The next morning Royce remained in his room until after midday.

The rest of them set about the task of cleaning up the Turtle. The biggest hurdle, by far, was re-stuffing the mattresses. Just collecting all the feathers was a job. Gwen, being the expert on restoring order to desecrated bedrooms, barked orders at Hadrian who responded like a dutiful foot soldier. In a surprisingly short time, the Turtle had been set as close to right as possible.

They were just finishing up when Albert returned appearing surprisingly chipper. Gwen insisted on going to the market and the two had gone out shopping—her for something to cook, him for a new hat. As far as Hadrian could tell, Arcadius—like Royce—was sleeping late. When Royce finally came down the thief looked happy as a cat dragged through a stormdrain and spoke no more than five words—most of them being variations of no. The thief skipped breakfast, which until Gwen returned was limited to fruit from the courtyard. Donning his cloak and growling something about getting the lousy job over with, Royce led the way out.

The first step in satisfying their contract would be finding Gravis Berling. According to Albert, Lord Byron had no idea where Gravis lived. Tur Del Fur wasn’t like Rochelle where all the dwarfs were forced to cluster in a designated portion of the city. Still, Hadrian found it odd, and more than sad, that a person could work at a place for nearly a hundred years, and no one there had a clue where he lived or might be found. Apparently, all the other dwarfs had also been let go—a nice way of saying kicked out—and with them went all knowledge of Gravis Berling. This forced Royce and Hadrian to begin their assignment by wandering the streets looking for short people.

Hadrian discovered that Tur Del Fur wasn’t as complicated as it first appeared. It had one main road, which ran from the heights down to the harbor. All other streets branched off creating loops at various levels known as tiers. The lower the number, the closer to the water, and generally the more desirable the neighborhood. The Turquoise Turtle was on tier four, while the Blue Parrot was on the corner of the main street, and tier two. Hadrian and Royce had spent what was left of the day searching the city from the harbor to the heights finding absolutely nothing useful in regards to Gravis Berling. For a city founded by dwarfs, precious few walked its streets.

By late afternoon they stood within the shade beneath the green and white striped canopy of a food vender named Angelique. The middle age, balding man sat crosslegged just off the road in a wrap of white cotton. Beside him a stone-ringed cookfire heated a blackened, iron pot. Hadrian had purchased a stuffed flatbread from him and lingered in the awning’s shade to eat. Royce continued his silence watching him and grimacing with each bite.

“You should have something, too,” Hadrian told Royce between mouthfuls.

“I should cut my own throat is what I should do,” Royce replied. He had his hood up, his head drawn deep into shadow.

“Hangover that bad? Have you been drinking water? Trust me, that helps—especially after wine.”

Royce shook the hood, which was sort of an answer, just not a very clear one.

With no place to sit they both stood a step off the main street just outside the cloud of smoke that wafted from Angelique’s cookfire. A wagon filled with carpets hauled by a team of goats rolled past, followed by another filled with urns of oil. One was cracked and in its wake left a dripping dark line in the dust covered pavement. No dwarfs in sight.

Hadrian took another bite of his fish. Like everything else, it was a bit too spicy, but wonderfully flavorful. He swallowed then voiced the conclusion to an idea he’d been pondering all morning. “I don’t think it was a robbery,” he said shifting his grip on the flatbread that was starting to come apart. “Nothing was taken. Not that we had much to steal, but my swords would have been worth the trip, and I’m sure Albert’s clothes are valuable. So, I think whoever ripped the Turtle apart was looking for something.”

Royce nodded.

“Do you think it might have something to do with your new nightmare client, the Gingerdead Man?”

Royce lifted his head enough that Hadrian spotted a smile. “Ah-hah! I knew you were in there somewhere.”

“Just swallow the rest of your boiled rat so we can move on.”

“It’s fried, and it’s fish.”

“Sure it is.”

“Really tasty, too.” Hadrian unfolded the brown spotted bread to reveal the contents. “There’s peppers and onions, goat cheese and a spread that I think is made from chickpeas, garlic, and—”

“Shut up.” Royce said through gritted teeth.

Hadrian knew exactly how Royce felt and sympathized, but he also remembered the dozens of mornings the situation had been reversed. At those times, Royce had been demeaning and self-righteous. No sympathy, you did it to yourself, remember? As a result Hadrian found it hard not to at least acknowledge when providence spread the love.

Hadrian felt a drip running down his wrist, closed up his meal and licked his arm.

Witnessing this Royce shook his head. “You really are quite disgusting sometimes.”

Hadrian grinned as if this was a compliment and took a big bite moaning with ecstasy.

“It is good, yes?” Angelique grinned up at him from where he sat beside the fire his back resting against the stone side wall of a lamp shop.

Hadrian nodded and struggled to speak around the food in his mouth. “Under-ful.”

“It is fresh Hakune,” Angelique explained, “A fierce whitefish with a great fin on its back that my brother caught just this morning out in the deep sea, and which I cooked using an ancient recipe my grandmother taught me that does not include any rat.”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Hadrian waved a dismissive hand. “He’s suffering from drinking too much wine last night.”

“Ah!” Angelique brightened. “I have just the thing!” He dug into one of the many sacks beside him and pulled out a jar. “This is a perfect remedy.” Removing the lid he revealed a viscus goo inside. He scooped some out with his finger and held it up. “I will stuff this up your nose as far as it will go then swirl it around. I will do this for both nostrils, and be generous with my scoops.”

Royce recoiled. “Get away from me.”

Angelique shook his head. “Oh no, it is fine, trust me. I have a brother who, all the time, he drinks too much, and he swears by this cure.”

“The one who caught the fish?” Hadrian asked.

“Different one,” Angelique said. “I have several.”

“What’s it called, this hangover cure?” Hadrian picked up the jar with his free hand to study it.

“Doesn’t have a name, but trust me, it works.”

“I don’t trust you,” Royce said. “And as for your anonymous goop in a jar, I suspect it contains what’s left of at least one brother.” He looked at Hadrian. “You can walk and eat at the same time, can’t you?”

“To be completely honest,” Hadrian told Angelique as he handed back the jar, “I don’t think it’s entirely the drinking. I mean first of all, he’s usually like this to some degree, anyway. But the real reason I think he’s in such a foul mood is because he kissed a woman last night.”

Royce huffed. “Just stuff what’s left in your big mouth and let’s go.”

Angelique looked confused. “Was this woman horribly grotesque or have a spreadable sickness?”

“Actually, she’s incredibly beautiful, and he’s in love with her.”

Angelique narrowed his eyes as he put away the jar. “Then I’m not understanding.”

“That’s just it, no one does. No one can. Anyone else would be dancing their way through the streets and singing sappy songs this morning.”

“Why are you still talking to him?” Royce asked. “He’s busy. Now that he’s sold you his rat, he’ll need to hunt another.”

“Because I want a second opinion,” Hadrian replied. “Actually, that’s not true. I want you to hear reason and realize how dumb you’re being.”

“And I don’t want to discuss my personal life in the middle of a busy street with a destitute vagrant who sells boiled rats to naive strangers and gets high sniffing the remains of his dead brothers from a jar. So, while we still have some light left, lets try finding Gravis Berling.”

“What do you want with Gravis?” Angelique asked, wiping his finger off on a towel.

Hadrian and Royce faced him with sudden interest.

“You know Gravis Berling?” Hadrian asked.

“That is like asking if I know the name of this street, which if you aren’t aware, is Berling Way—named after Gravis’s family.”

“Do you know where we can find him?” Royce asked.

Angelique pulled the top from his kettle releasing a steam cloud and stirred the contents of his pot with a large wooden spoon. “I suppose that depends on what business you have with Gravis.”

“We owe him money and we’re only here for a short time.”

Angelique laughed, then looked at Hadrian. “Your friend isn't a very good liar.”

“Actually, he is, but as we’ve already established, he’s off his game today.”

“Ah yes. He drunkenly kissed the beautiful woman he loves. I can see how that would ruin anyone’s week.” Angelique stopped stirring and looked up sharply, pointing at Royce with the dripping, wooden spoon. “Did she—did this love of your life—did she refuse you? Push you away? Slap you?”

“Why does everyone ask that?” Royce grumbled.

“Because rejection can be understood.” Angelique clapped the spoon on the rim of the pot then replaced the lid. “Anyone can understand why such a thing would make a man miserable. I remember when I first fell in love with my sweet Velencia. She was—”

“Can we get back to Gravis?” Royce asked.

“She didn’t slap him,” Hadrian said as he gathered up the last of his flatbread wrap into a final ball. “From what I can tell, she was very pleased with the kiss.”

“Do you or don’t you know where Gravis Berling can be found?” Royce pressed.

“The one you owe money?” Angelique grinned at Royce. “Since you're in a hurry. Leave the money with me, and I will get it to him.”

Royce clapped slowly. “How nice. The destitute rat-seller can afford a sense of humor.”

“Honestly, Royce, why are you depressed?” Hadrian asked. “Would you have been happier if she had slapped you?” He stuffed the last of his meal into his mouth. Bigger than expected, Hadrian struggled to chew it into submission.

Royce stared at him for a moment with an expression of astonished disgust. “I would have preferred not to have made a fool of myself.”

“Oh, I see,” Angelique nodded gravely. “Are you that bad at kissing?”

“‘Ertainly ‘asn’t had much ‘actice,” Hadrian managed to say.

Angelique nodded. “And how does anyone really know? Women tend to be kind about such things. They never tell the truth because they know how it would hurt. My Velencia, she—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Royce said.

“What did you mean?” Hadrian asked having swallowed the last of his food.

Royce’s face tightened, then he glared down at Angelique. “How about this: Tell me where I can find Gravis Berling or I’ll kill you and all your surviving brothers, and provide the world with true justice by letting the rats feast on your remains out of an unmarked jar. And trust me I’m not lying this time.”

Angelique shook his head. “Threatening me will not help. I have no idea where to find the last Berling. I doubt anyone does now.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s gone into hiding as he prepares his revenge. For centuries this place has been ruled by so many that everyone has forgotten the former power and glory of the Belgriclungreians.”

“The what now?”

“The Bels, the Grics, the Lunges, the Dorith, the Nye, the Derin, and the Brundenlins—the seven clans of the Dromeians, what you know today as dwarfs. They were the first to settle this place. And the Berling’s, of Clan Brundenlin, were the ones who made it all possible. A family of engineering geniuses. They tamed Mt. Druma harnessing the might of a volcano and wielded it in defense of their people. Gravis Berling is the last of them, but he still possesses the knowledge, skill, and talent of his forebears. And I strongly suspect, a time of reckoning is at hand.” Angelique added coal to his fire and watched it burn. “The Belgriclungreians will either rise once more, or take everyone down with them. Given the odds against an uprising, I strongly suspect the wise are leaving town.”

When they got back Gwen was in the courtyard speaking to Auberon. The dwarf was once again in his billowy white cotton shirt, matching baggy trousers and worn-out sandals. He had the same straw hat with the blue feather, but this time he’d pushed the front brim up in a friendly manner as he faced Gwen.

“We are so terribly sorry,” Gwen said like she was personally guilty of murdering Auberon’s family. “She’s such a beautiful jungo plant, but I’m worried. Some of her roots were torn. I wetted them and set her back in the pot as best, and as soon, as I could, but—I don’t know.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Auberon said. He spoke with a well-worn accent only noticeable in some words and phrases, his tone gentle, almost tired like the voice of an ancient tree. “This isn’t your fault. I’m just pleased no one was hurt.”

Gwen would not be so easily consoled. “Last night one of us should have stayed behind—no, I should have stayed here and watched over the house. I had no business going out like that. I was being selfish.”

Auberon shook his head. “Not at all. This is my house not yours. You’re my guests and not responsible for protecting my property. It’s my duty to protect you while you’re under my roof. And usually this is not that sort of place. Tur has very little crime. This is…” He looked around the courtyard and spotted the two of them entering.

Gwen saw them too and her dour expression blew up in a big smile. Hadrian read her body. She took a step, and was about to run to Royce, then caught herself and stopped. “How are you feeling, Royce?”

“Better,” he said, his eyes on the dwarf.

“Auberon, this is my partner Royce,” Hadrian introduced them. “Royce, meet our host.”

“Welcome to Tur,” the dwarf said and tipped the brim of his hat. Then he moved to the front door to study the frame. “Sorry for the incident last night. Such a thing is…well, it’s very strange.”

“Why strange?” Royce asked. “In my experience, people are robbed all the time. Especially when they fail to put locks on their doors or windows.”

Auberon continued to study the door. “We’re a small community. Most know the Turtle and they know me, and leave us both alone. Besides, as I was just telling the lassie here, we don’t normally see this sort of thing in Tur. Folks in these parts come in two flavors: the content and the lazy.” He turned and looked around the courtyard that, as far as Hadrian could tell, had been returned to perfect order. “By the look of things a lot of ambition visited my house last night, and that is a very curious thing.”

“Have you eaten?” Gwen asked Royce, then looked at Hadrian. “Has he?”

Hadrian shook his head. “I tried. He refused.”

“Albert and I found a wonderful market just down the road. I got some grapes and crackers.” Gwen faced Royce with a smile as bright as the sun. “We can wake up your stomach with that before trying anything more adventurous.” She grinned then darted inside before Royce could protest.

He watched her leave then once she was safely inside, Royce approached Auberon so as to speak quieter. “You’re a dwarf.”

Auberon looked up and winked. “You noticed that, did you?”

“Ever heard of Gravis Berling?”

Auberon smiled, then chuckled. “Normally, at this point I’d make a smart comment, like saying ‘No, but do you know Herbert Cantrell?’”

“Whose Herbert Cantrell?”

“He’s a farmer in Rhenydd.”

“What makes you think I know him?”

“That’s the point. It’s stupid to assume everyone who lives in a place, or happen to be of the same race, all know each other.”

“But?”

“But it turns out, I do know Berling. It’s not a fair example given he’s sort of famous, or infamous, depending which side of the fence you sit.” Auberon ran his hand along the door frame studying it, accessing damage.

“Do you know where he can be found?”

“These days—usually in a bottle. He no longer has a home. His wife was sick—bedridden, and the Port Authority took back the shanty they were living in because Berling didn’t have coin for the rent because they took back his job, too.”

“What happened to his wife?” Hadrian asked.

Auberon gave up on the door framed and sighed. “She died.”

Hadrian frowned at Royce. “I’m starting to not like Lord Byron.”

“Oh, don’t blame him, Hadrian,” Auberon said now moving toward the once toppled furniture that Hadrian had set right earlier that morning. “Berling never so much as looked for another job. He even turned down several offers from those who wanted to help. And Byron didn’t evict the Berlings until a week and a day later—after Ena died. There’s no doubt Lord Byron is a noble and a businessman to boot, which makes him a natural born dobber, but he’s not a monster.”

“I get the impression you don’t like Gravis,” Royce said.

“Never cared for any of the Berlings. They’re all too full of themselves, always have been. Andvari and Alberich may have been geniuses, but that well went dry thousands of years ago. And it was the hubris of Andvari and Mideon that ruined us. Their combined arrogance destroyed our ancient capital of Neith and set the rest of us on a doomed course. We Dromeions—we weren’t defeated by anyone but ourselves. And now they’re at it again. Since the Republic of Delgos was established, there’s been a huge wave of immigration of dwarfs returning home. Most come back looking for a better life, but a few—the loud ones—chatter about the old Belgric Kingdom, and the days of dwarven rule. That sort of talk doesn’t fly so well in a republic. Gravis is one of those with a big mouth and a small brain. He’s all about fighting to reestablish a long dead—and quite frankly—a pretty awful sovereignty, but he can’t be bothered to take care of his own family. Gravis lost his home and could have seen poor Ena die on the street all because he was too proud to take a normal job. He’s a Berling, you see, and Berlings can’t stoop to doing laundry, or watering plants, or sweeping a floor.”

Hadrian saw the way Auberon looked around the courtyard as he spoke, and the idea clicked. “You were one of those who offered him a job, weren’t you?”

“I did. Not so much for his sake, but for hers. Even so Ena wasn’t innocent. The lass should’a known better then to marry a Berling. Nothing good could ever have come from that.”

“So, you don’t know where to find him?”

Auberon shrugged. “I’d look for any place willing to give away strong drink, but barring that I suspect any vacant patch of gutter would be a good bet.” Auberon lifted his straw hat revealing thin gray matted hair. He wiped the sweat from his brow then set the hat back, adjusting it level this time. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re supposed to have a talk with him.”

The dwarf stared at Royce for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I see. So you’re the muscle Byron hired?”

They didn’t answer.

Auberon looked at Hadrian. “You’re a swordsman, a good one, maybe a bit more than good. And you,” he looked at Royce. “You’d be the cutthroat. The one who says talk when he means kill.” He moved to the table and adjusted the placement of one of the chairs. “Listen, I’m old. I’ve seen a lot—to much really. On the other hand, the both of you are still young, so let me give a bit of advice that I wish I had when I was your age. Find a new line of work. Doesn’t have to be fancy. You don’t need to make a lot of money—just enough to live a simple life. Do something you like, more than one thing even, so you don’t get bored, but be sure whatever you do is something you can be happy to tell your children and grandchildren about.” He looked at the open doorway to the Turtle. And as my people are found of saying, yer aff yer heid if you don’t take good care of that lassie you’ve got in there cutting fruit for you. She’s a good one, she is, and it would be worth making a change for her.”

Auberon moved to where they had stacked up the remains of the broken pottery and sighed.

“I’m sure Lord Byron will be willing to pay for any damages,” Hadrian said.

“Not his fault.” Auberon bent down and lifted two shattered pieces of clay. “But someone certainly made a mistake. I’ll find out who that is, then he and I…well,” Auberon winked at Royce. “Maybe we’ll have a wee talk.”