King Pethredote suddenly spun around, catching a fistful of Ard’s vest as he pulled him close. Ard felt the shards of dragon shell rubbing against him, their smooth, cool texture at odds with the king’s outburst.
“This is not something you speak of,” Pethredote hissed. “Not even here in the privacy of this throne room. Do you understand me, Dale Hizror?” Ard nodded, but the king wasn’t finished with his threat. “I don’t care if you are an esteemed composer. I don’t care if you’re a nobleman, a Trothian, or the Prime Isle himself. Some things are never spoken of under any circumstance, whether you are in favor or against. I don’t know what Glipp Chauster thought he knew, but I assure you, the Turroc and Stigsam were used for the good of every man, woman, and child alive today. To ensure that nothing could erase the peace and prosperity that I have brought upon the Greater Chain.”
The king released his grip and pushed Ard away. The older man seemed short of breath, his blue eyes full of a rage that could barely be contained.
“You tread on thin ice, speaking to me like that, Dale Hizror.” The king adjusted the shell headpiece. “And your words have put me in a rather disagreeable state. I’ve half a mind to send you away. But alas, a crowd awaits, and rumor of my announcement on your behalf has already spread.” He strode toward the archway where the curtain billowed slightly in the winter breeze.
“You will follow me out,” ordered the king, “but you will not speak to the crowd.”
Ard felt his trembling insides begin to still. That had been risky, even for someone with as silver a tongue as Ardor Benn. But the provocation had been successful. He could confidently report to Isle Halavend that his suspicions about the poison were confirmed. Perhaps that would earn him the right to know the Isle’s motives for the Visitant Grit.
The king had all but confessed, which painted a rather large target on Ard’s back, as Halavend would no doubt point out. Everyone else who had dug into the king’s conspiracy against the Bull Dragon Patriarchy was dead. But Ard wasn’t some retired Harvester whose murder could be attributed to a violent mugging. He was Dale Hizror, the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony. Ard was counting on his growing popularity to serve as some form of protection.
Besides, Ard had only risked confronting the king because of what he was about to do on the balcony. Any doubts that Pethredote had toward Dale Hizror would soon be relieved. If the plan worked, Dale would no doubt be counted among the king’s most loyal subjects.
Pethredote parted the curtains to a ray of sunlight as he stepped onto the balcony. Ard followed closely, the winter chill refreshing on his flushed face. The crowd below was even larger than he had anticipated. Did so many people actually care about which composer would be featured at the spring festival? Or was it just an excuse to see their beloved king? They might make a different noise if they knew what Pethredote had done.
Everyone has a skeleton in the closet, Ard thought. Pethredote’s closet must have been large, to accommodate the corpses of all three Patriarchal dragons.
“What a beautiful winter day!” King Pethredote’s voice quieted the crowd. “Spring seems a distant thing, but it will be upon us before we know it. And with it, the Grotenisk Festival!”
He let the people cheer for a moment. Ard watched the king’s pleasant demeanor rebuild at the adulation of the supportive crowd. Their encouraging shouts floated up like bricks in a cloud of Drift Grit to reconstruct a crumbling wall. A wall that Ard’s words had broken.
“Each year, the festival brings an influx of tourism to Beripent. With that comes a chance for merchants and peddlers to earn some extra Ashings,” the king continued. “Entertainment, too, is at its prime during the week, with a series of public concerts to be enjoyed at no cost. The pinnacle performance of the last three years has been my personal favorite—the Unclaimed Symphony. But that marvelous work no longer goes unclaimed. It is with great pleasure that I present to you the composer, Dale Hizror!”
Ard stepped up to the balcony’s edge to applause from the crowd. He looked down at the faces of the citizens gathered below. Why would they care? Merchants, miners, fishermen, carpenters. What did it matter to them who composed some orchestral symphony that caused a stir among the nobility? And yet they clapped and cheered all the same. Maybe it was because music at the Grotenisk Festival was like a window into royal life.
The applause died as the king began to speak again. “In light of discovering Dale Hizror’s true talents, I have commissioned him to compose a cantata to be performed at this year’s festival. I’m sure it will be a spectacular work, and I, for one, look forward to its performance with great anticipation.”
Any moment now. The king had finished his public acknowledgment of Dale Hizror. It was time for Quarrah to make her move.
The king licked his lips. “The performance will take place on an outdoor stage in the Char …”
Gunshots.
Two cracks from a Roller split the winter afternoon. The crowd below peeled away from the palace steps like ants whose hill had been disturbed. Screams and shouts filled the air as people made desperately to get away. It was a very similar scene to the concert hall two weeks ago. Except this time, Ard knew who’d fired the gun.
King Pethredote stumbled backward in surprise, his guards moving from the wings of the balcony to escort him to safety. But Ard reacted faster. He stepped in front of the king, his arms spread wide as if to protect Pethredote with his own body.
A third shot rang out from Quarrah’s Roller. Ard slapped his shoulder, falling back against the king.
Concealed beneath Ard’s shirt was a miniature teabag, less than a quarter pinch of Void Grit resting beneath a fragment of Slagstone. Wrapped around that was a sausage casing that Raek had filled with fresh pig’s blood.
The Slagstone sparked under the force of Ard’s slap, detonating the carefully measured Void Grit. Ard felt a stab of pain as the Grit formed a walnut-sized detonation cloud, pressing against his chest. At the same time, the force of the Void Grit ripped a hole right through his shirt, rupturing the sausage casing and spattering the blood in an impressive spray.
Pethredote grabbed Ard, lowering him to the balcony floor. Ard’s dripping hand reached out, smearing blood across one of the regalia shell fragments on Pethredote’s chest.
One of the Reggie guards had his Roller trained on the scattering crowd below, while the other hurled a Grit pot at Pethredote’s feet, a cloud of Barrier Grit springing up around Ard and the king. The Reggie guards positioned themselves defensively around the impenetrable Barrier dome, but at least for the next few minutes, the king and the composer were isolated and untouchable.
Ard sputtered and grunted, continuing to paw his bloody hands across the king’s regalia. Pethredote looked panicked, kneeling beside the bleeding man.
“Get us out of here!” the king shouted to his guards through the Barrier dome. “This man needs a healer, for Homeland’s sake! He’s going to die in here!”
Ard knew as well as Pethredote that nothing could break through or move the Barrier cloud. Burrowing under the perimeter of a Barrier dome was one of the only known ways to escape. But that would be impossible here, with the balcony’s stone floor.
It had been part of the plan, of course. It was standard procedure for the guards to contain the king in the safety of a Barrier cloud should there be a public attack. Ard’s stunt with the fake blood had caused the king to hesitate on the balcony instead of retreating through the curtained archway, ensuring that the guards would resort to Barrier Grit.
The king reached for Ard’s shoulder, but he swatted the hand away. The last thing Ard needed was for Pethredote to discover that there was actually no wound.
Come on, Raek.
There was an explosion beneath them. Ard felt the stones under his back shift and crumble. It was relieving to know that Raek hadn’t misjudged the amount of Blast Grit to mount on the underside of the balcony. Too much would have blown him and the king to bits within the Barrier dom
e. But Raek was a genius on this matter.
The explosion was perfectly calculated to crumble a controlled portion of the balcony. Beneath Ard, the stones sloughed inward. The king cried out in terror, gripping Ard’s shirt as they plummeted out the bottom of the Barrier dome.
The fall to the palace steps would have likely killed them both, especially with the rubble of the collapsing balcony coming down on top of them. But the same spark that had ignited the Blast explosion also detonated a large cloud of Drift Grit. Shards of broken stone hurtled through the weightless cloud like Roller balls, pushed by the explosion. But Ard and the king fell comfortably downward.
They had entered the Drift cloud with very little momentum, and that same force carried them down. It was a strange sensation, as though they were falling while time slowed around them.
Whether by Raek’s design, or a slight miscalculation, the Drift cloud did not reach completely to the palace steps. Ard and the king exited the bottom of the cloud and plummeted the remaining four feet under gravity’s usual care.
The king’s regalia clattered noisily against the stone steps, the impenetrable shell protecting Pethredote from the impact. Ard sputtered and choked some more, although this time it wasn’t acting. The force of the landing had jarred his back, stealing his breath.
Pethredote scrambled over to Ard, chunks of crumbling balcony falling around them like deadly hailstones. The king lifted Ard’s head from the steps, cradling it in both hands.
“Help!” he screamed. A few street Regulators sprinted to the king’s aid, ducking under the discolored haze of the hanging Drift cloud.
“We need to get you out of here, Your Highness.” Ard heard Raek’s voice before he saw him, wool Regulator coat hanging across his broad shoulders. At least he was wearing a Reggie helmet this time, despite Raek’s complaints about how none would fit his bald head.
“No!” shouted the king. “He’s been shot.”
A medical coach pulled up at the bottom of the steps, marked with a pair of white flags. A wiry driver leapt down from the bench, gesturing frantically for Ard and the king to be brought over.
“I’m a healer!” the man shouted. Ard didn’t recognize his voice or his face, but he knew that Elbrig Taut was beneath that clever disguise. Raek bent and scooped Ard into his muscular arms, descending the steps two at a time while the king scrambled to keep up.
The healer threw open the door of the medical coach and Raek passed Ard into the waiting arms of a curly-haired man with jewels in his ears. Elbrig ushered the king inside, following closely as he commanded the imposter Reggie Raek to drive the horses.
Tarnath propped Ard into the corner of the bench as Elbrig shut the coach door. Two small Light Grit lanterns illuminated the windowless vehicle.
“By the Homeland, sire! You’ve been injured!” Elbrig gestured to the blood that Ard had smeared across the regalia.
“I’m fine,” answered Pethredote. “But this man’s been shot.”
Elbrig snapped his fingers at Tarnath. “Help the king out of his regalia so I can examine the wound.”
Ard watched through squinted eyes as Tarnath grasped the fragments of shell on the king’s coat. “Get your hands off me!” demanded Pethredote. “I’m fine. But this good man is dying!”
Elbrig reached out and took the king’s wrists. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. You may not feel pain due to the shock of recent events. You are the king. Regardless of other patients, it is my first priority to see to your well-being.”
Tarnath had managed to run his hands across several pieces of shell, checking the metal loops that connected the fragments, and partially untying the leather back straps that held the coat on the king’s body.
“This is outrageous!” Pethredote pushed away from Tarnath, and the forger sat back. Apparently he was done making the necessary observations about the regalia.
Pethredote’s insistence to see Ard healed was a positive sign. Although Dale’s words about the poisoned dragons had riled the king, Pethredote clearly had no intention of seeing the composer dead.
Elbrig finally turned to give Ard the medical attention he was feigning to need. Pressing both hands firmly against Ard’s blood-soaked shoulder, Elbrig glanced back at the king.
“It’s bad, sire. I’m afraid there is little we can do without the proper tools,” he explained. “We need to detonate a Compounded blast of Health Grit directly into the wound.”
The windowless medical coach came to an abrupt halt. Tarnath pushed open the door as Raek jumped down from the driver’s bench. A second carriage, surrounded by Regulators on horseback, had intercepted the coach at an intersection.
Raek’s broad face appeared in the doorway. “King Pethredote, your Majesty. An armed carriage has arrived to escort you back to the palace.”
Pethredote didn’t move. “I’d prefer to stay with Dale Hizror. See that he receives proper attention.”
“I’m sorry, sire,” insisted Raek. “That’s just not a possibility. The shooter is still out there. It is our foremost duty to see you safely back to the palace.”
Pethredote finally nodded, taking Raek’s arm as he exited the coach. His crown was a bit crooked, and his coat dangled awkwardly from the leather straps Tarnath had loosened. Ard watched through half-closed eyes as the king crossed the street and entered the other carriage.
Raek jumped back onto the driving bench and Tarnath closed the door. Ard sat up sharply, taking a deep breath and stretching his sore shoulder. That little Void Grit detonation was going to leave a bruise.
“Well, I’d say that went off rather swimmingly,” said Ard. “You see what you needed to see?” he asked the forger.
Tarnath nodded. “It’ll take some time to put the replica together, but I should have it done before the Grotenisk Festival.”
Two more cycles, Ard thought. Dale Hizror would spend most of that time recovering from today’s wound. It was perfect. Ard would remain fresh in the king’s mind without having to make too many appearances as Dale Hizror. Azania, too, would be excused, as it would be expected for her to tend her recovering fiancé.
Two more cycles. Then they would steal the Royal Regalia and he could go back to being Ardor Benn full-time.
Elbrig reached out and adjusted Ard’s adhesive mustache. “Sparks,” Ard muttered. “Was it crooked?”
“Just a little,” answered Elbrig.
“Do you think the king noticed?”
“Absolutely not,” answered Tarnath. “He was pretty shaken up.”
“Don’t skimp on the adhesive next time,” coached Elbrig.
Ard leaned back, feeling the pains of his daring stunt as the coach bounced along the cobblestones. What did Elbrig expect, falling from a balcony like that? That would be enough to put a crook in anybody’s mustache.
There is no substitute for experience. Papers and books could only take us so far. In a case like this, I needed to be on the island. See it. Touch it. Breathe it in.
PART III
Who is watchful in the night, O ye Settled souls? The Holy Torch will tend itself. The Islehood is but a humble observer of such unspoken power.
—Wayfarist Voyage, Vol. 2
Red is the night, when that ember, whose brazier is the mountainside, watches over all.
—Ancient Agrodite poem
CHAPTER
17
Quarrah Khai was looking her best. Or rather, Azania Fyse was. The red wig had been reshaped for the occasion, trimmed a little in the front to let the ringlets fall at different lengths. Cinza had her in a pale blue gown for this reception. Not that it mattered much; Quarrah would be out of the cumbersome attire just as soon as Ard finished his chumming.
He did a lot of that, Ardor Benn. Ard’s version of Dale Hizror was undoubtedly more charming than whatever character Elbrig had originally created. It surely wasn’t a problem. The disguise managers provided a canvas with the outline sketched in place. But the details, the life o
f the painting, was left to the person who purchased the character.
Quarrah rocked back on the raised heels of her shoes. What life had she breathed into Azania Fyse? Quarrah had been playing the role for cycles now. But Azania was flat. Boring. Lifeless.
Quarrah felt like a wild animal, caged and on display. Like the captive Grotenisk from the lyrics of Dale Hizror’s cantata. The costume did that to her, blazing wig and dress. The spectacles, however, she’d grown secretly fond of. With a slight magnification in the lenses, there was no disputing that her vision improved behind those obnoxiously colorful frames. When this was all over, Quarrah would purchase some sensible spectacles. A pair that held snug to her face with a lightweight wire frame.
Quarrah didn’t know how much longer she could continue like this. The chill of winter had mostly run its course, and the promise of spring was in the air. It had been nearly two cycles since Ard had fallen from the king’s balcony with a fake wound. Most of that time had been spent cooped up with Ard in that smelly apartment on Avedon Street, reading letters of well wishes from bootlicking nobles. Gratefully, it was improper for Azania Fyse to spend the night, so she still had her evenings to wander the city, eventually finding sleep at one of the two tiny tenements she rented.
King Pethredote had seen to it that Dale receive home deliveries of high-grade Health Grit. Ard was overly pleased with this unexpected bonus, as they now had quite a bit of the expensive stuff stored up.
Quarrah and Ard had only begun venturing out two weeks ago, when rehearsals for the Grotenisk Cantata were scheduled to begin. They rehearsed in the Royal Concert Hall, which was quite convenient for Cinza, who already had her routes beneath the stage well established. Lorstan Grale was always in attendance, but he had handed the baton to Dale Hizror. Now Ardor Benn was conducting the cantata.
Sparks. He was good. Conducting the king’s Royal Orchestra? Six cycles ago, Ard didn’t know a thing about music. But he must have been convincing, as the orchestra didn’t complain. Not even the sour Cantibel Tren, who had been more than willing to correct Azania’s key change in the second movement. Quarrah took the criticism with a nod, her mouth full of detonated Silence Grit. It was Cinza who grunted in frustration, her head lodged between Quarrah’s thighs, and her grip tightening around her knees.
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 28
