With the blessing of the Prime Isless, Pethredote led an assault on King Barrid. He was severely undermanned and poorly prepared. But he had faith. And a clay pot full of Visitant Grit. In the most desperate throes of the attack, Pethredote detonated the Grit, summoning a Paladin Visitant within the blast cloud.
The very sight of the fiery Paladin incinerated King Barrid and a significant portion of his army. There were many casualties among the rebels, too, but at least they knew to shield their eyes and plug their ears. Mere moments after the Visitant cloud burned out, young Pethredote took the throne, his policies and rule unifying the islands once more under one crown—the very crown that Ard had been charged to steal.
“What if Isle Halavend is planning to do something similar?” Quarrah asked. “What if he’s planning to choose a hero to detonate the Visitant Grit so he can remove Pethredote from the throne? Sparks, we could be helping him start an uprising.”
It was a reasonable concern, since that was typically the use for a Paladin Visitant. But Halavend had assured Ard once again that his motives were nonthreatening.
“Halavend told me that he didn’t intend to use the Visitant Grit to incite any sort of war,” Ard assured them. “The man seems peaceful enough. I can’t imagine him wreaking death and anarchy with a Paladin Visitant.”
“Why else would he want the Grit?” Raek asked. “What other purpose does a Paladin Visitant serve?”
“Wayfarist doctrine claims that the Paladins are visitors from the Homeland,” explained Quarrah.
“Look at you, spouting doctrine,” said Ard. “I didn’t take you as a Wayfarist. Doesn’t stealing from wealthy Wayfarists go against the whole idea that we’re supposed to ‘lend aid to our fellow wanderers in these islands far from home’?”
“Just because I steal doesn’t mean I stopped believing in the Homeland,” said Quarrah. “Besides, I’m not the one with a religious name, quoting scripture.”
Did Ard believe there was a Homeland? Sure. The Landers’ ancestors had to have come from somewhere.
Wayfarist doctrine centered on a driving desire for progress. When the Homeland communicated, it inspired a person to change. An Urging for something more. The Islehood preached that the Urgings were fundamental, owing to the nature of the islands being a temporary dwelling place.
But the islands seemed far more permanent than the Islehood was ever willing to admit. Landers had been living in the Greater Chain for well over twelve centuries. Time had turned the Homeland into a mere belief. The vast majority lived and died on these islands. Only the Wayfarist Voyagers left.
That was the utmost sign of religious devotion. To enlist in a Voyage and depart from the islands in search of the Homeland, never to return.
Let the Wayfarist zealots take their Voyages, but Ard certainly wouldn’t be volunteering for the journey. Espar was home to him. And the islands spoke to him more than some imagined Homeland ever could.
“Just because Wayfarist doctrine claims to know where the Paladin Visitants come from, doesn’t make it true,” said Raek. “Doctrine is just a word that religious folk use to explain things they don’t understand. Things they expect everyone to believe. Like the Holy Torch. The Islehood wants us to believe that lighting it protects us from Moonsickness.”
“But you don’t believe that?” Quarrah asked.
Ard wanted to interject, but Raek had already leaned forward, anxious to engage in the controversial topic.
“Moonsickness is a factor of elevation, according to the Shwazer Society,” Raek began. “Pekal’s summit is more than ten thousand feet higher than the highest point in the Greater Chain. The theory is that proximity to the Moon, on the night of a Passing, is what causes people on Pekal to get Moonsick. Of course, that theory is easily debunked. Pekal’s harbors and surrounding waters are no higher than Beripent, so why does Moonsickness strike there, but not here? That leads me to Lubon’s theory: that Pekal’s soil is somehow contaminated from the Moon Passing. I don’t buy into that, either. If the soil on Pekal were contaminated, why do folks only get Moonsick on the night of a Passing? Wouldn’t they be affected on the other thirty days of the cycle?”
“You’re not really proving a point,” Quarrah noted. “You’re just making me think that the doctrine of the Holy Torch is as good a theory as any.”
“Raek does this,” Ard explained. “Spends half his breath telling you what’s not accurate so you’ll believe him when he comes around with the hard facts.”
“Personally, I lean toward the theory of Grumont, which combines elements of Lubon with the Shwazer Society,” Raek continued. “It basically states that due to the geomorphic features of Pekal, the island itself becomes a conduit for Moonsickness, passing it from the summit all the way to the surrounding water, afflicting any human being unfortunate enough to be standing around.”
Based on Quarrah’s expression, Ard couldn’t tell what she thought about Raek’s ramblings. Sparks, Ard himself didn’t know what to think, and he’d been hearing Raek’s philosophies since he was a teenager—a far cry from his mother’s faith-filled explanations of the world.
“See, I’m not convinced that the Wayfarists have anything right,” Raek carried on. “I’m sure they think they do, but at the end of the day, a lot of the Islehood’s preachings seem like scare tactics to me. Doctrines intended solely to keep people in line.”
“Like the Paladin Visitants,” Quarrah followed up.
“Like the Paladin Visitants,” repeated Raek. “We don’t even know what they really are, let alone where they come from.”
“Isle Halavend seems to know something about the Paladin Visitants that we don’t,” said Ard, pleased by the way his interjection brought them back to the matter at hand. “He’s determined to have one more detonation of Visitant Grit, but he assures me that it will be used to save lives, not take them. All his motives seem to hinge on whatever new doctrine he claims to have uncovered with that Agrodite priestess.”
“New doctrine?” Quarrah whispered. “Like what?”
“Doctrine! Doctrine!” Raek cried, finishing another pastry and dusting off his large hands. “You’d think we were a bunch of Holy Isles sitting around in here.”
“Raek’s right,” Ard said, though he was just as curious as Quarrah. “We need to stay focused on the job we’ve been hired to do. Never mind what Isle Halavend plans to do once we give him the Visitant Grit.”
“Well.” Raek stood up with a heavy sigh. “I’m off to Strind to scout for a proper factory. I’ll be taking the Double Take.”
Ard knew Raek wasn’t going to take a ferry. The big man hated public transportation. City carriages were too cramped, and he’d only tried the Trans-Island Carriage System once before deeming it “unpredictable” and “unsafe.” Ard grinned. This from the guy who had propelled them through the air, all the way to the docks of Marow, with nothing but a stolen sash of Reggie crossbow bolts and a mathematical equation in his bald head.
“What about us?” Quarrah asked.
“We have a meeting with Elbrig and Cinza tomorrow,” Ard said.
Raek rolled his eyes, muttering, “The crazies.”
“So soon?” Quarrah asked.
“We’re not simply stepping into costume,” Ard answered. “They’re going to help us become someone we’re not. That’s going to take time.”
He crossed the room, peering out the secret slot he had installed in the wall. Below, the shopfront was empty save for Mearet, the Trothian baker.
Ard opened the door and climbed down the small ladder, emerging from the faux brick oven they had installed, its chimney rising to disguise the upper door.
“Anything fresh this afternoon?” Ard asked Mearet as Quarrah navigated the secret entrance.
The stout woman shook her head, eyes a blur as they looked at Ard. “Big man take all the fresh on the way in.” Ard thought she handled Landerian quite well, though her Trothian accent made some words difficult to understand.
�
�Yeah, well, Big Man has the appetite of a bull dragon,” replied Ard. “But none of the charm.”
“I heard that!” Raek called from within the false oven.
Mearet chuckled at the interaction, though Ard wondered how much she really understood. Mearet’s pastries were actually the reason Ard had been drawn to this building. He’d frequented the Bakery on Humont Street often enough. And when Isle Halavend agreed to pay for a base of operations, Ard thought it would be a simple matter to convert the upper room.
They were renting the space from Mearet for fifteen Ashings a cycle—probably more than it was worth in this part of Beripent. Ard told her that he and Raek were linguists. Hey, it wasn’t far from the truth, since Ard had an affinity for words. And from what he’d recently learned about Trothian eyesight, he didn’t have to worry about Mearet catching a glimpse of his chalkboard.
Mearet was a Trothian making an honest living in the Greater Chain. She represented everything the king hoped for when he opened the island borders thirty years ago. Besides, having Mearet as a landlady had its perks. Fine baked goods.
“I’ll have doughnuts at morning,” Mearet said.
“Ah, my favorite,” Ard replied, though he was never awake in time to enjoy them fresh. The husky older woman nodded in respect and retreated into the back kitchen, leaving Ard alone with Quarrah as Raek secured the false front on the oven entrance.
“Elbrig and Cinza employ a significant security detail,” Ard said.
“You want me to bring my belts in case of trouble?” Quarrah asked.
“Flames, no!” Ard cried. “You trying to get us killed?” They crossed the shopfront, Ard grabbing a croissant as they passed the counter. “Bring a cat.”
“What?” Quarrah stopped fast and turned to stare at him.
“I said, bring a cat,” Ard repeated, taking a bite. “I’ll meet you at the southeast corner of the Char tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.” He opened the door to the street, but Quarrah remained still.
“A cat?” she said again.
“You’re still hung up on that?” Ard shook his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I stop to write whenever I grow weary. Seeing the words on these pages helps me. It gives me hope that my findings will reach you.
CHAPTER
6
Quarrah Khai did not bring a cat. She didn’t think there was any possible way that Ardor Benn had meant what he’d said at the bakery. But the ruse artist seemed quite annoyed with her lack of preparation when he picked her up at the southeast corner of the Char.
Ard had arrived late in a double-horse public carriage, a large model that could accommodate up to four passengers. The driver was an older man, very overweight, his girth spilling over the bench. Poor horses, Quarrah thought, hauling that man around all day.
They’d been riding for at least fifteen minutes, the morning gray and drizzling. Ard had spent most of the time complaining about how they were going to be late. He’d been the tardy one! If being on time to their meeting meant so much, couldn’t he have awakened earlier? Sparks, the man’s hair was still poking up on the side of his head like he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Where does one even buy a cat?” Quarrah asked. It was the closest she was going to come to apologizing. Ard was sitting across from her on the hard bench, staring out the carriage window as Beripent flew by.
“No, no,” he said, without looking up. “You don’t buy a cat. They’re everywhere. You simply snatch one up when you see it passing. A large bag works nicely.”
“I had one, growing up,” said Quarrah.
“A large bag?”
She rolled her eyes. “A pet cat. My mother got it for me when my father died.”
“A fairly suitable replacement, I imagine.” Ard didn’t treat the topic tenderly, but that didn’t surprise Quarrah. He seemed blunt whenever it came to things that couldn’t benefit him.
“I never liked that cat,” Quarrah said. “But I held on to her for years because she reminded me of my mother.”
Ard finally looked at her. “Your mother died, too?”
Quarrah shook her head. “She left when I was ten. I never saw her again.” Not that it was a bad thing. Quarrah had accepted her solitude from an early age, quickly overcoming any sense of abandonment, and instead finding strength in being alone. She didn’t need anyone taking care of her. She made her own luck.
“Should’ve gotten a dog.” Ard turned his attention away once more.
Seems like I just found one, Quarrah thought. Gratefully she didn’t say it out loud. At least, she didn’t think she had. Sometimes it was hard to keep track of which words happened in her brain and which ones came tumbling out of her mouth.
“What about you?” she asked. “Where are you from?”
“Here,” Ard said. “Beripent. Born and raised.”
“Do you still have family in the city?”
“Just Raek,” answered Ard.
“Is he your uncle or something?” she blurted. Probably not. Was Ard being literal?
“You don’t have to be related to be family.”
Right, then. Not literal. “How long have you known him?”
“All the years worth remembering,” answered Ard. “I was in school as a kid. Raek was a few years older. He lived a few streets down and started tutoring to make an extra Ashing.”
“You were Raek’s student?” Quarrah asked.
“Or he was mine,” answered Ard. “We never could decide. But one thing was certain. Together, we were unstoppable.”
“You were teenagers,” Quarrah pointed out. “Who was trying to stop you? And from doing what?”
Ard shot her an annoyed glance. “That’s not … You can’t …” He sighed heavily. “I worry about your imagination sometimes.”
The carriage began to slow. Ard muttered something and pressed his face against the window. Outside, the heavy driver raised his voice.
“Outta the way! That’s a fine stunt to get yourself killed!”
Quarrah sat forward. “What’s going on?”
Ard squinted. “Rough part of town.”
The carriage came to a complete halt. Without her belts, Quarrah felt useless in a skirmish. She wore a boot knife, of course, but if this were a robbery, that would be sorely insufficient. Ard’s hand brushed back his leather coat to reveal a holster. Good, the man had brought his Rollers.
“I’m not stopping here,” continued the driver. “Get your blazing drunk face off the road and out of my way!”
Ard popped open the door of the carriage and slid one foot onto the step, Quarrah peering over his shoulder at the obstruction. There was a woman lying in the middle of the damp street. She was stretched lengthwise, arms raised above her head so that she nearly spanned the narrow road.
“What’s she doing?” Quarrah whispered to Ard.
The woman sat up when she saw the occupants of the carriage. The vagrant was dressed in rags, hair grayed. Her nose had an unpleasant downward hook. She looked rather shapeless, with so much tattered cloth around her.
The hag crawled across the compact dirt, finally standing when she was beside the horses. She moved forward, one hand clutching the yoke as if to prevent the carriage from departing.
“Back inside,” the driver said to Ard and Quarrah. He raised his short whip to strike the woman, but Ard reached up to stay the man’s hand.
“What do you want, old woman?” Ard asked.
Quarrah had withdrawn into the carriage, but she could easily see the exchange from her position. The hag hobbled a few steps closer.
“Just an Ashlit.” Her teeth were discolored or missing altogether. “Havin’ a lovely ride wit’ the wifey?”
Wife? Quarrah was glad he didn’t turn around to see her blushing. She and Ardor Benn, a couple? It would take a drunk hag to assume something so absurd.
“My wife is as charitable as she is beautiful.” Ard gestured to Quarrah. “We would like to give you something far more valuable t
han an Ashlit, madam.”
Ard reached into his vest and withdrew a necklace of glittering pearls. Quarrah gawked at the piece of fine jewelry.
“This will fetch a fair price in certain parts of Beripent.” Ard pressed the necklace into the old woman’s dirty hand.
The woman let out a shriek, tears welling in her eyes. “Homeland bless you, pretty people!” The hag bowed, backing away.
“Drive on,” Ard instructed the driver before closing the carriage door.
“What … was that about?” Quarrah hoped the shadows of the carriage would hide her flushed face. She was still thinking about the two of them as a couple.
“Giving an Ashlit to a woman in her state is the same as handing her a bottle of liquor,” Ard said. “Turning those pearls into Ashings will require work. I believe people should work for what they get.”
Quarrah tried not to read into that statement. Thieves worked for their pay, too. “And you just happen to be carrying a strand of pearls in your pocket?”
“I intended for them to be a gift.” Ard stared across the carriage at her. “To give at the right moment.”
Quarrah felt her face flushing again. “Oh … well … I couldn’t possibly …”
“For Cinza,” Ard said, causing Quarrah’s blush to increase until she thought her face might catch fire.
“I just thought … because of what you said about me being your wife …” Was her mouth still going? See, this was why she preferred to work alone. “I’m just wondering …” Quarrah took a deep breath. Words. Why were they so complicated? “Why did you tell that woman we were married? Because we’re not married.” Obviously. She probably could have done away with that last sentence.
Ard was simply smiling at her as though amused by her discomfort. “Safety precaution,” he explained. “I make it a point never to reveal truth about myself to strangers. If I find myself engaged in criminal activity later today, and the Reggies question that poor woman, she will tell them that a married man generously gave her a piece of fine jewelry.” He slouched on his hard bench. “Now, that doesn’t exactly fit my typical description. Throws them off my trail, see?”
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 10
