The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “I knew you’d be irked by it,” Hedge said. “You demand more proof.”

  Ard nodded, an idea occurring to him. “A test of skill,” he said. “Shooting.”

  “Explain.”

  “I’ll set up six of those Grit pots—blanks, if you worry about wasting Heat Grit,” said Ard. “I’ll shoot at them and you can predict how many I’m going to hit.”

  “Oh,” Hedge said, striding across the Be’Igoth toward the privacy stalls on the left. “Like this?” He pulled back the curtain to reveal six clay Grit pots propped side by side on a low shelf.

  Ard’s mouth went dry. What was happening? Maybe he should just leave. “I don’t have a…”

  He trailed off as Hedge reached into his vest and produced a Roller. He proffered it from his spike arm, the tip threaded through the trigger guard.

  “All right.” Ard accepted the gun. “Why don’t you tell me how many I’m going to hit? And keep in mind that anything less than six is insulting.” He pasted on a cocky smile, but he wasn’t feeling it.

  “I won’t say,” replied Hedge. “Influence your shooting, and whatnot. How about I write down the number on a scrap of parchment?” He held out a folded piece, pinched between his index and middle finger. “You can check it after the shots are made.”

  “Don’t you need to write the number?” Ard asked.

  Hedge’s lips curled in a grin. “Did that before you came in.”

  Wordlessly, Ardor Benn took the scrap of paper and tucked it in his pocket. Hedge was playing a mind game with him, that was all. Ard’s reputation would suggest that he’d hit all six. But Hedge would be aware of that, possibly assuming that Ard would intentionally miss one or two in an effort to throw his prediction.

  But there was one number that Hedge Marsool couldn’t possibly have guessed.

  Ard leveled the Roller and snapped off six shots in rapid succession. Each found its mark, shattering a blank Grit pot. Ard’s ears were ringing, his vision further obscured by the heavy smoke that filled the steamy bath house. But there was one more shot to be made.

  Reaching into his vest, Ard withdrew the small piece of paper. But with it came his Singler, snapping off the last shot in Hedge’s direction. The ball went over the man’s shoulder, exploding into another pot of Heat Grit on the rack behind him.

  While Hedge stood anchored, not even trembling from the close call, Ard unfolded the paper and glanced down at the single word.

  Seven.

  His eyes darted up to the thin man, whose chest was heaving with the exhilaration of victory.

  “What the blazes?” Ard muttered. “How?”

  “Same way I knew you’d be in that ruined building in the Char,” he explained. “Same way I knew you’d flip three marks up. I can see the future. And that’s how I know we’re not alone in here.”

  Ard spun around, scouring the spacious Be’Igoth as if it might suddenly turn into an ambush. When he glanced back at Hedge, the man had crossed to the privacy stall next to the one Ard had shot at.

  “I believe you already know the other rapscallion I invited to this meeting.” Hedge Marsool pulled back the curtain and Ard found himself staring into the tense face of Quarrah Khai.

  Quarrah didn’t run. There was no sense in that. This stranger—Hedge Marsool—obviously didn’t want her dead. Taking a deep breath of hot, misty air, she stepped out of the dressing stall, eyes locked with Ardor Benn.

  “Quarrah?” he sputtered. “How did you…? What are you…?”

  She gestured at the man with the spike for an arm. “Left me a note, same as you.”

  “Righty ho,” said Hedge. “Though it’s a blazing shame you had to break that vase to find it. Worth more in one piece.”

  Quarrah stiffened. Who was this creep? Claiming to see into the future? Sparks, she should have guessed Ard would somehow be involved. But judging by the conversation she’d just overheard, he didn’t understand what he was up against, either. Unless he and Hedge were in it together, planning this entire thing to convince her to steal a dragon…

  “This room only has one door,” Ard said. “How long have you been in here?”

  “Long enough,” she replied. Patience was one of Quarrah’s best qualities, but she didn’t need to go bragging to Ard that she’d been inside the Be’Igoth since dawn.

  “You look… good,” Ard said hesitantly, as if he was aware that this wasn’t the time or place for unnecessary compliments. Still, at least he was showing some restraint. Unlike the last time he’d seen her, shortly after he’d joined the Islehood—and what was with his sudden religious proclivities anyway?

  Hedge Marsool reached into his courier’s bag, withdrawing a folder of papers. “Documents and orders,” he announced. “Captain Torgeston Dodset sits in command of my largest smuggling ship—the Stern Wake. The vessel can easily hold a mature sow, and with the right paperwork”—he waggled the folder tauntingly—“the captain can get you into and out of any harbor without a cargo inspection.”

  “Hold on,” Quarrah said. “We haven’t agreed to take the job.”

  “Sure you did,” said Hedge. “What else are you going to do? When you leave Tofar’s Salts, I know where you’ll go. You try to hide, I find you. You try to run, I cut you off.” He glanced at Ard. “You decide to double-cross me, I already know about it.” Then he took a step closer to Quarrah. “You’ve got no idea what you’re up against, dearie.”

  Quarrah drew back, his breath reeking of spicy fish. “I think I’ll take my chances,” she said. “You might scare Ard with your mystic abilities, but I’m not so easily hoodwinked—”

  “Glassminds,” Hedge said.

  “What?” Quarrah and Ard replied in unison.

  “That’s what people are calling the creature that Prime Isless Gloristar transformed into.”

  “How do you know about—” Ard began.

  “Rumors crawl the city,” Hedge cut him off. “But I know better. I’ve got the cure.”

  “Cure to what?” Quarrah couldn’t help but think of Lord Dulith’s deranged claim. Hedge Marsool seemed no better.

  “Moonsickness,” said Hedge. “ ’Course, you have to catch the poor sap in a cloud of Metamorphosis Grit before the final stage.”

  Quarrah felt her heart skip, and Ard sucked in a sharp gasp. Only a handful of people knew about Portsend’s final discovery. How did—

  “Digested dragon teeth,” the man went on, “extracted from a mound of Slagstone and processed to powder. Dissolved in a liquid solution with a balance level of negative flat five.”

  “Sparks,” Ard whispered.

  “I’ve got a few bruisers in mind for a quick transformation,” said Hedge. “Just think how my smuggling business would soar if I had an army with powers like Gloristar had.”

  “How did you learn that formula?” Quarrah asked, her voice low.

  “Oh, don’t fuss.” Hedge chuckled. “Secret’s safe with me. So long as you get me what I’ve asked for.”

  “I, for one, think it sounds like a delightful challenge,” Ard abruptly announced, swiping the folder from Hedge’s hand. “Stealing a dragon, that is.”

  Hedge sniffed, turning his spike hand slowly like he might gore Ard where he stood. Then he reached out and took the folder back without any resistance from the ruse artist.

  “Smarter than a stray tom, Ardor Benn.” Hedge gave a twisted smile, tucking the folder back into his courier’s bag. “I’ll give you the documents you need to get aboard Captain Dodset’s ship after you secure a place to store the dragon.”

  “My contacts in Helizon aren’t—” Ard began.

  “I’ll give you the contact,” Hedge cut him off. “There’s a fat old baroness in Helizon by the name of Lavfa. A real ear-sore, but she’s got the space to store the beast.”

  “And this baroness will agree to work with us?” asked Quarrah. “She’s a friend of yours?”

  “She doesn’t know I exist,” admitted Hedge. “But I understand she’s willing to
lease out her land to anyone if the price is right.”

  “A price you’ll be fronting?” Ard ventured.

  Hedge’s scarred face contorted in a chuckle. “Don’t play with me. They say the queen set you up for life when you signed her little pardon. I’ve heard figures over a million Ashings.”

  “Well, they’re clearly exaggerating,” said Ard. “It was only an even million.”

  Quarrah glanced at him, aware of the lie. According to Raek, the payment had been half that between both men. Queen Abeth had paid from her personal accounts, but most of her assets had been in the Guesthouse Adagio, which, regrettably, had been blown to bits in their battle against the Realm.

  “The cost is yours,” Hedge said. “Along with the negotiation. But I’m a fair man. Consider the Be’Igoth at Tofar’s Salts exclusively yours until you get me that dragon.” He strode between Ard and Quarrah, moving for the exit. “I won’t even pop in to bother you.”

  “Thanks,” Ard said, his tone bordering sarcasm. “In my negotiations, I’m sure the baroness will want to know how long we’ll be renting the space. What are your plans for this dragon?”

  Hedge laughed—little more than a rasping wheeze, but it must’ve been a laugh because his face was twisted into something like a grin. “You know what they say about you, Benn?”

  “Best-smelling ruse artist in the Greater Chain?” Ard joked.

  “You stick it in too deep.” Hedge jabbed the air with his spike arm. “Don’t know how to pull it out. Jobs need doing, not explaining.”

  Ard raised his hands defensively. “Just tell me how long to rent the blazing property, Hedge.”

  “I’ll need the dragon for a full cycle,” he finally said. “Don’t worry your flimsy britches about what happens after that.”

  Hedge pulled open the door, and Quarrah saw the bare blue shoulder of the Trothian man standing guard.

  “I’ll send in Raekon Dorrel,” Hedge called as an afterthought, carefully limping down the algae-slicked steps. “The Hegger’s currently stuffing his face with a huckleberry turnover from the bakery across the street. That’s what he calls keeping watch.”

  And then the door closed, plunging Quarrah and Ard into the steamy dimness of the waning Light Grit in the Be’Igoth.

  “Care for a swim?” Ard finally asked, gesturing at the hot pool with the drowned cat. She could tell he was desperately trying to play it cool. Not to explode, like that day in the Char when he’d berated her for not letting him know she was alive after the Old Post Lighthouse had collapsed into the sea.

  “Are we really doing this?” Quarrah asked.

  “I mean, I was joking. But if you want to take a dip—”

  Homeland, he could be annoying sometimes.

  “I’m talking about the job, Ard.” Quarrah sighed. She’d been extorted into a job before—when the queen dowager, Fabra Ment, had threatened to distribute a painting of her. At least there had been Ashings that time. In the years since, Quarrah had been living quite comfortably from the payout she’d collected before suspecting Fabra of being the masked leader of the Realm.

  “Oh, we’re doing it,” Ard said. “We have to find out how he knows so much.”

  “Do you believe him?” Quarrah asked. “About predicting the future?”

  Ard shook his head. “No… I don’t know. Maybe. There’s got to be a trick to it.”

  “Almost seems like the work of a ruse artist,” she probed. But her suspicion went over Ard’s head in a way that reassured her.

  “Hedge Marsool is a lot of things,” he replied, “but I wouldn’t call him a ruse artist. He certainly has the skills to mastermind something as clever as a ruse, but he doesn’t usually attach his face to it, because, well… you saw his face.”

  The disfigurement from the burn scars seemed to cause him a lot of pain. “Was he like that when you did the gem cutter job for him?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Ard answered, a distant look on his face.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Six or seven years,” he replied. “Before I met you.”

  “He’s been operating in Beripent all this time?” Quarrah wondered why his name had never reached her ears. He could have been part of the Realm.

  “He covers a lot of the Greater Chain,” said Ard. “But his real reputation is tied to Pekal. They called him the King Poacher. There wasn’t a Harvester on Pekal that didn’t fear him. Then old Hedge tangled with a dragon and his days of running the island came to a sudden end.”

  Quarrah felt the tingling of a dark thought in the back of her mind. Maybe it was born of her recent nightmare with Lord Dulith.

  “Ard,” she whispered. “What if this is a revenge job?”

  “I thought of that. But it’s been so many years since I double-crossed—”

  “Not against you,” she cut him off. “What if he wants a live dragon just so he can kill it?”

  “He wasn’t after a specific dragon,” Ard said. “He said any mature sow would do.”

  And any Moonsick person would do for Lord Dulith. Revenge at that level wasn’t logical. Quarrah had seen how twisted it could make someone. Working for a man like that would be beyond dangerous.

  “Once he got back on his feet after the attack,” Ard continued, “Marsool decided to work the other end of the poaching business. He became a notorious fence and know-all regarding dragon-related items. He’s now as much a king of smuggling as he was poaching.”

  “What about those papers he had?” Quarrah asked. “You think they’re really worth anything?”

  “If we do this, we’ll need a big ship and a willing captain able to convince harbor Regulation to look the other way. I’m not surprised that Hedge has these kinds of connections—especially when it comes to moving things out of Pekal.”

  But moving an entire dragon? Alive? Quarrah had single-handedly taken an unfertilized egg from Pekal, but this was going to be infinitesimally more perilous.

  “Why would he pick the two of us?” Quarrah asked. “I’m known for stealing things, but usually only things I can pick up. And you… Well, I heard you were out of the rusing business.”

  Ard wiped some glistening dampness from his forehead. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m part of the Islehood now. So you don’t have to worry.”

  “Worry?” she said. What was he talking about?

  “About me, you know…” He gestured awkwardly between them. “It’s just… we can’t be together. That’s a choice I made when I became a Holy Isle.”

  She bit back a disbelieving chortle. Was he seriously working this angle with her? She didn’t believe for a minute that Ardor Benn had actually joined the Islehood for a genuine purpose. He was clearly doing a long job. His new robes gave her no assurances that he wouldn’t continue his hopeless attempts at winning her over.

  “I’m just saying, if we are going to be working together again,” said Ard, gesticulating more than normal with his hands, “then maybe we should talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?” She supposed it was fun to watch him squirm a little.

  “Why you left that night,” he said. “After Gloristar fell from the lighthouse. You could have been pardoned. You know Abeth would have done it. Sparks, I almost got her to do it while you weren’t even there.” His breath caught, like he didn’t know which words to spend it on next. “Why didn’t you come back?”

  Quarrah wasn’t sure how to respond. The answer to that question wasn’t cut and dry. It was as complex and confusing as her feelings toward him.

  “What good is the queen’s pardon for people like us?” she finally settled on saying. Us. Her answer tied the two of them together in a way that visibly pleased Ard. But the look on his face quickly faded into an air of puzzlement.

  “It was good for me,” he said. “My entire life has changed.”

  “But for how long?” she interrupted. “Living outside the law is in my blood, Ard. And I know it’s in yours, too. The queen’s pardon would have only set me up
for a bigger failure in the future.”

  Better to keep on with the life I’ve always known, she thought. At least I know I’m good at that.

  The door burst open, causing both of them to whirl in surprise. Raek ducked inside, waving his hand through the air and making a sour face at the atmosphere in the Be’Igoth.

  “Hedge Marsool!” he cried.

  “Yeah,” Ard said, clearly perturbed by the interruption. “We know.”

  “He knew right where I was,” Raek continued.

  “And let me guess,” said Ard, “he caught you eating a huckleberry turnover.”

  Raek wiped self-consciously at the corners of his mouth, as if lingering crumbs had betrayed his appetite.

  “Oh, hey, Quarrah,” he finally greeted her.

  “Raek.”

  It had been only two weeks since she’d seen him. Raekon Dorrel was a supplier unlike any other. Quarrah was completely capable of Mixing her own powdered Grit, but when it came to the new liquid solutions, Raek was her man. Their meetings were always brief, mostly out of fear that Ard would stumble across her like he’d done that day in the Char. Raek had done an excellent job pretending like he hadn’t seen her in a year, but acting was harder for Quarrah.

  “We’re dealing with a fun case of extortion, Raek,” said Ard. “Hedge has always been threatening, but he’s upped his game. He knows the formula for Metamorphosis Grit. If we don’t do what he wants, he’ll transform his goons.”

  “What?” Raek cried. “He’s bluffing.”

  Quarrah shook her head. “He told us the formula.”

  “But how did he—”

  “Same way he knew everything else, I guess,” said Ard. “He claims he can see the—” He interrupted himself with a snap of his fingers. “Memory Grit! That’s how I would have done it.”

  “Done what?” Raek asked.

  “Seen the future,” Ard said. “The steam in the room would have made it impossible to notice the cloud. He must have tricked me into doing things so he’d know the outcome.”

  Quarrah tilted her head skeptically. Ard was obviously disturbed by Hedge’s claims, but this was grasping at straws. “I was in the room the whole time,” she reminded. “I would have noticed if you’d repeated yourself unknowingly.”