“And what exactly is your connection to Ardor Benn these days?” asked the woman with the lazy eye.
Queen Abeth remained straight-faced. “I invite you to see my official statement regarding the rescue of my son.”
Such a document existed? Quarrah suddenly found herself hoping that her name hadn’t made it in there.
“That is,” added the queen, “assuming you have someone to read it to you, Lady Heel.”
Quarrah couldn’t tell if that was an insult, or if Lady Heel really didn’t know how to read with that wandering eye. Either way, it didn’t faze the plump noblewoman.
“Oh, I’ve read it,” Lady Heel said. “And I would just like to point out that you couldn’t possibly have written it without the help of the very man in question. Which leaves me to wonder just how factual the account really is? For example, there was no mention of what we just learned—Ardor Benn’s choice not to leverage the prince for the benefit of the Trothians.”
Sparks, these nobles were a school of circling sharks.
“I’ve read it, too,” Raek cut in. “And speaking as a person who was actually there, I can tell you the whole thing is blazing true.”
“Excellent,” said Lord Blindle. “We have the word of the criminal’s best friend.”
Prime Isle Trable suddenly stood up. “We are not here to question the authenticity of the Shad Agaul Papers. Can we please return to the matter at hand?”
“Ah. The matter of why Her Majesty is unwilling to authorize an emissary without the council’s support,” said Lord Kinter.
“She already explained her motives,” Trable said, reluctantly seating himself again.
“Allow me to propose another theory,” Kinter went on. “Perhaps Her Majesty wants the blessing of the council so she will not have to shoulder full responsibility when this entire fiasco detonates in our faces like a keg of Blast Grit.”
“Here, here!” cried an old man who hadn’t yet spoken a word. He thumped the tabletop with his wrinkly fist and winced at the pain from the impact.
“I believe we can now move to a vote with confidence,” said Lady Werner, to nods from the other nobles.
Quarrah felt this entire thing slipping away from them. The queen and the Prime Isle were feeling it, too. Raek’s head was downcast, his fingers massaging his chest as if trying to work the pipe free.
Well, in Quarrah’s opinion, this whole approach had been ill-advised. Trable and Abeth had done their best, but it simply wasn’t enough for the deep water Ard was in.
She sighed, clearly seeing the way out of this, but loath to risk so much for Ard’s sake. Why couldn’t she just let him die?
“On the matter of sending an emissary to Ra Ennoth to negotiate the release of Holy Isle Ardor Benn,” said Trable. “How does the royal council vote?”
“Nay,” each of the nobles said in turn.
“I recognize that the Islehood has no vote in this matter,” said Prime Isle Trable, “but it is the will of the Homeland to protect and preserve the Holy Isles. Her Majesty has my support should she choose to pursue this endeavor single-handedly. However, let it be noted that she is under no obligation to do so, and my words here reflect only advice, not mandate, for the crusader monarch.” He let out a slow breath. “How would Her Majesty like to proceed?”
Once again, all eyes went to Queen Abeth at the head of the table. “I withdraw my request for an emissary,” she said quietly, defeated. “The fate of Ardor Benn now lies in the hands of the Trothian nation to do with him as they see fit.” She looked down the table at Quarrah, Raek, and Prime Isle Trable. “I am indeed sorry for your friend.”
Advice. Counsel. Recommendations… What does any of that matter when I’m just going to do whatever the sparks I want in the end?
CHAPTER
9
Ard used both hands to dig another hole in the sand at the bottom of his pit. Oh, flames. He was running out of places to bury his vomit. He rocked back on his knees, groaning. Maybe he could hold this one in.
The last time he remembered being this sick was more than a decade ago—Ard had collected nearly twenty Ashings from the bet, but apparently, his constitution was no more equipped for whatever the Trothians were feeding him than it was for licking poisonous toads hiding under benches at the University in Helizon.
Ard looked skyward, wondering when the flooding seawater would surge over the edge of his pit and put him out of his misery. This would be the night, though there was still a glimmer of daylight above.
But something new was happening on the Ennoth, Ard could tell. It had started about an hour ago, with Trothians running past his pit to exchange words with the priestesses before racing off. Probably making preparations for the big night.
After four days, Ard had given up talking to Lyndel. He couldn’t see the priestesses from down here, but he could hear them taking up a song or a chant from time to time. Sparks, they had to be almost as miserable as he was, with their feet stuck in the sand.
He’d also given up trying to climb out. Ard had a shackle around each ankle with a short length of chain connected to two large blocks of stone. Even on his first day down here, he could barely drag them across the bottom of his pit. And that was when he’d been healthy and strong.
Ard had managed to drop one of the stones on top of the other, breaking off a small corner of the block. That fragment had then become the sole object of his time, using it to scrape, hoping to loosen the pitons that held his chains in place.
But even that had come to a discouraging end when his makeshift tool had broken, slicing the palm of his right hand and shaving off the skin on his knuckles.
Ard’s thoughts oscillated between hope that his friends would mount a rescue and resigning himself to die. The latter would consume him whenever he closed his eyes, the image of that weeping Trothian girl flooding his mind. Her body shaking with sobs, her small hands dusted with pale sand as she had literally dug his grave.
A voice called out from somewhere above. In his weakened state, it took Ard a moment to realize that the person was speaking Landerian.
“Priestess Lyndel. I thank you for allowing me to approach you here.” It was a man’s voice, with a distinct Dronodanian accent. “Communicating from the beach was growing tedious. Your messengers were fast, but I’d say we’ve got less than an hour until that Moon rises.”
“What is your name?” Lyndel’s voice called.
“Stamon Grau,” he replied. “Chief emissary to Queen Abeth Ostel Agaul, crusader monarch of the unified Greater Chain. I have been sent to negotiate the release of the prisoner.”
The words caused a sudden numbness to wash over Ard’s aches and weakness. He rose slowly to his feet, head cocked slightly to one side so he wouldn’t miss another word of the conversation.
“That will not be possible,” replied Lyndel. “This matter is not open to negotiation.”
“Then why did you even allow me ashore?” Stamon asked. “A few more hours and it would have been too late. You would have gone through with the execution and the issue would have resolved itself.”
“We brought you ashore because of the second addendum to the Trothian Inclusionary Act. As long as my people are allowed the freedom of coming and going from the Greater Chain, we must receive any royal flagship that hails our islets.”
“Yes,” said Stamon Grau. “I wasn’t sure if you—”
“We may not be able to read,” Lyndel cut him off, “but your stakdash King Pethredote made sure we knew the wording of the Act.”
“And again, I thank you for honoring it in allowing me ashore,” Stamon said.
“The alternative was to risk tension between our nations,” said Lyndel. “And I don’t think either of us want that.”
“No, indeed,” said the emissary. “Which is why I have come. Are you aware that the man you are holding is a Holy Isle of Wayfarism?”
She was definitely aware. Ard had been shouting it for several days. Lyndel had probably thought he was lying, but
the queen’s emissary was proving it now.
“I do not care what titles or status this man has on your islands,” she replied. “Once he set foot on Ra Ennoth, he became our prisoner.”
“He is very popular back home,” said Stamon. “All of Beripent is abuzz about his capture. That puts us in a bit of a delicate position, see? The Landers want him back—the citizens, the Prime Isle. The queen. I would hate for his execution to cause tension between our nations.”
Ard grinned. This man was a fine negotiator, using Lyndel’s words against her. And if what he said was true, then it sounded like Raek had reached Cinza and Elbrig in time for the two of them to spread word of his detainment through Beripent.
“Are you threatening us?” Lyndel asked.
“I am only trying to help you understand the delicacy of your situation,” the emissary said. “Following through with this execution will be considered an act of aggression against Wayfarism. And Her Majesty currently rules as a crusader monarch under the direction of the Islehood. I think you can see where this is going.”
“Executing him might be an insult to your religion,” said Lyndel, “but freeing him would be an insult to ours.”
“With all due respect, there is a difference between insulting one’s religion and starting a war,” said Stamon.
Ard gawked in silence at the bottom of his pit. Queen Abeth had really gone all out to save him if she was willing to threaten the Trothians with war.
Above, Lyndel began speaking with the priestesses in their language. The conversation stretched on, the sky growing dimmer by the minute. After some time, Ard couldn’t help but wonder if the priestesses were merely stalling. Perhaps their plan was to drown Stamon Grau along with Ard and claim that the whole thing was the result of bad timing.
Then silence fell. Ard could see a reddish tinge to the darkened sky. Lyndel spoke in Landerian once again.
“We have required the life of Ardor Benn as payment for the deaths of our people,” she began. “But if doing so will bring about more Trothian deaths in a war against Landers, then we must consider what is best for our people.” She paused for a long time. “You may take him.”
Ard felt a rush of relief that quickly gave way to nausea. Instead of celebrating his freedom, he dropped to his knees, gripping his stomach and trying not to lose its contents.
“And the name Stamon Grau will be remembered as the one who robbed Nah of due payment,” continued Lyndel. “Should you ever step foot upon Trothian sand again, you will find yourself in a pit much like this one. In the meantime, take this message to your queen.” Lyndel cleared her throat. “Your actions have offended the Trothian nation. Should the time ever come that you need our assistance, we will stand by and watch you suffer.”
As she spoke, Ard saw movement at the edge of his pit. A couple of Trothian men lowered a simple rope ladder. Then one of them sprang down, his bare feet leaving imprints in the sand beside Ard. He wrinkled his nose at the reek of the pit and then wordlessly unlocked the shackles around Ard’s ankles. He muttered something in Trothian and gestured to the way up.
Ard staggered across the pit, gripping the looped rope rungs, wincing at the effort it took to hoist himself. The Trothian above heaved on the ladder, hauling him up like a limp fish in a net. Ard remained on hands and knees for a moment, feeling ill. Then he stood up slowly, realizing he was just feet from Lyndel.
She studied him with her dark vibrating eyes, her face an unreadable stone. “You have powerful friends, Ardor Benn,” she said.
“I’ve always counted you among them,” he replied.
She leaned forward, her feet still buried in the sand. “The next time I see you”—her voice was a whisper—“I will kill you where you stand.”
Ard swallowed against the rising bile in his throat and turned away from her. Was it really going to end like this between them? Full of animosity and distrust? Isle Halavend would have sorrowed at the discord between the two individuals who had once saved life and time itself. The sorrow nipped at Ard, too, but Lyndel seemed wholly calloused by her desire for vengeance.
There was a Lander man standing on the other side of the pit who must have been Stamon Grau. He wasn’t very tall, mostly bald, with prominent ears and two front teeth that Ard could see even in the darkness.
Behind the emissary, the Red Moon was rising on the horizon. Sighting down the nearest pat, Ard thought the glowing crimson curve looked like a crown of fire on the sea.
“Thank you,” Ard said, staggering toward the emissary.
“Thank the queen,” he remarked coldly. “I’m now an enemy of the Trothian nation.”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Ard said. “I assume you have a ship waiting?”
“The queen’s own Leeward Pride,” answered Stamon. Then he turned once more to Lyndel. “We will stay anchored through the night and depart at dawn.”
“What?” Ard cried. To give the Trothians a chance to recapture them? “Why?”
“The InterIsland Waters are swollen during the Moon Passing and the harbors are closed,” replied Stamon. “And the crew of the Leeward Pride would prefer to spend the red night belowdecks.”
“You will maintain the distance of a half mile,” said Lyndel.
“Understood,” answered Stamon.
Ard risked one last glance at Lyndel, but her head was downcast. She had reached out, gripping the hands of the priestesses on either side of her.
The Trothian men that had freed Ard from the pit led the way, dropping into one of the pats and moving seaward, setting a pace much too swift for Ard’s weakened condition.
Ard noticed that the canals were noticeably deeper than before, forcing him to swim more than once. The water actually felt fresh and cleansing after so many days sitting in his own filth.
Every minute they traveled, the water seemed to grow deeper. In some places, Ard saw that the banks of the pats had overflowed, seawater flooding under the raised walls of the Trothian homes.
By the time they reached the beach, the open sand where he’d been arrested was completely underwater. Ard stood chest deep in the sea, the Leeward Pride silhouetted against a solid red backdrop of the rising Moon.
One of those half-submerged rafts was waiting for them, a pair of Trothian swimmers ready to push. Ard and Stamon hoisted themselves onto the rails and the simple vessel streamed through the water, effortlessly propelled.
Stamon Grau said nothing, but clung to the raft like he might be bucked off at any moment. Ard felt exhilarated, the fresh wind against his wet face, moving away from what he had thought would be his certain death.
When they reached the Leeward Pride, a salty-looking sailor woman was waiting with a rope ladder over the hull. Stamon went first and Ard followed, nearly slipping twice. When he finally reached the deck, the Trothian raft was out of sight in the darkness.
“You look like slag.”
Ard pulled himself up at the sound of the voice. “Raek?” What was his partner doing with the queen’s crew? “You cut it kind of close.”
“It’s a long ways to Beripent and back,” Raek replied.
Ard nodded. “I knew Trable would pull through for us. But this…” He gestured at the ship. “He went above and beyond getting the queen involved.” Ard scanned the deck. “Skeleton crew, eh?” Only three sailors besides Raek and the woman. “I would have thought Her Majesty would send some Reggies for backup.”
“She probably would have,” Stamon Grau said. “But we didn’t have that kind of pull.”
“Huh?” Ard turned just in time to see him reach up and wipe off one of his sagging earlobes.
“On the bright side,” the man said, “Stamon Grau now has a significant and memorable encounter. I’d say the value of his character just went up by at least a hundred Ashings.”
Ard leaned forward, peering at him through the red-hued darkness. “Elbrig?”
“Not so loud, Ardy,” he replied. “I’m still Stamon Grau to the crew.”
“I assume Cinza’s here, too?” Ard said.
Elbrig pointed at the woman who had thrown him the ladder. She cast him a sidelong wink.
“But…” Ard stammered. “The Leeward Pride…” If this wasn’t the real ship, then it was a stunning replica.
“Queen Abeth made the mistake of telling us where it was docked,” Raek said. “Quarrah swiped the necessary departure papers and we sailed out of the western harbor without any opposition.” Raek held up a finger. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Queen Abeth could have stopped us, but chose to turn a blind eye. She was in your corner, Ard. She and Trable. But the council of royal morons wouldn’t authorize an emissary.”
“Where do we go from here?” Ard asked. “I can’t imagine they’ll welcome us back into the harbor.”
Raek shook his head. “In the morning we’ll sail the Leeward Pride as far north as we dare and then abandon her. I made arrangements with Frent Bailor to pick us up in the Double Take.”
“I haven’t seen Frent in ages,” Ard said. “I thought he retired after that barrel of dead rats pinned him against the back of the greenhouse.”
“He was willing to do a simple pickup run for you,” Raek said. “And he’ll keep it under his cap so it shouldn’t jeopardize the queen’s pardon or your standing in the Islehood.”
Ard tapped his chin in thought. “We’ll need an airtight story for Trable.”
“Too many witnesses for anything to be completely airtight,” Raek said. “You could always claim that you escaped.”
Ard shook his head. “That would be a crime—not against the Greater Chain, so maybe I’d keep the pardon. But Trable could never justify keeping me in the Islehood after that.”
“That might not be a bad thing,” said Raek. “If you haven’t found what we’re looking for yet, what difference do you think a few more cycles will make?”
Ard held up his hand. “We can spread the word that the Trothians released me after I talked Lyndel’s ear off.”
“Paint it blue and here’s proof.” Elbrig held out the wadded prosthetic ear.
The Last Lies of Ardor Benn Page 15
