan Bristol.

While the small army of dwarfs began pulling hammers and chisels from belts and satchels, intent he imagined on burrowing though a wall or something, Royce unlocked the gate. News of this circulated by way of elbow jabs. Then they all looked at him as if he’d defied the natural order of things. Perhaps they thought him a witch—or worse—in cahoots with Alan Bristol. Auberon, who was the undisputed leader of this fellowship, spoke a few words in their language and everyone went back to smiles and nods.

If anyone—anyone—had told me two months ago that I would be a member of a dwarven gang raiding an abandoned metals workshop at the bottom of the world in order to stave off annihilation, I would have…The thought hit a wall. Royce didn’t have a clue how he would have reacted, but belief would not have been within the realm of possibilities.

The foundry was large—not traditional dwarf huge-beyond-reason, just big. The ceiling was three or four stories with metal beams running between stone pillars. Chains hung, as did massive buckets. A large wheel was connected to a massive bellows, that was motionless for now. There were piles of coal and wood, and metal ingots. A hoard of soot-covered iron tools that could easily double for implements of torture were neatly arranged on the walls. Wooden tables and benches with buckets and pulleys, and hammers and countless other devices Royce couldn’t begin to classify furnished the place.

A number of the dwarfs grumbled at the sight. A few shook heads, and one cursed “Durim Hiben!” This was one of the very few dwarven terms Royce knew—not the exact translation, but well enough to use correctly in conversation. The same fellow followed the profanity saying, “What a mess!” Then he shouted. “Get the lights on in here!”

The rest scattered.

Auberon directed Royce to one wall that looked to be made of black slate. A huge wooden box filled with chalks of various colors and sizes was mounted to the side of a moveable set of stairs allowing access to the whole height of the board. “Draw what you need made.”

Royce sketched the simple shapes of the pitons. In the past he had made-do with scraps of things he’d found over the years. Nails and iron door hinges worked, but gate latches were so ideal he used to steal them.

Beside him stood a bald dwarf with a wreath of bright hair and eye-glasses similar to those Arcadius played with. These were much bigger with thicker glass and unlike the professor’s that lived on the end of his nose, the dwarf’s covered and magnified his eyes making him appear like a bearded owl. He tapped on the drawing of pitons leaving dark dots on the blackboard. “And what are these thingamabobbers used for?”

“I hammer them into cracks and hook a rope to them.”

The dwarf studied the drawing. “That’s what the hole is for? To run the rope through?”

Royce nodded.

“And you do this while dangling hundreds of feet up?”

Royce nodded again.

“Seems a bit fiddlely.” He scratched his ear. “You’ll want something better. Something that will clip and snap, suitable for one-hand work.”

“Aye,” another dwarf agreed. He was shorter than the first and had a head of wild white hair, that seemed to stand on end like a dandelion gone to seed. In his mouth he chewed on a unlit pipe. “Snap and clip, that’s the way for sure. Needs to be strong enough to hold the weight of a man, but light enough to carry dozens up a wall.”

“You’ll also want wedges of various lengths and thicknesses to account for variation in the cracks,” the fellow with the glasses said. “Need to get a good ping for maximum anchorage.”

“How do you know all this?” Royce asked. “Have you climbed before?”

He shook his head. “No—I’m a dwarf.”

Royce didn’t know which question that answered—probably both.

More questions were asked about the harness.

“Gonna be in this a while?”

“Several hours at least.”

“Belt and leg loops will need to be adjustable to accommodate clothing depending on the weather. You’ll want a thickly padded waist as well as the leg loops for comfort and support while you hanging for hours waiting on your partner.”

“Aye.” Dandelion-head nodded. “Thick. Very thick and soft like the breast of a dove.”

Royce moved on to the handclaws and chalk bag. The dwarfs had improvements for everything including how to carry rope, what sort of hammer, a better pack, the possibility of using a pick, and a lengthy discussion on footwear.”

“What about the rope?” Royce asked. “I’m going to need a lot. Good quality is important, but it needs to be light.”

“I’ll talk to Elinbert,” the bespectacled dwarf said. “He’s the real genius when it comes to fibers.”

“Oh, yes!” cloud-head agreed with passion. “Elinbert is a wizard of wimbly-nimbly filament and fibril.”

“Don’t worry,” Glasses said. “You’ll get what you need.”

“How long?” Royce asked.

“We’ll work all night and through tomorrow. No one will sleep until this is done. You’ll have everything no later than tomorrow night?”

He looked at the puffball beside him, who nodded—a thing that caused the cloud on his head to sway and shimmy.

“That will give us a day and a night to get up there and stop Gravis.” Royce nodded. “Should work.”

The dwarfs looked at each other. “No should about it. Tomorrow night is the wolf moon. And Beatrice has never been wrong.”

“It’s the pounding that’s awful,” Trig was saying. “It seems so loud. So frightening. Louder than thunder, and you can feel it with your feet.”

“In my nightmares, there’s three of them,” Heigal said. “And they stink of rotten eggs.”

The whole of the alehouse was clustered tight around the bar as each of them gave reports of their dreams. Only they didn’t act like they were dreams. To Hadrian they were like a group of blind men fashioning a common image from the combined impressions of tiny hands.

“Their old,” Sloan said. “Beyond ancient. That’s what I got. And they're evil.”

This last bit resonated universally with the group. They all nodded agreement.

“But it’s a dream,” Hadrian said as he stood at the miniature bar. For him the counter was low enough to be a seat, and he’d have liked to swing his thigh up and use it as one, but knew that wouldn’t go over well. “Dreams aren’t real.”

“If it isn’t real…” Sloan said. “How is it we’re all having the same dream?”

They all nodded again, and Hadrian felt more like Royce as he faced a group of believers armed only with reason. He thought to say that they really weren’t sharing the same dream, but were simply scared and feeding off of each other’s anxiety. He saw them all groping for an answer. They looked for a reason that was less horrible than the all too ordinary and meaningless reality that one person’s blind hate and horrific selfishness could be so cruel. That anyone could do this was unthinkable, but that the culprit was one of their own, was too much to accept. In it’s place they’d welcome any other solution. A trio of nameless, ancient, and evil monsters was so much better than an aging, brokenhearted dwarf.

And Hadrian understood grief, and he suffered his own nightmares. His centered around the smiling face of a young man who had tried to mend a bridge that he’d never burned. Instead of open arms, Hadrian had turned his back making a happily-ever-after into a tragedy. But there was no pounding, no rotten egg smell, no sense of ancient evil on the rise. That was just another way of blaming others for his own mistakes. Such a thing was oh so easy to do when a blunder threatened embarrassment; how much more desirable a choice was it when that mistake cost an innocent life?

Hadrian grabbed his dwarf size cup and emptied it. The ale was good but weak, and the tiny tankards slowed his drinking. He wanted to get blazingly drunk and then pass out. But he could already tell that wasn’t going to happen. He sighed.

Sloan picked up his cup and apparently taking his sigh as a sign of fear, stress, or worry, she laid her little hand on his. “Don’t worry, you’ll do it.” She said this with a mother’s comfort in her voice, then turned to refill the mug from the barrel. “Beatrice said so, and if that isn’t enough, the day after tomorrow is the wolf moon.” Sloan turned back with an encouraging smile and set the brimming cup before him as the whole of the group murmured their affirmation.

“And that all means what?” he asked.

Sloan smiled self-consciously. “Oh, sorry. I’m not used to talking to the non-initiated. Scram the Scallie is a haven away from big folk, and I never did get out much. So, I’m guessing you never heard of Beatrice?”

Hadrian shook his head. This brought some jeers, and scoffing sounds, but Sloan waved them down. Chiding them with, “And I’m guessing all of you know the names of all of their princesses, do you?”

“Only the one,” Baric bellowed using his height to speak above the crowd. “And we’d all just as well forget her.”

This brought a round of hearty and likeminded cup clapping.

Hadrian watched them baffled. He knew of very few princesses. The only one he could name was King Amrath of Medford’s daughter, Arista. But he seriously doubted they meant her, as she was just a girl.

“A sorry state of affairs indeed,” Sloan frowned. “Beatrice was a Belgriclungreian princess and…” She paused and studied him a moment. “Do you know what Belgriclungreian means, lad?”

Hadrian sheepishly shook his head.

“You certainly ought to as you’re surrounded by the buggers right now.” She lifted her chin and raised her voice. “And an awful lot we are.”

The room erupted with false outrage.

“You know us best as dwarfs,” Sloan went on. “Which is a dash derogatory, but not nearly so bad as other names we’ve been called. Being the children of Drome we’re actually all Dromeians, but that was a long time ago. Drome had seven sons, you see, Dorith, Bel, Brunden, Derin, Gric, Nye, and Lung. Each became a clan unto themselves with Dorith, being the Thane—that’s the supreme chief of all the clans. Now, for a long time we all lived up north in the city of Neith and Clan Dorith ruled father to son, with Clan Derin and Clan Nye, supporting them. The rest of us went south spreading out across this peninsula. Then with the success of Drumindor, the Brundenlin clan took prominence. They forced the northern clans to submit and Linden of the Brundenlins became the first Dromeian king and started building a new, more central capital city that became known as Linden’s Lot.”

“You gonna bore the man with ten thousand years of history, are you?” Baric asked.

“Bah!” she replied. “He looks like the sort who appreciates a bit of knowledge. Unlike some folks.”

This brought a wave of “oouu”s from the gathering.

Sloan looked back at Hadrian, frowned and sighed. “Anyway, to make a long story short,” she gave a wicked glance at Baric. “For those of you who have the attention span of a gold fish, there was a war with the elves which made everyone kinda hate the Brundenlins. They were overthrown by the three other southern clans, namely the Bels, the Grics, and the Lunges. For a long time folks called them just that until the three names sort of merged into one and became the Belgriclungreians. Over the centuries the term extended itself and became the modern name for all Dromeians—making Dromeian a rather archaic word usually used to refer to ancient times or when you’re making a point to include everyone. So, when I say that Beatrice was a Belgriclungreian princess I mean she was a dwarf.”

Trig shook his head. “Couldn’t you have just said that?”

“Technically Beatrice was a Brundenlin,” Kiln said. “So calling her a Belgriclungreian isn’t even accurate.”

“Sloan likes to call everyone Belgriclungreian because she’s a Bel,” Baric said.

“But Beatrice predates Belgriclungreian as a term, so it doesn’t even come close to making sense,” Kiln added.

“Oh for the love of Drome!” Sloan said. “It’s close enough for the likes of him, I think.

“Dwarf would have been close enough for the likes of him,” Kiln said.

Sloan gave the miner a cross look, and Kiln made a show of closing his mouth and taking a step back.

Loc, who stood just to Hadrian’s left, tugged on his sleeve. “It’s not you,” he whispered apologetically. “It’s always like this.”

“There now,” Sloan said disgusted. “You’ve made me go and forget the point of all this.”

“Beatrice,” Hadrian reminded her.

“Ah-ha!” Sloan tapped the end of her nose, then raised the same finger in triumph. “Beatrice! Yes! She was a prophet who lived over five thousand years ago, and she said you’d climb Drumindor. As all of her prophecies have proved accurate we know this will happen. Although…” Sloan paused a moment. “Now that I think about it, she didn’t actually say what would happened after you climbed. Didn’t even say you’d make it to the top. That’s a bit of a disconcerting footnote, to be sure.”

“She lived five thousand years ago?” Hadrian said. “Is that even possible? The world is only—I mean—this is the year twenty-nine ninety, so how could—“

“That’s the Novronian calendar you’re using, dear.” Sloan explained. “It doesn’t even begin until the founding of the Novronian Empire. There’s a whole lot of stuff that happened before that. The Belgriclungreian calendar goes back a might further. For us, this is the year two hundred and two thousand, nine hundred and eighty nine.”

“Really?” Hadrian glanced now at Loc as if he might be the only sane one in the room. “And when does your calendar start?”

“When Eton first shined on Elan.” Sloan replied for him. “Which I believe is a better place to begin, don’t you?” She thought a moment then shrugged. “Granted no one was actually there to witness the event, so I’m not certain how accurate the counting is.”

“A little late to start questioning it now, don’t you think? Baric asked.

“And the wolf moon?” Hadrian asked. “What’s that all about?”

“That’s part of our calendar, too. The whole thing is based on the moon’s phases, so there’s twelve moons a year. We just finished with the Snow Moon, and up in the sky tonight will be the Wolf Moon who’s nearly at her full power. And everyone knows that if you’re in trouble, there is no better friend shining on you than the Wolf Moon.”

Hadrian felt he was going to regret the question, but… “Why is that?”

Sloan pointed up at the ceiling as if it were the night sky. “The moon is Elan’s sister.” She said this as if he already ought to know.

Hadrian opened his hands suggesting this didn’t answer the question for him.

Sloan looked to the crowd with wide eyes, and pointed at him as if to show off the novelty of what she’d just found. “The moon was once very powerful, but at the start of the universe she sacrificed everything to save Eton and Elan….” Sloan waited, watching him as if this comment would trigger some memory and he would exclaim, Ah-hah! or something. He didn’t, and she shook her head. “Ah…well, afterwards, the moon diminished to a pale remnant of her former self, but she is still out there watching and guarding. She’s the savior goddess of martyrs and heroes, and at this time of the year she is the closest to Elan. And it is on the full moon of this month when the wolves call to her that she pays the most attention to Elan and those of us who walk upon her.”

“Okay, but what makes you think this moon goddess would help Royce and me? We’re not Dromeians, we’re Scallie. Isn’t that right?”

Sloan smiled at him. “I was starting to think you were a few trees short of a forest, but you learn fast, at least.” For the first time Hadrian got the sense she was starting to warm up to him and not just because he was destined to save the city. He also thought if she did it was in spite of herself. “The moon is not a Belgriclungreian goddess, she is universal like Eton and Elan.”

“What is Eton?” Hadrian asked.

Sloan blinked and appeared—at least for a moment—to be stunned beyond the use of words.

“Before you answer,” Kiln said. “Might we get another round, lest we all died of thirst while you answer that one?”

“You’re treading on quicksand, laddie,” Sloan said, but took their cups just the same.

“Have you never been outside and looked up?” Baric asked Hadrian.

“Aye,” Kiln said. “Never once noticed all that blue up there? That’s Eton. He’s the sky. He’s married to Elan and from them come everything else.”

“And the moon is Elan’s sister?” Hadrian asked.

“So maybe I was a bit premature with my assessment of your mental prowess,” Sloan said with her back to all of them as she worked the taps.

“Still don’t see why the moon godess would care about me and Royce.” Hadrian drained his cup.

Sloan heard the hollow sound when he sat the cup on the counter and snatched it up. “She’s sort of the champion of lost causes, I suppose. They say she was very powerful once, but lost everything, even the ability to speak when she sacrificed herself to save her sister. Now she exists as this mute sentinel forever guarding against that same evil.” She set the full cup back on the counter and, sliding to Hadrian, leaned over to whisper. “And that’s something else I got from the dreams. That evil—part of it, at least—is what’s pounding, trying to get out. And that’s why I think the moon will be on your side.”

Hadrian took the cup. “Here’s to the moon then.”

“You don’t believe a word I’m saying, do ya now?”

She was absolutely right. It was hard enough for him to believe in the myths and fairytales he was brought up with. Adopting foreign fables was asking too much. But he enjoyed the conversation. Her passion made it easier to momentarily throw off the blanket of guilt that threatened to smother him. Listening to her, there were whole seconds that went by in which he didn’t think of Rehn.

Hadrian wiped the foam off his lips. “I’m not even convinced that you believe it yourself.”

She grinned. “Okay, I retract my retraction concerning your intelligence. Honestly, you’re a hard person to fathom. Being a bartender all my life, I pride myself on accurately evaluating a person at a glance. Pinning you down is like trying to grab a fish out of a clear pond. It looks very simple at first, but once you put a hand in, you discover nothing about it is simple.”

Hadrian shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a mystery.”

Sloan wiped the counter. She made circular motions that slowed down as she went until she stopped altogether. Then she looked up. “There is one other thing.”

“What’s that?” Hadrian took another sip.

“Andvari Berling created Drumindor. Well, he and a few thousand Brundenlins. At the time Linden—who went on to become our first king—was chief of the Brundenlin Clan. He funded, and backed the project. Alberich Berling, Andvari’s son finished the two towers that made the city possible. And when it was finally done, Mideon, Linden’s grandson, was king, and his father was named Math.”

“So?” Hadrian asked, hoping he wouldn’t be expected to remember all those names.

“So, why is it where we are standing right now is called Tur Del Fur, which in case you don’t know is Dromeian for the City of Tur?” She whipped the towel back over her shoulder. “Who by the white of Drome’s beard was Tur? And what contribution did this person make that was more significant than either of the Berling’s or the Brundenlin kings?”

“You have a theory?”

“She always has a theory,” Baric said.

“Given I just thought of it now, I wouldn’t call it anything so grand as that. Just a strange idea.”

“Which is?”

“What if Andvari Berling had help? What if it wasn’t even his idea to create Drumindor? What if he never even wanted to come down here to what, in his day, would have been a desolate and treacherous point. I say this because it is well known that Andvari was as much a world explorer as I am. So, what made him come? What made him climb down in a raging storm and forced him to seek shelter in this place that was nothing but a small crack in the face of the cliff? What if it was someone named Tur, someone who wasn’t a Dromeian, and as such was expunged from our history in everything except the name of the city.”

She rocked her head as if the ideas inside had gotten stuck and needed jarring. “And since I am already this far out on the what-if-branch, let’s take one more precarious step and ask…what if the reason had nothing at all to do with taming the volcano so as to allow for a city to be built and an obscure clan to rise to prominence? What if it was an open passage that needed to be closed. A doorway that needed to be locked to prevent something awful from climbing out—what if Drumindor was really, Druma’s Door?”

It’s hard for us to imagine, Hadrian recalled Royce saying, but those two massive towers are not much more than a pair of pins in a tumbler lock.

For the first time since Hadrian looked upon Rehn’s lifeless body laying in that bed, he had something else to worry about.