Drumindor

When a master craftsman dwarf is fired and threatens retaliation, the rogues- for-hire enterprise known as Riyria is commissioned to stop him. Traveling to the paradise resort of Tur Del Fur, the two are granted a lavish allowance that, along with an easy task, promises to turn a job into a vacation. Everything would have been perfect except that the disgruntled worker’s last name is Berling, and the targets of his wrath are the legendary towers of Drumindor.

Welcome to the fifth installment of The Riyria Chronicles, from Michael J. Sullivan, the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. This is the eleventh book starring the cynical ex-assassin Royce Melborn and the idealistic ex-mercenary Hadrian Blackwater. While part of a much larger tale, this novel is written such that you can enjoy it even if you’ve not read any of the other books in the series. But for those who are fans of the pair, it’s been over six years since we last saw them, and we’re hoping you’ll be pleased to be reunited. Either way, we hope you enjoy this adventure!

Royce found Hadrian in the village, drinking at the Pickled Pig’s Foot. This wasn’t a hard guess. As far as he knew, it was the only tavern in the entire seaside town of Roe—possibly the only one in the entire province of Oakenshire—and when Royce had left Hadrian, he had looked to be in a drinking mood. The shabby stucco-and-thatch public house was perched on a hill just up from the wharf, where it had a view of the ocean that was marred only by a couple tiers of roofs and a forest of chimneys.

Since it was past midnight, no other patrons remained inside, and the look on the tavern keeper’s face as Royce entered suggested the owner had been hoping Hadrian would leave before anyone else wandered in. Despite the name, the Pickled Pig’s Foot was not an unpleasant place. Given the damp winter’s night, the interior of the tavern provided a welcome warmth of seasoned wood and the cozy glow of resting embers.

Royce offered the tavern keeper an artificial smile, which was reflected back.

“What can I get you?” the apron-endowed, hair-deficient man asked without a lick of enthusiasm.

“Nothing, thanks. I’m not staying. Just here for him.” Royce pointed.

As expected, this elicited a genuine smile.

Hadrian sat in the back corner near the fireplace, behind a table filled with empty mugs and a candle’s melted corpse.

“I wasn’t gone that long, was I?”

Hadrian looked up with a grimace. He had several days’ worth of stubble and eyes that belonged to a much older man. “Enjoy yourself, did you?”

Royce glanced over at the owner, who was pretending not to notice them as he wiped a clean counter. Having only three people there was good, but it was also bad because, without other patrons, the place was utterly silent.

Hadrian followed Royce’s line of sight and said, “Oh, right. Don’t want to say too much in front of old Oscar, do we?” Hadrian burped and wiped his mouth. “That’s Oscar, by the way. He owns the Pickled Pig’s Toe…Foot…whatever.” Hadrian stared off into space for a second, his mouth hanging open, then he asked, “Why is it that these places always have such disgusting names?” He looked at Oscar, who couldn’t help but hear every word. Hadrian was drunk and therefore louder than normal.

“Sorry, no offense intended,” Hadrian went on, “but honestly, is that the best you could come up with? Did you really think passersby would be so captivated by the promise of a severed pig’s foot floating in a vat of brine that they would find it utterly impossible to pass your door without popping their head in to experience the promise? Why not just name it the Stinking Turd? Bet that would pack ’em in even more, right?”

“He’s drunk,” Royce apologized as he walked to Hadrian’s table.

“Yeah, I know.” Oscar wiped his hands. “You’re heading out though, right? I’d kinda like to lock up.”

“Just give us a second.” Royce sat down.

“Yeah, give us a second, Oscar,” Hadrian said. “My business associate needs to bring me up to speed on our latest project—likely wants to gloat. Do you want to gloat, Royce?” Hadrian put a hand to his mouth. “Oops. You think Oscar heard your name? That’s bad, right?”

“This is why it’s never a good idea to drink,” Royce said.

“No? Wait, I thought you…you like wine, don’t you?”

“I like Montemorcey, but it’s incredibly rare, and when the source of your vice is almost nonexistent, it’s an easy habit to keep in check.”

Hadrian nodded. Then he pursed his lips, turned, and shouted. “Hey, Oscar! Got any of this rare Monty Mousey wine?” Hadrian’s brow furrowed. “Wait, I think I got that wrong. How do you say it?”

“Don’t carry wine,” Oscar replied. “And I thought you were leaving.”

“We are,” Royce said, getting to his feet and welcoming Hadrian to do the same if he were capable.

“I wasn’t asking for a bottle,” Hadrian said, using the table to push himself up. “I was just curious. Don’t need to be so touchy. For a guy who owns an alehouse named the Pickled Pig’s Foot, you’re awfully quick to push paying customers out the door.”

“You’ve been here for six hours. Unlike some people, I have a life.”

“Yeah, but…wait…” Hadrian stood with one hand still on the table, steadying himself as his eyes shifted in deep thought. “Pigs don’t have feet—do they?” He first looked at Oscar, then at Royce. “I mean, they’ve got hooves, right? They’re like horses, sort of, except that pigs’ hooves are cloven. It’s like they have two toes, but they aren’t toes, not really. And since a pig has two toes and a horse has none, why are they both hooves?” He looked at each man in turn once more. Neither Oscar nor Royce said anything. “You know what I mean. But the point is, no one talks about horses’ feet, right? No one says they’re going to put a shoe on a horse’s foot—even if that makes more sense. I mean, shoes go on feet. No one puts a shoe on a hoof. That’s just so strange.”

Royce grabbed Hadrian by the strap of his baldric and hauled him forward. “Did you pay?” Royce shook his head at his own stupidity. He turned to Oscar. “Did he?”

Oscar nodded. “Handsomely. If not for that, I’d have tossed him out hours ago. My wife is going to be furious.”

“Oscar is going through a bad time right now,” Hadrian said. “His wife is acting like a harpy. Tell him, Oscar.”

“He’ll tell me next time,” Royce said, hauling Hadrian to the door. “Maybe he’ll even have some mousey wine then.”

“Yeah, that would be good. Do that, Oscar. Get some mousey wine for my friend for the next time.”

The bracing cold of the winter night stiffened Hadrian, and his face crimped into a tight grimace, not unlike if Royce had slapped him. “By Mar! It’s freezing out here! Let’s go back in.”

Oscar slammed the door shut and threw the bolt.

“Geez, Oscar, that was rude. I thought we were friends!” Hadrian yelled at the closed door.

“You’ll need to be a little louder if you want to wake the entire village,” Royce explained.

“Oh, you’re a funny guy, aren’t you? Did you tell Lady-what’s-her-name a joke, too? Did she laugh, or couldn’t she because her throat was slit?” Hadrian shifted unsteadily as he eyed Royce. “You don’t even have any blood on you. Is that the mark of a professional, or did you wash up in her basin before leaving? And was it just the poor woman, or did you kill her dog, too?”

“Lady Traval doesn’t have a dog.” Royce pulled him over to where their horses waited.

Hadrian snorted a laugh. “Well, not anymore she doesn’t. Chucked it out an upper-story window, did you?”

“There was no dog, Hadrian. Now, do you want help getting on your horse, or do you need to vomit?”

Hadrian stopped to ponder this perplexing riddle, then shook his head and pointed across the street. “Nah, I’m okay. My horse is in the stable over—”

Royce handed him Dancer’s reins.

Hadrian looked up into the face of his horse. “Dancer! How’d you get here?”

“By Mar! How much ale did you drink?”

Hadrian once more stared off into space as he stroked the white diamond on Dancer’s forehead.

Royce shook his head. “Never mind. I get it—it was a lot. Get on your horse. Let’s go.”

Hadrian managed to climb aboard Dancer after only three attempts. During this complicated operation, the horse remained rooted like a tree on a calm day, as if this wasn’t the first time for either of them.

Royce thought that Dancer, being sober, would be capable of following Royce, but Hadrian, being drunk, couldn’t be trusted not to interfere, so Royce attached a lead to the ring on Dancer’s halter. Hadrian either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Did it get colder?” Hadrian complained, absently letting go of the reins to pull his wool cloak tight. “Feels colder. You know, winter is like a pretty woman who talks about a lot of nothing. They’re nice at first: fun, different, beautiful even, but after a while…”

Hadrian picked up the reins and became fascinated by the knot that bound the ends.

Royce waited. “After a while, what?” he asked.

“Huh?”

Royce shook his head. “Forget it.”

“I’m just saying that winter lasts waaaay too long. Aren’t you tired of winter, Royce? Everything is cold. Cold and dead. As dead as Lady-what’s-her-name.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Come again?”

“Lady Traval. I didn’t kill her.”

Hadrian didn’t say a word for several minutes.

“I would have told you sooner had I known it would shut you up.”

“Why didn’t you kill her?”

“I couldn’t go through with it. She was a helpless woman with big, pleading eyes, and I just couldn’t bring myself to take the life of an innocent—”

Hadrian fell off his horse.

He hit the snow on his back and grunted in pain. It took him a second, then he rolled to his feet with a miserable groan and looked up at Royce with the most incredulous set of drunken eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Of course not, you idiot. She offered me more money to leave her alive. I just wanted to hear what you’d say. That looked awfully painful, by the way.” He grinned. “Ground’s frozen, isn’t it?”

“Yes, on both counts.”

Hadrian climbed back into the saddle on the first try this time, leaving Royce to suspect the bracing cold and the fall had helped to sober him a bit.

On they went, up the river road that followed the bank of the Galewyr. The sides of the river were frozen, but a dark line of moving water cut through the center and made the ghostly sound of rain on long-lost leaves.

“It’s still good news,” Hadrian said.

“Absolutely. We made triple the money without doing anything other than taking a winter ride.”

“We?” Hadrian shook his head. “That’s your money.”

“We’re still partners, and the gold is clean. Not a drop of blood on it. You can spend the coin proudly.” Royce considered mentioning the other fellow who also did not appear to have a drop of blood, but Hadrian was too drunk and too happy for Royce to ruin the improved mood. They had a long ride back to Medford, and the only thing worse than a happy-chatty Hadrian was a depressed-chatty Hadrian.

They rode for a while in silence.

“What?” Royce finally asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“I was just thinking that four years ago, you wouldn’t have offered to share the money—wouldn’t even have told me about it. I also doubt you’d have let her live. You’d have taken her money and killed her.”

“Four years ago, we weren’t partners—not really. And leaving Lady Traval alive makes logical sense. No wisdom in killing a paying customer.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Hadrian nodded. “And the Royce Melborn I first met, even the one of only a couple years ago, would never have asked ‘What?’ because I was silent. The old Royce would have considered it a blessing. You’ve changed. You were once an animal, a wild thing really, but now…now you’re practically domesticated, aren’t you? You’ve become a tame beast, haven’t you, Royce?”

“If you weren’t drunk, I’d kill you.”

“I’m gonna tell Gwen.”

“Do not tell Gwen.”

Hadrian laughed.

“I hate you when you’re drunk.”

“That’s strange.”

“How so?”

“Because that’s why I drink…to stop hating myself.”