“Unexpected? Bah!” Hedge cut him off. “Nothing is unexpected to me.”
“Then why were you surprised that I was already here?” Ard dared.
“Boys,” Hedge said to his Trothian companions. “Kill him.”
Quarrah’s hand strayed to her pockets, making a quick decision about which type of Grit to throw in Ard’s defense.
“Whoa! Wait!” Ard held up his hands as the Trothians advanced. “I’ll show you the dragon!”
Hedge grunted, holding up his spike to call off his men.
“Sparks, Hedge,” Ard gasped. “You’re not supposed to go straight from banter to kill him. What happened to foreplay?”
“You waste your reeking breath in words,” said Hedge. “Show me the beast.”
Ard nodded, glancing anxiously at Quarrah before turning around and clapping his hands. “Pincher! Otella! Let’s open it up!”
The hunchbacked man left his post at the door, making his way across the warehouse toward another figure who had just appeared from the shadows. The woman was as dirty as Pincher, with ratty gray hair and a mouth that puckered in a telltale sign of toothlessness.
The two vagrants moved to a large crank mounted next to the warehouse wall. A chain led to the rafters far overhead, passing through a block and tackle and hooking into the metal floor. Quarrah noticed that the hatch was split down the middle of the warehouse, an identical crank and pulley system on the opposite side, ready to open the floor like a pair of double doors.
Pincher and Otella were teaming up on one crank, the chains tightening with audible vibrations as they pulled. The hinges groaned and squeaked as half the floor began to rise.
Hedge stepped forward and Quarrah could see his twisted, scarred face ripe with excitement, peering into the dark crack. For a moment, she thought about giving him a solid shove, sending him tumbling to the dragon below. Would he see it coming if it were unplanned—truly impulsive? Well, she’d thought about it for too long now…
“Too dark,” Hedge muttered, using the tip of his spike to pull aside his long leather cloak. Quarrah eyed his Grit belt—a single Roller with Blast cartridges wrapping around the back, four hardened leather pouches for Grit pots, and half a dozen loops holding thin glass vials with clear liquid.
More sugar water?
Ard stepped forward, a pot of Light Grit in his hand. “Allow me,” he said, pitching it through the widening hatch. Quarrah heard it shatter. She turned her attention back to the cavern, a draft of hot air wafting upward from the beast below.
A flare of Light Grit filled the space, and Quarrah couldn’t help but gasp at the sight. The cavern was larger than she’d expected, certainly much bigger than the warehouse that concealed its entrance. The walls below were rough stone of black and gray, unshaped by human tools except for one smooth stretch where a ladder descended into the depths. It was a surprisingly sturdy-looking thing, metal rungs anchored directly into the stone. Ard’s Light Grit had detonated against a protrusion in the wall on the way down. And at the bottom…
Motherwatch, as Ard had called her, was a hulking terror of scales and spines, unconscious beneath one of the Greater Chain’s most prestigious cities. It was hard for Quarrah to admire her beauty and unrivaled power when it seemed like she might spring upward at any moment.
Sure, she was shackled—one on each leg, one around her neck, one at her tail—and the heavy chains were staked directly into the cave’s stone floor. But would those restraints really hold her if she slipped out of Stasis?
That was the very thing they’d be counting on Hedge to believe. The clock explosives would knock out all six of her chains, but the King Poacher needed to think Motherwatch had burst her bonds with her own unimaginable strength. Which she very well might.
“Why isn’t she moving?” Hedge grumbled.
“Stasis Grit,” Ard explained, stepping over to the handcart and pulling the canvas partway back. “We’ve got plenty more here. Should keep her as still as the grave well into next cycle. Just like we agreed.”
Quarrah raised her eyebrows at the answer. The next cycle was nearly twenty days away. They barely had enough Stasis Grit to keep her more than a day. Luckily, the dragon would be gone by midmorning tomorrow.
Hedge Marsool began moving along the side of the hatch opening, his single eye never leaving the dragon below.
“I assure you, she’s just as big from every angle,” Ard said as Hedge stopped at the spot where the ladder dropped into the cave.
He raised his spike arm, pointing it directly at one of his Trothian associates, speaking something in his language. Quarrah readied herself for the worst, but the big thug merely moved around to join his boss.
“What’s going on?” Ard asked. Was that a hint of nervousness in his voice?
“Frush is strong as a Dronodanian buffalo,” answered Hedge. “He’s taking me down.” The Trothian positioned himself with one foot on the top rung.
“You won’t make it,” Ard said flatly.
Hedge was about to swing onto Frush’s back when he paused. “Oh? And why in the name of your mother’s corset won’t I?”
“Because you’ll get about three quarters of the way down and your head will enter the cloud of Stasis Grit surrounding the dragon,” said Ard. “You’ll fall twenty feet, at least.”
Hedge barked something in Trothian and Frush climbed up.
“I’m surprised you didn’t realize that,” Ard continued. “After all, you’re the one with the Future Grit. But then, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that I nicked one of your vials.”
Quarrah sucked in a breath and held it. What was Ard saying? Why would he tip their hand like this?
“I had my people examine the liquid solution,” Ard said.
“Ard…” Quarrah warned. He was going to make himself look stupid.
“We’re calling it Future Grit,” he continued, “based on the way it shows you a glimpse into the future.”
Across the square opening in the floor, Hedge Marsool stood perfectly still for an unnerving moment. Quarrah swallowed. If the stolen vial was as useless as Quarrah assumed, Hedge would call Ard’s bluff.
“That so?” Hedge finally rasped. The man didn’t sound particularly angry or bothered. In fact, his tone revealed an expression Quarrah hadn’t previously seen from him—surprise.
“We’re mass-producing it now,” Ard carried on, nodding. “So I suppose there was a good payout for this job after all. You got your dragon. We got Future Grit.”
“Don’t know what you think you got,” Hedge said. “But it’s not my secret to success.”
It’s not the Grit, Quarrah realized, the King Poacher’s words rattling in her head. There is no Future Grit. The vials are just a decoy.
Hedge slowly began limping around the opening in the floor. “Close the hatch,” he ordered Pincher and Otella as he strode past them. “I’m finished here.”
The hinges screeched as the chains rattled through the massive pulleys, lowering the metal door. Quarrah wanted to say something about the vials, but it didn’t seem right to call his bluff. Let Hedge think they were still blind to his tactics.
“Frush and Calo will stay here,” Hedge said. “And there’ll be a dozen more of my blue boys standing guard at the warehouse by sunup.”
“There’s no need for that,” Ard said. “I’ve already got a security detail here.” He pointed at the scrawny forms of Pincher and Otella struggling not to lose control of the crank.
“Them?” Hedge scoffed.
“They’ll be happy to stay on as long as you need them.” Ard leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Locals from the Labor District, so they know how to handle themselves if anyone gives them trouble. Plus, they’re so cheap, they’re practically free.”
“My boys stay,” said Hedge. “Posted outside. And if you’re smart, you won’t leave your jacket behind. Once you walk out of here, your ugly mugs are no longer welcome back.”
“Well, I didn’t even
bring a jacket, so…” Ard trailed off as Hedge stopped dangerously close to him.
“A real joy, doing business with you,” he hissed through his deformed lips. Frush pulled open the warehouse door.
“Wish I could say the same,” Ard replied. “Now that you have your dragon, I trust we won’t be seeing you again?”
Hedge Marsool smirked. “If you’d really figured out the secret behind that Future Grit, wouldn’t you know the answer to that?”
Hedge limped away down the darkening street, his thugs taking up their new posts outside the warehouse door. With a huff of annoyance, Ard stepped over and rolled it shut.
“He’s planning to keep her over the Moon Passing,” Quarrah whispered, glancing at the closed hatch in the floor. “Do you think he knows? That dragons can get Moonsick?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ard answered. “If history has taught us anything, it’s that a raging Moonsick dragon can wreak a lot more destruction than a healthy one.”
“Because the healthy ones just want to fly home,” said Quarrah.
Across the room, one of Ard’s hired hands let out a loud yawn. The two looked to be bedding down next to the crank, probably grateful for any roof over their heads tonight.
“You really thought you could convince Hedge Marsool that those two vagrants were enough to guard her?” Quarrah asked.
“Worth a shot,” Ard replied. “The real reason I hired them was to give ourselves an easy scapegoat. Now that Hedge has seen the looks of those two, he shouldn’t have a hard time believing that they’ll forget to replenish the Stasis Grit. And that’s how the dragon gets away.”
Clever. Hedge’s own guards would be much better equipped. Maybe even stand a chance at stopping the beast, or at least slowing her, before she got away.
“So what now?” Quarrah asked.
“I think it’s time to accelerate our plans,” Ard said, moving to the handcart. “The clocks are set to detonate in twelve hours. If we move their hands before we wind them, we can make that six.”
Quarrah nodded. “Letting the dragon break free before the rest of Hedge’s guards arrive.”
“But still giving us plenty of time to get away from Talumon,” said Ard. “What ship did you bring?”
“Rented a little sloop,” she replied.
“You should head down to the harbor and get her ready,” Ard suggested, lifting the mantel clock from its box again. “I’ll change the clocks and set them in position.”
“How will you get down there with the Stasis Grit?” Quarrah asked.
Ard scoffed. “The Stasis Grit is only a small cloud around the dragon’s head. I just didn’t want Hedge going down there to see how rusty the chains are. Of course, he probably already knows if he’s detonated Future Grit—”
“It’s not real,” Quarrah blurted out. Well, she was committed to telling him now. “Hedge seems to be predicting the future, but it’s not with those vials of liquid Grit.”
Ard set down the clock he was winding. His brown eyes were intense as they turned on her. “What makes you say that?”
She spilled it all in a matter of seconds, from her swap with Ard, to San’s analysis of the liquid solution. When she was finished, the ruse artist stood in stunned silence as the clock in front of him tick-tocked auspiciously.
“Sugar water?” Ard finally said. Quarrah nodded. “Hedge just happened to be carrying the same mixture you stirred up in the counterfeit vial?”
“I know it seems unlikely—”
“That’s beyond unlikely, Quarrah. The way I see it, Hedge knew which vial I was going to steal off his belt that day. He knew you were going to swap it for sugar water, so he made a sugary mixture himself to prove that he saw it coming.”
“I considered that,” Quarrah said. “But didn’t you hear what he just said? The vials are not his secret to success.”
“Oh, great. So he has another way of seeing the future?”
She nodded with conviction, despite how crazy it seemed.
“Why bother with vials at all?” Ard said.
“A ruse for the ruse artist,” she answered. “Something to keep you guessing in the wrong direction.”
“Then what is the right direction?” Ard was losing his patience, perhaps annoyed because there was merit in her discovery but he hadn’t been the one to learn it.
“I don’t know,” Quarrah admitted. “But next time we see Hedge Marsool, I intend to find out.” She turned, running her fingers along the edge of the handcart. “I’ll go ready the sloop.”
Nemery Baggish wedged her final pouch of Blast Grit into a cleft in the rock. The stuff was barely fine enough to be considered powder. Blast Grit so coarse would never be sold in New Vantage or the Greater Chain. But Nemery had made this batch herself, grinding down a chunk of Slagstone in an anti-ignition liquid of her own making.
Satisfied with the arrangement of things, Nemery let go of the rock, dropping a few feet to land beside her partner.
“There’s no undoing this, Salafan,” Mohdek said hesitantly.
“I know,” she replied, picking up her pack and her bow. “And I’m not happy about it. But I don’t see what else we can do. There are two of us, and hundreds of them.”
“We could go back to New Vantage,” Mohdek said. “Hit their supplies again.”
“Too many have already set out for the summit,” she shot back.
“Then we set traps… Treat them like poachers.”
“Too many children with them, Moh. You saw. That’s innocent blood I won’t risk.”
“But the men and women,” he said. “They’re followers of Garifus. You heard the way they were talking back in New Vantage. It’s a dangerous mindset.”
Nemery had overheard a number of startling conversations. The Glassmind cultists considered themselves superior to anyone else. They found strength in numbers, which only fed their majority-rules mentality.
“I know,” Nemery said. “That’s why we’re doing this.”
Mohdek glanced up at the towering rock face, now dotted with pouches of Blast Grit. “Collapsing Gateway Rock isn’t going to stop them,” he said softly.
“But it’ll slow them down,” she said. “Passing through Gateway is the fastest way to the summit from New Vantage. The first group has already turned at Twin Springs Canyon, so we know they’re coming this way. A caravan that size moves slowly. By the time they get clear up here and realize that the trail through Gateway Rock is impassible, they’ll have to turn around and take Willowswitch Bypass. It’ll add days to their journey and they only have seventeen left to reach the summit. If we can keep delaying them—”
“At what cost?” Mohdek cried. “Destroying the face of Pekal? Our island? And what if we do slow them down enough to prevent them from reaching the summit this cycle? The Moon will pass again in thirty days and they’ll already be that much closer. We need a more permanent solution.”
“We’ve discussed them all,” Nemery said.
“There is one…” Mohdek paused in thought. “We’re far enough ahead of them. We could get to Red Banks and—”
“And what?” she snapped.
“Your new instrument is still there,” he encouraged. “If you had it, we could…” But he trailed off at the dark look on her face.
“You know better than to suggest that. Never again, Moh,” she whispered, striding away. “Taking down Gateway Rock is the only way.”
“You’re more like him than you want to admit,” Mohdek called after her.
Nemery stopped in the middle of the trail. “What did you say?” she hissed.
“You spent so many years talking about him.” Mohdek switched to Trothian, probably to make sure he expressed himself correctly. “Thinking you’d make him proud if he only knew what you were up to. Then he came, and it wasn’t what you… what you thought it would be.”
“I’m nothing like Ardor Benn.” She breathed deeply to calm herself. “What he did to Motherwatch and Proudflame—”
“Is the same thing you are doing now,” Mohdek cut her off. “Destroying something natural. Something beautiful. Just so you can accomplish what you think is best.”
Nemery clenched both fists at her sides. “You helped me pack the Grit pouches. You held the rope so I could place them higher up. You carved the Slagstone arrowhead… I thought we were in this together.”
“I’m in this,” he said, “because I love you.” Nemery knew that, though it was rare to hear him say it aloud. “And I owe it to you—and this place—to ask you one more time.” He swallowed hard. “Do you really think this is the right thing?”
“Making sure our place is not overrun with Glassminds,” Nemery said. “That’s the right thing.”
She struck off toward the spot she had chosen to take the shot. Her thoughts churned with every step. Was she like Ardor Benn? A week ago, she would have taken that as the highest of compliments. Now it was an insult. The Trothians had a saying that went something like: A tree only admires the work of a carpenter until it meets his axe. The Landers said it more simply: Never meet your heroes.
Nemery wished she had stopped Ardor from taking Motherwatch. At the very least, she wished she had forced him to stick around and see the distress of little Proudflame. After the crew had departed, the hatchling had returned to the draw where he’d been hunting for his mother, cooing sadly as he waited all through the night.
He’d been injured in the fight, a Roller ball having pierced his developing scales. Nemery and Mohdek had followed him long enough to make sure he’d recover. Then they’d gone back to New Vantage only to find the place overrun with cultists. And shiploads more were arriving every day.
She and Mohdek had put a desperate plan of sabotage into action—stealing, burning, or otherwise destroying as many of the cultist supplies as they could get their hands on. The plot was short lived, however. The cultists quickly began posting more guards over their supply camps just outside New Vantage. And now that the first of them had set out on their expedition to the summit, it had come to this…
Nemery scampered up a muddy slope and took a seat on a flat rock. Sliding an arrow from her quiver, she took a last look at Gateway Rock. It was a magnificent structure—a stone tower carved by centuries of wind and rain. It seemed to be hanging desperately on to the steep mountain slope beside it. In fact, the amount of Blast Grit she had stuffed into the rock was probably far more than was needed to bring it down. The structure would tumble quite easily, the loose rock choking the narrow trail that led between two impassible slopes.
The Last Lies of Ardor Benn Page 36
