“Glad you feel that way because we need you to help the builders design it. I am assuming you could draw a few floor plans and maybe some sketches?”

“Certainly, down to the finest detail.”

Hadrian chuckled. “I bet you can. I can see you’re going to drive the royal architect to drink.”

“Who will be the abbot? Has Alric contacted the Dibben Monastery already?”

“He sent out a messenger this morning as one of his first acts as king. You’re going to have a few guest monks trickling in over the winter, and this spring all of you will have a great deal of work to do.”

Myron was grinning widely.

“About that tea?” Royce inquired.

“Oh yes, sorry.” He returned to pouring water into the pot. Stopping once more, he turned back to the thieves and his grin faded.

“I would so much love to return to my home and see it rise again. But…” Myron paused.

“What is it?”

“Won’t the Imperialists simply come back? If they hear the abbey is there again…I don’t think I could…”

“Relax, Myron,” Hadrian said, “that’s not going to happen.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Trust me, the Imperialists won’t advocate another foray into Melengar,” Royce assured the monk. The smile on the thief’s face made Myron think of a cat, and he was happy not to be a mouse.

In the hours before dawn, the Lower Quarter was quiet. Dampened by the snow, the only sound came from the muffled hoof falls of mounts as they moved slowly up the alley to The Rose and Thorn.

“Do you need any of the money?” Royce asked Hadrian.

“I have enough. Deposit the rest with Gwen. What does that come to now?”

“Well, we’re in pretty good shape. We have our share of the fifteen gold tenents for returning Alenda’s letters, and the twenty from Ballentyne for stealing them in the first place, plus DeWitt’s one hundred, and Alric’s one hundred. You know, one day we’re going to have to find DeWitt—and thank him for that job.” Royce grinned.

“Do you think it was fair asking for the money along with the abbey?” Hadrian asked. “I have to admit the guy was starting to grow on me, and I hate to think we took advantage of him.”

“The hundred was for going into Gutaria with him,” Royce reminded him. “The abbey was for saving his sister. We didn’t ask for anything Alric didn’t agree to in advance. And he did say anything so we could easily have asked for land and noble rank.”

“Why didn’t we?”

“Oh? So you would like to be the Count Blackwater, would you?”

“It might have been nice,” Hadrian said sitting up straighter in his saddle, “and you could be the infamous Marquis Melborn.”

“Why infamous?”

“Would you prefer notorious? Nefarious perhaps?”

“What’s wrong with beloved?”

Neither could hold a straight face at the thought.

“Come to think of it, we failed to bill the good king for saving him from Trumbul. Do you think—”

“It’s too late, Royce,” Hadrian told him.

Royce sighed, disappointed. “So, I think he wasn’t too put out all things considered. Besides we are thieves, remember? Anyway, the bottom line is, we won’t be starving this winter.”

“Yes, we’ve been good little squirrels, haven’t we?” Hadrian said.

“Maybe this spring we can start that fishing enterprise you wanted.”

“I thought you wanted the winery?”

Royce shrugged.

“Well, you keep thinking. I’m going to go wake up Emerald and let her know I’m back. It’s too cold to sleep alone tonight.”

Royce passed the tavern and dismounted at Medford House. For some time, he stood, just staring at the top window while his feet grew colder and colder in the snow.

“You are going to come up, aren’t you?” Gwen asked from the doorway. She was still dressed and as pretty as ever. “Isn’t it awfully cold out there?”

Royce smiled at her. “You waited up.”

“You said you’d be coming back tonight.”

Royce pulled his saddlebag off his horse and carried it up the steps. “I have another deposit to make.”

“Is that why you were standing in the snow for so long? You were trying to decide whether or not to trust me with your money?”

Her words stung him. “No!”

“Then why were you standing there so long?”

Royce hesitated. “Would you prefer me if I were a fisherman, or perhaps a wine maker?”

“No,” she said, “I prefer you as you are.”

Royce took her hand. “Gwen, you have to understand. It never ends well for someone like me. You’d be better off with a nice farmer or rich merchant. Someone you can raise children with, someone you can grow old with, someone who will stay at home and not leave you alone and wondering.”

She kissed him.

“What was that for?”

“I’m a prostitute, Royce. There aren’t many men who consider themselves unworthy of me. I prefer you just as you are and just as you will be. If I did have the power to change you, the only change I would make would be to convince you of that.”

He put his arms around her, and she pulled him close. “I missed you,” she whispered.

Archibald Ballentyne awoke with a start.

He had fallen asleep in the Gray Tower of Ballentyne Castle. The fire had burned out, and the room was growing cold. It was also dark, but the dim glow of the faint orange embers in the hearth gave a little light. There was an odd and unpleasant odor in the air, and he felt the weight of something large and round on his lap. He could not make it out in the darkness. It seemed like a melon wrapped in linen. He stood up and set the object in his chair. He moved aside the brass screen and, taking two logs from the stack nearby, placed them on top of the hot coals. He prodded the embers with a poker, blew on them, and coaxed the fire back to life. As he did, the room filled with light once more.

He set the poker back to its stand, replaced the screen, and dusted his hands off. As he turned around, he looked at the chair he had been sleeping in and immediately pin-wheeled backward in horror.

There on his seat was the head of the former Archduke of Melengar. The cloth, which was covering it, had partially fallen away revealing a large portion of what had once been Braga’s face. The eyes were rolled back leaving white and milky orbs in their sockets. The yellowed skin, stretched and leathery, was shriveled. A host of some kind of worms moved in the gaping mouth, slithering in a heaving mass which made it almost appear as if Braga’s tongue was trying to speak.

Archibald’s stomach twisted in knots. Too frightened to scream, he looked around the room for intruders. As he did, he saw writing on the wall. Painted in what appeared to be blood, in letters a foot tall, were the words:

Never interfere with Melengar again

By order of the king

…and us