Ard judged the distance, reaching out to feel the Barrier wall; solid and impenetrable. He shoved off, a little harder than intended, his body spinning and coming in at the wrong angle.
Ard’s forehead struck the safe box. A painful way to be reunited, but it gave Ard the chance to reach out and grab it. For a moment he expected the box to feel heavy in his arms, but weight didn’t exist in a Drift cloud.
Ard was just bracing himself to hit the bottom of the Barrier cloud when it burned out. He passed the spot where the invisible perimeter should have stopped him, momentum carrying him downward through the weightlessness of the lingering Drift cloud.
Ard slammed into the road, a clod of dirt floating up from his impact. A gunshot cracked and a lead ball zipped past. Normally, Ard enjoyed having his feet on solid ground. But with the goons and Reggies standing off on the road, he suddenly found himself directly in the line of fire.
“Ardor!” Raek shouted from above. “Get back up here!”
Lying on his back on the road at the bottom of the Drift cloud, Ard saw Raek and the wagon sinking almost imperceptibly toward him. The full strength of the Drift cloud had expired. Prolonging Grit kept it from collapsing entirely, but the effect of pure weightlessness would continue to diminish until both types of Grit fizzled out.
Gripping the safe box against his chest, Ard kicked off the road and sprang upward, the Drift cloud allowing him to float effortlessly upward.
“Gotcha!” Raek grabbed Ard’s sleeve, pulling him against the flat bed of the empty wagon.
Raek carefully reached out, taking hold of a thin string. It looked strange, lying flat in the air like a stiff wire. “What we’re about to do is among the more experimental methods of escaping.”
“You mean, you don’t know if it’s going to work?” Ard said.
“I did the math in my head. Twice. It should …” He dwindled off. “I have no idea.”
“Do I want to know what’s tied to the other end of that string?” Ard asked.
“Remember how I lashed your other Roller onto that bundle of Blast Grit cartridges?”
Ard’s eyes went wide. “Flames, Raek! That’s going to blow us both to …”
Raek pulled the string. Ard heard the click of the gun’s trigger on the other side of the wagon. The Slagstone hammer threw sparks, instantly accompanied by one of the loudest explosions Ard had ever heard.
The two men slammed against the wagon as it grew hot, fire belching around them on all sides. The energy from the explosion hurtled the broken wagon on an upward angle, a trajectory Ard hoped was in line with whatever blazing plan Raek had just committed them to.
They exited the top of the Drift cloud, and Ard felt gravity return around him. It didn’t seem to matter much, however, since both men were sailing through the air at breakneck velocity. The burning wagon started to fall away behind them, like a comet soaring over the heads of the Reggies.
Raek reached out, grasping Ard’s coat at the neck to keep the two of them from separating in the air. Ard had a lot of questions for his big friend. Namely, How the blazing sparks are we going to get down? But Ard couldn’t breathe, let alone speak.
They were at the apex of their flight, any moment to begin the death-sentence descent, when Raek reached up with his free hand and ripped something off his ammunition sash. It was a Grit bolt, but the clay arrowhead was a different color from the Barrier bolts Ard had used earlier.
Raek gripped the shaft in one hand. Reaching back, he smashed the clay tip against Ard’s left shoulder. The Grit detonated, throwing a fresh Drift cloud around them.
Ard felt the weightlessness return, along with a throb on his shoulder from where Raek had detonated the bolt. Guess he had that coming.
In this smaller, new Drift cloud, high over the road, the two men were no longer falling. They were shooting straight through the air, their velocity and trajectory maintained in the weightless environment.
In a flash, they had passed out the other side of the cloud. But before gravity could begin pulling them down, Raek detonated a second Drift bolt, this time shattering the clay tip on Ard’s other shoulder.
They were flying. Sparks! Actually flying! High over the heads of their enemies, leaving both Regulators and goons behind. A few lead balls were fired in their direction, but there was little chance of getting hit, moving at the rate they were, spinning dizzying circles through the air.
One after another, Raek detonated the Drift bolts, the discolored clouds slightly overlapping as the two men shot horizontally through the air.
The concept of propelling an object over long distances through a series of detonated Drift clouds was not unheard-of. It was the basis for moving heavy materials used in the construction of tall buildings. But for a person to fly like this, unsheltered, the only calculations done impromptu and under gunfire. This was madness and genius, mixed and detonated on the spot.
The two flying men cleared the cliff shoreline, and Ard saw the harbor and docks just below. They exited the latest Drift cloud, the eighth, as Ard was made painfully aware from the welts on his back, and finally began to descend. Gravity ruled over them once more, and Ard judged that they’d slam down right against the first wooden dock.
“Two more!” Raek shouted. He crushed another Drift bolt on Ard’s back, maintaining the angle of their fall and buying them a little more distance. As soon as they exited, Raek detonated the last bolt. They soared downward, past the docks and moored ships. Ard saw the Double Take below, docked in the farthest spot, a tactical location to speed their getaway.
They exited the final cloud and Ard watched the rapidly approaching water. He had hoped for a more elegant ending to their haphazard flight. Instead, he’d be hitting the bay at tremendous speeds, shackles locked around both wrists, holding a terribly heavy safe box.
Well, I’m certainly not bored, thought Ardor Benn. He took a deep breath.
It begins here. Although, for me, I suppose this is something of an ending.
CHAPTER
2
The night was red, bathed in a most unholy light. The Moon—that crimson orb gazing down like the giant blind eye of a Moonsick soul—filled half the sky as it rose above the eastern horizon.
Isle Halavend pulled his coat tighter about his neck, the hem of his pants damp from summer evening rain. Coarse things, trousers, swishing back and forth between one’s legs with every step. But he couldn’t very well walk the streets in his Islehood robes. People would wonder what he was doing away from the Mooring on the night of a Moon Passing. If he was out here, then who was minding the Holy Torch?
Ha! There were plenty of other Isles at the Mooring who could watch the Torch. Isles who still believed that the ancient ritual actual sheltered the people from Moonsickness. Leave it to them. Halavend had a more important task to complete tonight.
Isle Halavend wasn’t alone on the road. Despite the late hour, citizens milled about as if the Moon were merely some second sun, granting them extra hours of rosy light. As if the bloodred sphere in the sky couldn’t strike them all blind and mad with Moonsickness.
The citizens weren’t wrong in their ignorantly assumed safety. Moonsickness wasn’t a threat anywhere but Pekal. That was the way things had always been. But Halavend knew something that they didn’t. Things were about to change, and he cringed under the glowing Moon.
Beripent was a complex city, with winding side streets, narrow alleys, and the tallest buildings in the Greater Chain. It was damp and smoky, with nearly a million citizens, and it had taken Isle Halavend hours to find the tavern where his source said the man would be waiting.
His muscles ached from the long walk, and his feet were nearly numb from the damp street. His head ached, too. Isle Halavend wasn’t used to staying awake so late. And the physical strain of this night was coupled with a twist of anxiety in his chest. Halavend knew what would happen to him if his superiors learned of this covert outing. But he’d already carried on for so many cycles, despite the
threats.
The old Isle stopped under a sign hanging in front of a two-story structure. The windows were lit from within, but dingy curtains had been drawn to block the unwanted gaze of outsiders. Several figures loitered on the steps of the Staggering Bull. A worrisome welcome, but Halavend hadn’t come this far to let a few drunken vagabonds bar his entrance.
Reaching inside his coat, Halavend clutched the cold handle of the dagger on his belt. Who was he fooling? Halavend couldn’t stab someone, even if his life was threatened. He had fallen far, but not far enough to murder another person.
The dagger was completely unnecessary, Halavend soon discovered. The loitering figures paid him no mind, and he pushed through the door, an unfamiliar stench welcoming him into the tavern.
The dim room was choked with bodies. It was warmer than Halavend could tolerate. The night outside was pleasant. He didn’t understand why no one bothered to open a window.
It was noisy, too. A wash of slurred conversations that rattled in the old man’s ears, making his head ache worse. It was as far removed from the Mooring’s Coves as possible. And the smell …
A woman approached him, a fraction of his age, a tall wooden cup in one hand. Her skin was pale and her hair looked weeks unwashed, but her revealing dress seemed new and crisply ironed. She pressed herself close to him and spoke with breath that reeked of cheap ale.
“That’s a nice hat.”
Isle Halavend was frozen, his hand gripping the dagger hilt tighter than ever, though he had no intention of using the weapon. It had been so long since he’d been this close to a woman outside the Islehood. The Isles weren’t barred from marriage, but tradition required their union to be with another Holy Isle. This woman wasn’t even a Wayfarist. Or if she was, the Islehood’s teachings were obviously lost on her.
“I’m looking for someone,” the old Isle said. His voice seemed to get whisked away, mixing with the maddening hubbub in the Staggering Bull. How did anything useful ever get done in a place like this? He scanned the crowd, but all he had to go off was a charcoal sketch from his source. It was just too dim in here.
“Aren’t we all?” said the woman.
Halavend took an awkward step back. “Go only to aid others in their Way.” What was he doing? Quoting Wayfarist scripture at this Settled woman?
Her face turned to a sneer, and she moved away. Halavend hadn’t meant it to be offensive, but she had clearly recognized the saying. Isle Halavend’s hand finally slipped off the dagger, and he reached out to grab the woman’s wrist.
“I’m looking for a specific person,” he clarified as the woman turned back. “His name is Ardor Benn.”
“Figures.” The woman tugged her wrist out of the old Isle’s grasp. “That’s the man.” She pointed across the tavern to a small table in a smoky corner, where a man sat alone. That couldn’t be him. Everything Halavend had heard about Ardor Benn led him to believe that the man was gregarious, even finding ways to thrive in the spotlight despite being a wanted criminal.
“There’s still time if you want in on the drinks,” said the woman. “He’s not shooting for another few minutes.” She turned and strode off into the crowd, leaving Isle Halavend to puzzle over her words. He moved through the press of bodies, losing sight of Ardor several times in the bustling tavern.
There were all types of people here. From the varied complexions of the Landers, to the deep blue skin of the Trothians. Halavend was pleased to see the cultures mingling. Many of the Landers in the Staggering Bull were young enough that they probably never knew a time when Trothians weren’t allowed in the Greater Chain.
To Halavend, it was another reminder of how many years he’d been cooped up in the Mooring. King Pethredote’s rule had changed so much of society, but the Holy Isles remained largely isolated from such developments.
At last, Halavend reached Ardor’s table and came face-to-face with the man, his old heart racing. Cycles of illegal study had led him to this meeting. A meeting that could turn the islands upside down. He was here at last.
And Ardor Benn was drunk.
The young man leaned back on his wooden chair, legs spread wide and one booted foot resting on either side of the table. His features were handsome: a square stubbled chin, deep brown eyes, and short dark hair. His fair skin was suntanned a rich brown, like a curing leather.
On the table between the man’s raised feet, Halavend counted nine empty mugs. They were lined up neatly, as though on display. Behind them was a large wooden bowl filled with single-mark Ashings.
Of course. Isle Halavend sighed. The one night he dared venture out, risking everything, the man he needed was barely conscious. Halavend thought about leaving right then. There was no way he could offer this man a job in his current state.
“Three Ashings and an Ashlit, old man,” Ardor said, his speech slightly slurred from the excessive drink.
“Three Ashings and an Ashlit for what?” asked Halavend, annoyed and rather disgusted.
“To buy me another drink,” explained Ardor, a grin on his face.
“That much for a drink?” Halavend didn’t have much experience outside the Mooring lately, but ten Ashlits made an Ashing, and there was no way the price of ale had soared so high.
Ardor chuckled. “The Ashlit is for the drink,” he said. “The three Ashings are for the bowl.” He gestured at the pile before him.
“Now why would I do that?”
“I’ll be target shooting in about one minute,” Ardor said. “I miss the shot, and you get all your Ashings back, plus I pay for three drinks a man.”
Halavend pointed to the empty mugs on the table. “And nine fools have already bought into this?”
“I know!” Ardor laughed. “Isn’t it great?” He tipped too far on his chair, causing both his boots to snap off the table so he could right himself before falling.
“You’re drunk.”
“And you’re old.” Ardor held out his hands. “Three Ashings and a drink.”
“Drunkenness is idleness is drunkenness. One bringeth about the other to the making of a Settled soul.” Halavend quoted another scripture without even thinking.
“You can’t talk me down off this ledge like you’re some kind of Holy Isle,” Ardor replied. Halavend went rigid, wondering if the man somehow knew his station. But that would be impossible. They’d never met before, and Ardor would have no reason to suspect it.
“Spouting Wayfarism in a place like this will likely get you thrown out without your coat.” Ardor stood up, drawing a Singler from his belt. Halavend stepped back, his hands raising in instinctive defense. “Relax.” Ardor picked up the bowl of Ashings with his free hand. “It’s time to collect.”
Ardor Benn staggered past Isle Halavend, bumping into an empty chair. Miraculously, all the Ashings stayed in the bowl. Ardor cursed, then raised his voice over the clamor of the tavern.
“Shooting time!”
A few people began pushing aside tables and herding patrons against the wall. Halavend guessed the ones preparing the room were the ones who’d bought into Ardor’s little bet. They were anxious to get their Ashings back and get the promised free liquor flowing.
In the press of people, Halavend found himself forced behind the table, into the corner where Ardor Benn had been sitting. The man had left a pipe burning, a thin plume of smoke mingling with the haze in the room.
The old Isle suddenly felt a rush of excitement. His head seemed to clear a bit, and his aching leg muscles soothed. Was this what it was always like for the common citizens? Had he been holed up in the Mooring for so long that he didn’t remember what a thrill felt like? No. This was something more. A warmth from deep within.
“Twenty-seven Ashings!” Ardor shouted, swinging the bowl around for everyone to see. “And this morning—tonight … ah, whatever time it is. Right now, I will make a shot worth twenty-seven Ashings!”
A Trothian man with deep blue skin and a long ponytail stepped into the open space that would soon be a drunk
man’s shooting range. He pulled a high bar stool to the far side of the room and carefully placed a ceramic mug on the seat.
“One shot!” Ardor’s voice was unnecessarily loud, now that everyone in the tavern had quieted to see how the gamble would play out. He waved the Singler above his head, and Halavend half expected him to pull the trigger on accident. A real surprise for the tenants on the second floor.
“Last call!” Ardor held out the wooden bowl of Ashings. “And a real bargain deal. Three Ashings say I can shoot that mug. Three drinks and your money back if I miss.”
Seeing his inebriated state prompted several other people in the tavern to step forward, tossing three-mark Ashings into the bowl.
Halavend shook his head. Perhaps this was all a mistake. There had to be another ruse artist in the Greater Chain capable of carrying out Isle Halavend’s important venture. The man Halavend saw now, deprived of his better judgment, waving a loaded gun through a tavern full of people, seemed a far cry from the best.
Ardor was aiming now, if that was what it could be called. The Singler in his outstretched hand wobbled so much, it looked like he was writing his name in the air. The distance was no more than twenty feet. But the target mug was small, even for a sober man to hit.
Halavend’s muscles suddenly ached again. The air around him seemed clearer, despite the fact that Ardor’s pipe continued smoldering next to the empty mugs. His headache returned. And he suddenly understood exactly what was going on.
The Slagstone hammer threw sparks as Ardor squeezed the trigger. The Singler spit flame, and in the same heartbeat, the mug on the other side of the room exploded, the lead ball chipping into the brick wall behind.
The tavern’s occupants seemed to take a collective gasp. While the crowd was still parted, Ardor raised the gun’s barrel and blew the smoke away from him. Tucking the bowl of Ashings under one arm, he sauntered—staggered—across the room. He fidgeted with the door, pushing for a moment before realizing that it needed to be pulled. Then he stepped out into the glowing red night and the door swung shut.
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 4
