The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

Nodding in gratitude, she skipped across the courtyard and onto the porch of Burdal’s Provisions, reaching up to swat a bell as she passed through the open door.

  Well, that wasn’t here last cycle. A Caller instrument had been set up in the corner of the shop, a sign propped in front of the wide brass bell.

  FOR DISPLAY ONLY—NOT FOR SALE

  Nemery examined the silken pull cords, little decorative wooden balls fastened to the ends. The vibration box looked like it was made of tempered steel, and there wasn’t a dent or a scratch in the brass.

  Well, she didn’t need a fancy, top-of-the-line Caller instrument anyway. The cobbled, mismatched piece that she and Mohdek used worked just fine in the few situations where they actually needed to call a dragon.

  “Look what the dragon dragged in!” cried a voice from behind the counter, pulling her attention away from the instrument. The man had a pleasant expression, his gray mustache drooping clear to the second fold of his chin.

  “Morning, Burdal,” Nemery greeted. “You’re looking well. How was the Passing?”

  “A real boost for business,” he said with a wink. “You know how it is here. They brought in the largest orchestra yet.”

  “Always sounds like a party,” Nemery admitted, though not one she wanted to be invited to. “On a clear, calm night, I can hear those trumpets halfway up the mountain.”

  He folded his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t be up that far. Too close to the Redeye line.”

  She waved away his concern with a flick of her wrist. “The line’s pushed clear up to the summit these days. Moh and I weathered the last Passing a mile up from Rock Creek.”

  Burdal shook his head like he didn’t understand her fascination with the slopes. “What can I do for you, little Salafan?”

  “I’m after salt today.” She wasn’t going to wait three miserable hours in New Vantage just so Mohdek could help her carry it. She’d make her way back to the outskirts, leaving a trail of clues in the streets that he couldn’t miss.

  “Salt again?” replied Burdal. “You just about cleaned me out, cycle before last. What kind of meat are you curing up there?”

  “Mohdek,” she replied with a half smile.

  “Where is the strapping rascal?”

  “He went down to the harbor for the fajumar,” she answered. “My salt paste only goes so far.”

  “Ah,” said Burdal, finally seeming to understand why she was buying in such large quantities. “Didn’t know that worked for his kind.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about them,” she said, perusing the nearest shelf. There was a jar of apricot preserves that was calling her name if she had an extra Ashing. Everything was so expensive here. “For example, did you know that Trothians snore through their eyes?”

  Burdal leaned his stout form across the counter, thick brows knitting together. “No…”

  Nemery laughed. “I’m yanking your chain, Burdal. They’re not all that different than us. I think Trothians and Landers have more similarities than differences. People just decide to notice the latter.” She slapped the seven-mark Ashing down on the counter. “How much can I get for this?”

  “Salt?” Burdal clarified. “I’ll give you twenty-five panweights.”

  “I need double that.”

  “Then it’ll cost you twice that much.”

  Nemery forked over the three-mark—all she had. “There. Two coins. Twice as much.”

  “You know, that’s not how numbers work…” Burdal said good-naturedly.

  Movement at the door drew Nemery’s attention. Two older men had entered the shop, stopping to admire the Caller instrument in the corner. One had a deep frown weathered onto his face, and the other wore a lacy neckerchief.

  “I’d like sixty panweights of your coarsest salt,” Nemery said, turning back to business with Burdal.

  The shopkeeper chuckled. “Sixty, eh? I could have sworn I’d said fourteen Ashings would buy you fifty.”

  “Well, let’s be honest, Burdal. Your memory probably isn’t what it used to be,” Nemery whispered out the corner of her mouth.

  He shrugged. “You drive a hard bargain, Salafan.” Then he disappeared into the storage room in the back of the shop.

  Nemery leaned casually against the counter, eyeing the two men in the corner. The one with the neckerchief was trying to explain to Frowny how the complex instrument worked. The instructions were only half correct, proving to Nemery that he understood less than he was claiming to know.

  Burdal reappeared, lugging two large burlap sacks around the end of the counter. “Fifty-five panweights of salt for you, m’lady.”

  Nemery nodded in gratitude. Sixty had been pushing it, and Burdal was kind to throw in the extra five.

  “Hey, Burdal,” she said. “You heard of a guy named Legien Dyer?”

  He stroked his long mustache. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Word is, he’s hanging around Raston’s looking for a guide to help him summit,” Nemery said.

  “I didn’t think you took clients,” he replied.

  “Who said I was thinking about it?” she asked.

  “That look in your eyes.”

  “Excuse me!” called Neckerchief. “Would you mind terribly if I gave this a go?” He pointed at the Call.

  Burdal reached out and gave Nemery’s arm a squeeze. “If you and Mohdek decide to summit, make sure you’re prepared.”

  He has no idea I’ve done it before, she thought.

  “Supplies and equipment aren’t cheap,” Burdal continued, “but if it comes to your safety and survival, I want you to know I’d accept credit to make sure you have what you need.”

  Nemery acknowledged his generous kindness with a nod as the shopkeeper turned his attention to the two men in the corner.

  “What exactly can I help you with?” he asked.

  “My friend doesn’t believe that I know how to work one of these,” said Neckerchief.

  “And if you do,” said Burdal, “then we’ll soon have a dragon flying down on New Vantage.”

  Neckerchief laughed awkwardly. “A valid point.”

  Burdal waved a joking hand at him. “Ten Ashings and I’ll give you a pot of Silence Grit. That’ll buy you ten minutes to play with the Call at no risk of being overheard.”

  “Sounds fair,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

  Fair? Ten Ashings was a gouge, and Burdal knew it. Money was flowing on New Vantage like cheap ale in the lower Eastern Quarter.

  The shopkeeper reached behind the counter and withdrew a clay pot. Nemery took her time picking up her salt, curious to see how this would play out.

  Burdal dashed the clay pot into the bottom of a pail that he’d set in front of the Call. The air in the corner of the shop turned hazy and the men’s voices were instantly silenced, despite the fact that Nemery could still see their mouths moving.

  Slowly, she hefted the two bags of salt. The drawstring ropes were thick enough to use as carrying straps, and she slung one over each shoulder.

  By this time, Neckerchief was on one knee in front of the mouthpiece, his fingers pulling the silken cords to prime the rattlers in the vibration box. But his posture was all wrong. Crouching like that, he’d never get the breath support he’d need to achieve any sort of sustained Call.

  Nemery sauntered toward the door, passing into the Silence cloud just in time to hear the man deliver a pathetic blast through the instrument. She winced, but told herself to keep moving. Neckerchief tried again, this time producing a louder sound that was even more upsetting.

  Nemery was almost to the door when Burdal and Frowny clapped for the man’s performance. She stopped. That sound was not clap-worthy. Before she realized what she was doing, she had lowered her bags of salt to the floor and turned to the men.

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to sound,” she stated. All three of them looked at her in silence. “The rhythm of the vibrations was off. And you didn’t even touch the reed valves.”

  “
Well…” said Neckerchief indignantly. “My apologies, little miss. I don’t suppose you’d like to show us how it’s done?”

  “Actually, I would,” said Nemery, gesturing for the man to get out of her way.

  “Salafan…” Burdal muttered.

  Nemery felt her heart race as she took a knee behind the instrument, her fingers pulling the cords at a steady tempo, priming the vibration box.

  The Silence Grit would really allow her to let loose. She was about to see if she remembered the Calls her master had taught her more than four years ago. Calls she couldn’t risk sounding on the mountainside of Pekal—Fertilized Egg, Nesting Sow, Injured Hatchling.

  She decided on Sparring Bull, remembering it to be the most impressive. Her lips touched the brass mouthpiece, the metal still warm from Neckerchief’s pitiful attempt.

  Drawing in as much air as her lungs would take, she breathed life into the instrument. Her fingers danced across the valves, bending the long double reeds to change the pitch of the grating whine that screeched above the rumbling bass tones of the horn.

  She held it a long time. Unnaturally long, her master would have said. But she liked the feel on her lips and the buzz on her fingertips. She held it because she could. And because she didn’t know when she’d get the chance to sound that Call again.

  When Nemery was finished, Burdal’s Provisions fell eerily quiet, the three men staring in speechless wonder. Nemery stood up, walked around the large instrument, and hoisted her bags of salt over her shoulders. Reveling in the awed silence, she moved through the open door.

  Maybe New Vantage had its perks. Mohdek would have accused her of showing off. But Nemery was glad to know that she could still handle herself in a social setting with strangers. That she hadn’t lost her touch, living among the critters of the woods.

  She stepped off the porch carefully, the ropes from the salt bags digging into her shoulders. As she moved across the courtyard, every heavy step seemed to remind her that she was walking away from five thousand Ashings and a reason to summit again.

  She could buy a lot of salt with that kind of money. And she had three hours to kill before Mohdek was ready to leave. At the very least, it was worth swinging past Raston’s to meet the client and decide if he seemed trustworthy.

  Nemery turned, heading east across the courtyard. Fewer people looked at her with the salt on her back. She probably looked like a common servant girl.

  She reached Mountainside Expeditions in little time, the architecture of the building intentionally rustic and adventurous. A smoky fire burned in a barrel out front, three muscular guides with sticks taking absentminded prods at the coals while swapping stories of the mountain.

  “Bottle,” Nemery called, recognizing one of the men. “I’m looking for Raston.”

  Raston Strick had been guiding hikes on Pekal since well before New Vantage—even before the war. His people guided single-day excursions mostly. If the price was right, and the weather cooperative, Nemery had heard of Raston’s guides extending as far as week-long trips. But never to the summit.

  “You got an appointment?” asked the woman by the fire barrel.

  “She don’t need an appointment,” Bottle said to his companion. “Ain’t you never met the infamous Salafan?”

  “Salafan?” said the other man. “Isn’t that a Trothian word?”

  “Yeah,” Nemery said. “It means one who doesn’t need an appointment.” All three of them chuckled.

  “Boss is out today anyway,” said Bottle. “Think he’s trying to put some distance between him and the squeaky wheel.”

  “Legien Dyer?” Nemery asked.

  “You know him?” asked the woman.

  “Not yet,” replied Nemery. “Where is he?”

  Bottle gestured to the building with his smoldering stick. “Sitting inside. Moping.”

  “Why do you think we’re out here?” said the other man. “We don’t got the time or the fittings for what he’s asking.”

  Nemery strode past the three guides, moving up the half-log steps and pushing open the door with her shoulder.

  There was only one person inside the spacious room—a man seated on a bench against the wall. He had been slumped forward, his face in his hands in anxious boredom, but he sprang to his feet as Nemery moved through the doorway.

  “I hear you’re interested in summiting,” she said, getting straight to business. Sunlight angled through one of the glassless windows, catching the man’s hair in a way that accentuated the white on his temples.

  “Yes,” he said. His face, which seemed to have worried itself into a few extra wrinkles, lit from within. “Yes! Do you know someone who can take me?”

  Nemery cleared her throat, setting down the salt bags. “I know a guide.”

  “I need to speak with him at once.”

  “You are,” Nemery said. “And she’s not impressed with what she sees. It takes an experienced hiker ten days to reach the summit. No offense, but you’re old. And you don’t look experienced.” She was basing that assumption on the way Dyer’s stomach hung slightly over his belt.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I have to go up. If not to the summit, then as far as you can take me.”

  Well, he didn’t have any trouble swallowing that, Nemery thought. No demands to hear her qualifications, or talk to someone who could vouch for her reputation. Maybe Dyer wasn’t as chauvinistic as his initial comment had let on. Or maybe he was really as desperate as people were saying.

  “I heard you were offering six thousand Ashings,” Nemery said.

  “Yes, of course,” he replied quickly, earnestly.

  Sparks. She should have said seven.

  “And you’ll still pay, even if we don’t reach the summit?” she checked.

  “As long as you do your best to get me up there,” he replied. “I give you my word as a Wayfarist.”

  Nemery studied him for a moment. Despite her shift in faith, that word still carried weight to her. A person with strong convictions—which she could tell he was—did not swear it away lightly.

  Besides, there was something pitiful and sad about Legien Dyer. She could see it in his stooping posture and the way he wrung his hands as if they were dishrags.

  “All right,” Nemery said. It might take some work to convince Mohdek. But the pay was unbeatable, and lately she’d been feeling the draw to summit again. This was just a good excuse.

  “You’ll want to get your pack together,” she said. “Water skins and rations, you’ll need a good blade, and a—”

  “Everything is ready,” he said. “Raston sold me a pack yesterday. Filled it with everything I’d need.”

  Probably just trying to get rid of you, poor old man. “Perfect. We’ll leave the morning after the next Passing. Three weeks from now.”

  “What?” he cried, lurching forward a step. “We can’t wait until next cycle. Please. We have to leave now.”

  Nemery drew back in puzzlement. “What’s your problem?” she asked bluntly. “I’d heard you were pushy, but this just doesn’t make sense. At the pace you’ll be setting, we have the best chance of reaching the top if we give ourselves a full cycle.”

  He came forward another step. “I’m begging you,” he whispered. “Just take me up the mountain. As far as you can. But we have to go before the Passing. Please. I have half the payment in my room at the Elegant Perch. I can get it to you before we leave.”

  “Ha. So I can carry three thousand Ashings up the mountainside?” Nemery scoffed. “This salt is heavy enough.”

  “No need to take the money with us,” he said. “You can keep the payment at your home.”

  Oh. That made more sense. Except that her home was the mountain.

  Nemery took a deep breath and picked up the salt bags. “I’ll collect the money when we get back.”

  “Then you agree to take me?” he asked hopefully.

  “Only if you calm down,” she said, hoping she didn’t regret this decision.

/>   “Oh, Homeland bless and keep you,” he muttered. “When do we leave?”

  Nemery turned to the door. “As soon as my boyfriend gets his skin put back together.”

  Time spent on Pekal is not without its consequences. For some, it is a spark of wildness in the heart. For others, a desperation to return to the Greater Chain. For me, it is a reminder that there are forces out there greater than anything I could ever hope to be.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Ardor Benn glanced over his shoulder one more time, despite feeling confident that no one could have followed his erratic route from the Mooring. Cupping a hand around his mouth, he cooed twice like a pigeon. Then he waited, leaning against a punky wooden beam holding up the wall of a run-down healer’s shop.

  Ard had no interest in the healing store. It was the cheap kind that sold mostly herbs, tonics, and bandages, too lazy to acquire the necessary licensure for selling Health Grit. Instead, Ard’s eyes lingered on the low, flat-roofed building across the street.

  Most of the businesses were already closed for the evening, leaving the street quiet and peaceful. Pinkish-golden hues of sunset spilled over Ard’s shoulder, lighting a little cloud of gnats that hung like a cloud in front of the building’s sign.

  TALL SON’S MILLINERY

  Ard didn’t know if the shop was named after a son in the Tall family, or if the son was actually tall. The only thing he knew was that hats weren’t the only things the millinery was keeping in stock.

  “Didn’t think you was coming,” a small voice sounded behind him.

  The street urchin couldn’t have been ten years old. His bare feet were filthy and scabbed, his brown hair long and unkempt. But his pale skin looked a little less peaky each time Ard saw him. Maybe he was making a difference.

  “Hello, Tobey,” Ard said, smiling. “I was expecting Marah. I thought she was taking the evening shift.”

  “Is,” Tobey replied. Ard noticed that he was holding what looked like a round ball of twigs about the size of his head. “But she weren’t feeling good today, and we knew you was coming, so…” He shrugged and pointed at himself.

  “Is she going to be all right?” Ard asked.