The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “What’s that?” Hedge seemed only mildly interested in the story.

  “No time off,” replied Ard. “For two weeks straight, he wants me putting in time at the Mooring—sunup to sundown. The sunup part isn’t going great for me, and I had to skip out a little early today. But otherwise, I’ve been doing what he asked.”

  “And this is why you haven’t delivered the payment to Baroness Lavfa?” Hedge clarified. “Because you made a promise to the Prime Isle?”

  “Yeah,” Ard said. It was the truth. The black backpack was loaded and ready. But Raek couldn’t make the delivery—he’d insulted the baroness and been shoved out the window of the catamaran. Quarrah’s face would be unfamiliar to Lavfa, which might spook her. Ard had worked hard to earn the baroness’s trust, and he felt it important to be the one to make the delivery. Even if it meant waiting a couple of weeks.

  “Only four more days,” Ard said, “then I’ll be setting sail for Talumon so I can—”

  Hedge spun on him, raising his spike arm and stopping the point under Ard’s chin with frightening precision. “I don’t know what game you’re playing with the Islehood, but let me be clear about something. Your first job is to get me a dragon. I’m waiting—patient as a man can be. And I know you’ll do what I ask, because I’ve seen the future. But the amount of prodding to make it happen”—he jabbed his pike tip until it pressed into Ard’s skin—“is up to you.”

  “I’ll get it done,” Ard croaked. “Sparks.”

  “While I have you here…” Hedge’s single eye bore into Ard. “What’s your interest in the millinery?”

  “I said, it’s personal.”

  “I like personal,” replied Hedge unyieldingly.

  “My folks,” Ard whispered. “My mother and father own the business. They thought I was killed in a Harvesting accident on Pekal over ten years ago. I didn’t want them to know that I’d taken up rusing, so I stayed dead to them.”

  The lie had been inspired by his little conversation with Tobey about the hat shopkeepers, but there was actually quite a bit of truth to it. Those made for the best kinds of lies.

  “I hired a few street urchins to keep an eye on the shop,” Ard continued, aiming to extinguish the last bit of distrust in Hedge’s eye. “The kids tell me how my folks are faring. Sometimes I swing by to peek through the window myself.”

  Hedge Marsool stepped away abruptly, dropping his spike. Taking up a fistful of his long coat with his other hand, he polished the sharp point as if it were a habit to wipe it clean of his enemy’s blood.

  “You lied to me,” he stated flatly.

  “I swear I didn’t—”

  “Arelia and Sidon Castenac are living in a comfortable little cottage on a hillside above the farmland village of Sunden Springs—southern leeward Espar.”

  Ard stood in speechless horror. Raek was the only other person in the world who knew where his parents were living. Raek had moved them suddenly—secretly—using the Ashings they had coined from their first ruse.

  If Hedge Marsool knew this, then nothing was safe.

  “They do indeed believe you’re dead,” continued Hedge, “but you never so much as peeked through a window at them.”

  “How…” Ard finally stammered. “How are you doing this?”

  “If you won’t tell me the truth about the millinery,” said Hedge, “then I’ll do some digging on my own.”

  He let go of his long coat and shrugged his shoulders so it would hang straight. “Get me that dragon, Ardor Benn.” He turned and limped away, calling over his shoulder. “I won’t ask again!”

  Ard stood still long after Hedge had turned down a side street, vanishing as night came on. Then he finally dared look at the item he’d been clutching in his closed fist for most of the conversation.

  It was a small glass vial.

  He’d taken it from Hedge’s belt when Tobey had wriggled free. It was hard to see it clearly with the darkness setting on, but Ard could see a fragment of Slagstone submerged in a liquid solution. And what was stranger still, the liquid had no color.

  Portsend Wal had dyed all of his liquid Grit solutions for ease of identification. But even before the color was added, the liquid was usually hazy, or even milky, depending on what had gone into the solution.

  As Ard held his newly acquired glass vial up to the darkening sky, he saw that this liquid was glass-clear, like pure water.

  Raek will be thrilled to analyze this, Ard thought, pocketing the vial and turning back to find his belt and guns.

  Ard was thrilled, too. If the item he had just stolen was what he thought it was, then Hedge Marsool was about to lose his advantage.

  And the future would belong to Ardor Benn.

  I only ever bit off what I knew I could chew. I only ever tackled the enemies I knew would go down.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Nemery glanced up from the muddy tracks just in time to see Legien Dyer’s foot slip from the log and plunge calf deep into the crystal-clear stream they were crossing. The man’s boots were barely holding up after a week of hiking, and a wet foot inside them was only going to lead to more blisters. Still, he managed to stay upright, slogging with one foot in the water and the other on the log until he reached the far side.

  Mohdek was there to greet him, helping him through the mud with an encouraging pat on the arm. Dyer was actually faring better than Nemery had expected. He never complained. In fact, he rarely said anything, his eyes constantly fixed on the trail ahead and the sweeping greenery of Pekal.

  Nemery understood his awe. This island was so vastly different from any other—in its terrain, the way it teemed with life, the very energy that seemed to emanate from the soil itself. Even after an uninterrupted year exploring its ravines and ridges, Pekal never got old to Nemery Baggish.

  Unlike so many others, she wasn’t here to take or exploit. Nemery considered herself a daughter of Pekal, like Izmit, in the Trothian legend. The island was her master, and she and Mohdek felt fortunate to learn at her feet and experience her majesty each day.

  Nemery pulled off her wide-brimmed woven grass hat and dunked it in the stream. She put it back on, cool rivulets of water tracing lines down her sweaty neck. Summer on Pekal brought beautiful crisp nights, but the days were quite hot. And the sun was closer the higher they hiked, quicker to burn unconditioned skin.

  She scanned the messy array of tracks one last time before leaping nimbly to the log and crossing to the other side of the stream to hear Mohdek’s report.

  “I count a dozen,” she said in Trothian. “Maybe a few more.”

  “Me, too,” replied Mohdek, stepping away from Dyer, who had seated himself on a rock to remove his wet boot.

  “That’s a big party, Moh,” she said. “And I’d say they’re less than a day ahead of us.”

  They’d picked up the poachers’ trail a few days ago, not far out of New Vantage. Going by the tracks, the group had had a week’s head start, but they clearly weren’t as experienced as Nemery and Mohdek. They knew enough to take the easiest route up, though. And now that she had finally gotten a better headcount, Nemery was beginning to rethink their usual strategy.

  “Maybe we should cut over to Rangdon’s Pass,” she suggested to her partner. “See if we can get around them.”

  “Come on,” Mohdek said playfully. “What have you done with my Salafan? Poachers, Nem. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  Nemery cast a glance at their battered, weary client. “How are you holding up?” she called to him in Landerian.

  “What about the poachers?” Legien Dyer questioned. “How far ahead are they?”

  He asked about them often, and Nemery regretted ever telling him that they were behind the group.

  “We’re not worried,” she replied. “It’s almost midday. What do you say we stop for lunch?”

  “Oh, I can go a bit further yet,” he replied, reaching for the large pack he had dropped next to his rock. He was a blazing hardy old man, a
nd Nemery admired his resolution.

  “But what will we do if we catch up to them?” he asked.

  We kill enough of them to make sure that those who survive never come back to Pekal, Nemery thought.

  Large snares and traps were Nemery’s preferred method, set quietly around their camp in the dark of night. That way, she and Mohdek didn’t even need to stick around to watch them struggle.

  But sometimes, the terrain and supplies didn’t allow for that. In such cases, Nemery would have to find a good perch and maim a few of them with arrows. So far inland, an injured poacher would have slim chances of making it out alive. And if he did, he’d certainly rethink making a return expedition.

  There was another method to eliminate poachers, of course. By far the most effective. But Nemery had sworn never to do it again. The carnage had forever scarred her mind and the tactic had left her empty. Guilt-ridden.

  And it had earned her yet another name among the poachers, this one cold and ruthless—misrepresentative of who Salafan should be.

  “If we don’t bother them, poachers’ll generally leave us alone,” she lied instead.

  Dyer tugged on his boot and rose with a groan.

  “With a group this size, we’ll definitely have to hit them at night,” Mohdek said in Trothian. Then he switched to Landerian. “I should go ahead and make sure we don’t run into any surprises.”

  “Good idea,” Nemery said. “Stay within whistle range.”

  Mohdek pulled down the front of his loose shirt. Flames, was he tempting her in front of Dyer? His hairy blue chest hadn’t started chapping yet, but Nemery could still see a crust of the dried salt paste she’d rubbed on him last night.

  Mohdek tapped the wooden whistle hanging from a twine around his neck, wrinkling his nose at her—a cultural sign of coy affection, the Trothian equivalent of a wink.

  She watched him move quickly up the switchbacks leading away from the stream. His legs were so strong and they carried his brawny form with ease. Mohdek was only a few cycles older than Nemery, but he was muscular and broad shouldered, well settled into his physical maturity. To most people, Nemery probably still looked like a rangy youth—small, flat-chested, light on her feet. It seemed she had sprung straight to womanhood with little change to the shape of her body.

  Legien Dyer cleared his throat conspicuously. He’d probably noticed the way she’d been staring after Mohdek. The man hadn’t said anything about their relationship, but Nemery could tell it made him uncomfortable, especially when they snuggled into the same hammock at night.

  Any good Wayfarist would view their relationship as base and Settled. Landers and Trothians were incompatible races, unable to produce children. But Nemery and Mohdek had found their love to be quite compatible. And they were well past caring what other people thought about it.

  Dyer swung his pack onto his shoulders, grunting at the weight. Raston had done a decent job equipping him, but even Pekal’s top guide packed too heavily for Nemery’s liking. She and Mohdek carried much smaller backpacks, which would make them far nimbler in a pinch. They were loaded with only the bare essentials—Slagstone ignitor, rope, blanket, hammock, and a single water skin. Her heaviest item was a sack of salt to be rationed on Mohdek throughout the trek.

  “Shall we?” Nemery led Dyer up the switchbacks, noticing that Mohdek had already vanished through the trees.

  Halfway up, she pointed to a low bush on the side of the trail. “Those look a lot like the rockberries we ate last night, but these are actually mildly poisonous. You have to count the number of points on the leaves. What did you think of those rockberries? They’re kind of an acquired taste, but they’re packed with nutrients…”

  She trailed off, noticing that Dyer didn’t seem interested in the berries. Or if he was, the man had no breath to waste on a reply. He was doubled over, gasping. Sparks. Nemery wasn’t even winded. They’d just started again.

  “Anyway,” Nemery said, “we’ll get some game snares set around our campsite tonight. With any luck we could have some meat in the morning again.”

  That was supposed to be an encouraging thought, but it had no visible effect on the elderly man. This wasn’t the first time Nemery had wondered if Legien Dyer would die on her. The thought had obviously crossed his mind, too. By the third night, he had given her the key to his room at the Elegant Perch, just in case. He had also told her the name of the treasury where she could withdraw the remaining amount, but Nemery didn’t understand much of that. Besides, no amount of money could get her to sail off Pekal.

  After two more short rests, they made it to the top of the switchbacks, the trail leveling. It was mostly up and down on Pekal, so Nemery had learned to appreciate the occasional stretch of flat trail. Although still nestled between two slopes, the view opened up a little more here. Across the canyon, Nemery could see a moss-covered cliff and—

  “Look!” she cried, stopping abruptly. Legien Dyer must have mistaken her enthusiasm for a warning, and the poor man dropped into a defensive huddle.

  “It’s okay,” she said, helping him up. “Over on that cliff. Do you see that mess of branches at the top?” She was pointing, and this time she wanted to make sure he acknowledged her.

  “I… think so,” he wheezed.

  “Nest,” she said reverently.

  “What kind?” he asked.

  She snickered before realizing he was sincere. “Dragon, of course. No other creature would build something that big. Every nest is made specifically for each egg.”

  “Has that one got an egg?” Dyer was at least pretending to be excited, though Nemery thought it was genuine.

  “No way to tell from here,” she said. “Dragons lay eggs year round—like people. Well, people don’t lay eggs, but you get what I’m saying. There’s not a season for it.”

  She squinted at the distant nest, wishing she had brought her spyglass despite the added weight.

  “A sow dragon lays an unfertilized egg in a quiet, protected place. Then she leaves to build a nest,” explained Nemery. “When a bull finds the gelatinous egg, he breathes fire to fertilize it and the shell becomes hard as stone. Once the deed is done, the mother’s sense brings her back to retrieve the egg and she takes it to her nest to incubate. When it’s time to hatch, the mother leaves and the baby dragon has to do it on her own.”

  “You’ve seen one hatch?” he asked.

  “Not that lucky,” she replied. “But Moh and I have found hatch sites and old nests.”

  “You’ve seen dragon shell?” said Dyer in unmasked amazement.

  “Mostly little pieces,” she said. “It’s common for the hatchling to trample his shell to bits as his first show of strength. But we’ve found a couple of shell fragments big enough to process into Visitant Grit.”

  “What did you do with them?” he asked.

  “We left them where they were,” she answered honestly.

  “You didn’t take them to the Mooring Station on New Vantage?”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “The Islehood,” he said. “For Visitant Grit. It’s the law.”

  “Not my law,” she said. “The dragons are not a resource. They’re living creatures. Beautiful living creatures. They were almost wiped out once. Mohdek and I are here to make sure they’re respected.”

  “How many of them have you seen?” he asked.

  “All of them,” she replied. “At least, Cochorin and all the mature sows.”

  “Cochorin?”

  “Moh and I name them,” she explained. “It means saving breath in Trothian. He’s the miracle bull. And he’s been doing his job. There are so many hatchlings it’s been difficult to accurately record them. I think Fernleaf has mothered eight in the last year. They can lay up to three unfertilized eggs each cycle.”

  Legien Dyer stared at her, a new expression on his face. “How do you know so much about them?”

  “I read a lot of books when I was a kid,” she said. “Of course, all the books in the w
orld can’t beat practical experience.” Another lesson she’d learned from Ardor Benn. “I’ve only been on Pekal for a year, but I’ve been able to disprove a number of—”

  She stopped talking. Sparks. Why had she been talking so much? She could have missed it altogether…

  Mohdek’s whistle.

  Nemery waited in silence, her hand raised to prevent Dyer from asking what was wrong. There it was again, a common listener sure to mistake it for the cry of a bird. Long. Long. Short.

  That meant come quickly, with no particular need for stealth. Nemery broke into a run down the trail, slipping her bow from her shoulder and an arrow from her quiver.

  “Hey!” Legien Dyer called. “Where are you—”

  “Keep moving up the trail until you reach us,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s not far.”

  She sprinted through a patch of shade that held the telltale chill of never seeing daylight. Her short boots skipped over rocks and fallen trees, consistently finding the best footing on the rugged terrain.

  In a moment, she caught up to Mohdek. He was standing in a clearing just off the trail, dappled light flecked across his square shoulders.

  “Another one of the poachers’ camps,” she whispered in Trothian, coming alongside him to get a better look at the site. By this point they’d seen enough of them to know that this group took a terrible toll on the land. Healthy trees were carved up and cut down for no apparent reason, trash and debris carelessly littered.

  “This one is the worst yet,” Nemery remarked.

  Camp had been set in a half circle clearing in the trees, all of the surrounding underbrush trampled or burned. It looked like they’d lost control of a fire, the scorch marks extending well beyond the campfire’s ring of rocks.

  Mohdek shook his head. “Something happened here. Something more than a rowdy night’s rest.”

  She saw the signs of a hasty departure. One of the poachers had left a hammock strung between two trees. There was a half-cooked boar on a collapsed spit next to the fire. Its carcass had been mostly devoured, and Nemery saw the signs of wild animal scavengers.