The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “The Char is closed!”

  “You are trespassing!”

  Ard flinched as a gunshot punctuated the returning shouts from the citizens. One of the Regulators staggered backward, the line suddenly breached.

  “Raek!” Ard shouted. “Now!”

  Raekon Dorrel reached out his pale blue hands, the ends of his long fingers sparking. A stream of detonated Grit flowed from him, rushing out to form a Barrier wall between the Regulators and the advancing mob. But it didn’t stop there. He pushed his hands to both sides, and the Barrier Grit continued to stream out, racing along the perimeter to encircle the entire Char, just as Raek had planned it. The wall stretched upward, doming in a gentle inward curve until it met at the top, the whole area safely sealed beneath.

  Ard looked at his friend, eyes wide at the power he exuded. A detonation this size was unprecedented! Raek’s hands remained outstretched, coaxing and manipulating the massive Barrier.

  “Evetherey?” Ard asked.

  “She’s enclosed,” he answered. “As are all the Regulators at each entrance point. They’re all safe.”

  But no one outside. Ard stared through the transparent wall at the countless faces they had just doomed to Moonsickness. The Reggies were backing away in confusion, but the excluded citizens were hopelessly assaulting the Barrier with anything they had.

  In just a few days, those same attackers would be voiceless, blind… their fury driven beyond anything they could now muster.

  Or they’d be Glassminds.

  “The bad news is,” Raek said, his concentration remaining on the wall, “I’m going to miss the rest of the concert.”

  “The dome won’t hold itself?” Ard asked.

  “It might look like a perfect dome from where you are,” he replied, “but this thing’s as dimpled as an old lady’s backside. I had to weave around people and plants. Even now, I can sense somebody on the north side trying to dig under.” He flexed his hands, the result seeming to send an extra burst of Barrier Grit to patch the weak spot.

  Raek glanced over his shoulder at Ard. “Tell the crazies hello from me.”

  “Too soon, Raek,” Ard muttered. Quarrah had told him about the threat. Cinza and Elbrig were a complication, yes, but he’d planned for those.

  “Just remember,” Raek added, “you’re the dog in Quarrah’s song.”

  But Ard barely heard his friend’s jibe. A face had caught his eye. A face on the other side of the Barrier.

  “Lyndel,” he whispered.

  Flanked by a group of Trothians, the priestess was pounding her fist against the Barrier wall, screaming something into the face of the nearest Regulator.

  Ard stepped forward, touching Raek’s elbow to get his attention. “Raek. It’s her.”

  “Lyndel. I see her.”

  “She’s going to die out there.” The realization was like a knife of guilt. Lyndel had been at the beginning of everything. She and Isle Halavend had taken the first steps toward knowledge that had forever changed the world. How was it that she was now standing on the wrong side of the wall?

  “Drop the Barrier,” Ard said.

  “What?”

  “You have to drop the Barrier and let her in.” Ard’s eyes flicked to the eastern sky. It was redder now, and significantly brighter. But from where he stood, it didn’t look like the Moon had crested the horizon yet.

  “Ard,” snapped Raek, “she’s been trying to kill you for cycles.”

  “I know,” he replied. “But she won’t see me. By the time she gets her bearing, I’ll be back in Oriar’s Square dressed like Conques Fabley. You can do it, right? Let them through the Barrier like Evetherey did in the council chamber?”

  “I mean, yeah, but…” Raek shook his glass head. “This isn’t right, Ard.”

  “How can it not be right?” he cried. “It’s thanks to Lyndel that we’re here!”

  “She didn’t make it into the Char in time,” said Raek.

  “You’re afraid she’s already Moonsick?”

  “The Moon isn’t up just yet.”

  “Then what?” Ard shouted above the tumult of the panicked mob.

  “How do we decide who lives and who dies?” Raek said.

  “We already did,” he insisted. “That’s what this whole plan is about.”

  “But we didn’t handpick them,” said Raek. “They came, or they didn’t come. It wasn’t up to us.”

  “Well, now it is.” Ard’s voice was low and serious. “And I’m telling you to let her through.”

  “She’s going to kill you, Ard.”

  Ardor Benn sniffed. “Someone has to.”

  Raek studied him for a moment with his glowing red eyes. Then a portion of the Barrier wall seemed to blink. Lyndel stumbled through, the detonation quickly resealing behind her.

  “You might want to run,” Raek said.

  Without another word, Ard sprinted toward Oriar’s Square.

  Under the great orb of the Red Moon, Azania Fyse walked onto the stage to thunderous applause. Quarrah had forgotten about the thrill that came from the roar of approval. She’d remembered the nerves and the discomfort—and what she was feeling tonight certainly lived up to those memories.

  At the moment, her mind was totally blank, lyrics and phrasing blanched from her thoughts. But the sudden boost of adrenaline from the massive crowd was like a long-forgotten friend. Her body was ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. With this gift from the spectators, she felt like she could outrun any foe and jump to impossible heights without the aid of Drift Grit.

  Walk to your mark without looking down. Cinza’s coaching from years past rattled through Quarrah’s thoughts. She kept her chin up, striding across the stage with confidence while silently cursing the uselessness of her high-heeled shoes.

  Ard was approaching from the other side of the stage, a smile pasted beneath that hideous drooping blond mustache. She was sure he was reveling in the applause, despite knowing it wasn’t intended for him. Conques Fabley had already received numerous complaints from the musicians about his confusing conducting patterns and inability to cue entrances. He was a no-name conductor with a shallow past—nothing like the rich complexity that had accompanied Dale Hizror’s character.

  The thought only made Quarrah more aware of the reach and power of the disguise managers. A new wave of fear rose in her throat. Suddenly, the precautions they’d taken against Cinza’s threat seemed wholly insufficient, though it was too late to do anything about it now.

  Quarrah and Ard met in the middle of the stage, just in front of the conductor’s podium.

  “Here we are again,” he whispered.

  She didn’t reply, too afraid that she’d lose containment of the small detonation of Silence Grit that she’d already ignited in her mouth.

  Ard winked at her in understanding. “I can think of nothing better to keep twenty thousand eyes focused than your poise and beauty, my dear.”

  She didn’t blush under his praise like she once had, even knowing that his words were sincere. Quarrah couldn’t think of anything worse than having ten thousand people staring at her, but she understood the need to keep the citizens happy and distracted.

  Ard’s quick report before changing into his conductor’s costume had been worrisome. The way he’d made it sound, the rest of Beripent was pounding at the Barrier wall surrounding the Char. Raek would be able to hold them, but that meant she and Ard would have no backup if things went wrong onstage.

  Cinza and Elbrig hadn’t shot them from the crowd yet, so that was a good sign. Still, why was Ard taking so long to offer his hand?

  She stuck out hers instead, adjusting her thin, lacy glove. Ard took it in a gesture of respect and acknowledgment, but Quarrah squeezed with a firmness that Cinza would have deemed very unladylike. At the impact of their hands, Quarrah felt the Slagstone spark in Ard’s palm, a slight tingling singe. At once, the Grit in her white glove detonated, rushing around them and encompassing the entire stage.<
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  They were doubly protected now. Raek’s outer wall had drawn the Redeye line, but the stage was now enclosed in its own protective Barrier—a dome within a dome.

  Ard released her hand and turned to the crowd, the applause quickly dying to hear what he had to say. Quarrah saw Queen Abeth’s tent prominently placed at the edge of the stage along with several that belonged to members of the noble council.

  “Ladies and gentlemen from across the Greater Chain!” Ard was affecting his voice with a slight Talumonian accent. One more thing to get people to dissociate him from Dale Hizror. “On this historic night, the Royal Orchestra is proud to present Rous Kenette’s comedic Song Cycle Number Three, sung for you by our inimitable, transcendent, unparalleled soloist. A woman of mystery and allure who some claim cheated death itself. I give you… the beautiful Lady Azania Fyse!”

  Ard stepped back and the crowd cheered louder than before. Quarrah tried not to wriggle under the praise, gaining no additional adrenaline from this round. Doing her best to maintain elegant poise, she glided a few steps to the side as Ard took the podium.

  His baton came up and the crowd quieted even faster than before. It was almost an eerie silence, following so shortly after cacophony. As the first notes rolled out of the orchestra, Quarrah dared part her lips just a little. The tiniest bit of the contained detonation in her mouth leaked out, and not even her breath made a sound.

  The first short song in the group was set to a fast tempo, but Quarrah was confident in her entrance. She counted the beats, the lyrics coming back to her in the heat of the moment.

  She opened her mouth and began to sing at full volume, trusting in the Silence Grit to mask her lackluster voice.

  My troubles began on the first day of fall.

  I found him curled up at the base of a wall…

  Not a sound.

  The Silence Grit was doing its job perfectly, but Kercha Gant wasn’t! What the blazes? Quarrah had seen her crawl beneath the stage not fifteen minutes ago. The soprano had missed her entrance!

  With a wave of his baton, Ard cut off the confused orchestra. Without stepping down from the podium, he turned to Quarrah, who silently widened her eyes to show that she didn’t know what was happening. He put on a confident smile and spoke to her loudly so the bated crowd could easily overhear.

  “My dear Azania, the song is a comedy, not a prank. Must you toy with me when you know this is the biggest concert of my life?”

  His words got a chuckle from the front rows of the crowd, but the musicians were shooting him glares, murmuring about the unprofessionalism of being cut off mere measures into a piece.

  “Now,” Ard continued, tapping his baton on the podium stand, “let us start again from the top.”

  He marked the downbeat and the brisk tempo resumed in what felt like a loop in time. Every passing note raised Quarrah’s anxiety, but when her entrance came, she hit it with full voice, her mouth clearly articulating the words. This time a beautiful soprano tone pealed forth from beneath the stage. But it wasn’t Kercha Gant.

  That voice belonged to Cinza Ortemion.

  Keeping her chin up, Quarrah flicked her eyes to the podium. Ard was staring back at her, obviously coming to the same chilling conclusion. With Ard’s attention turned away from the orchestra, Quarrah saw one of the cellists suddenly rise from his seat. The man was pale, with a round face and a head of curly black hair. He let the expensive instrument fall to the side and she saw the glint of a blade—a thin knife fixed to the tip of his horsehair string bow.

  “Ard!” Quarrah shouted, abandoning her lyrics for a warning. But any sound that would have escaped her throat was muted by Silence Grit.

  At the same time, the stage beneath Quarrah’s feet heaved upward. She staggered backward, rolling an ankle on those blazing heels and tumbling into the violin section.

  A trapdoor in the floor banged open. Hadn’t they removed the trapdoor from the plans for this stage? As Quarrah righted herself, Cinza Ortemion sprang through the opening, her jump clearly assisted by Drift Grit as she landed squarely on the stage.

  She was in a physical state like Quarrah had seen her in only once before—hairless, toothless, wearing tan long underwear that was splattered in fresh blood. Cinza clutched a long knife in one hand and a Roller in the other.

  Without hesitation, she snapped off a shot. The lead ball ripped through the puffy sleeve of Quarrah’s red gown, grazing her shoulder, but finding a deadlier mark in the violinist behind her.

  The musician slumped from his chair with a groan, instrument clattering to the floor as the rest of the players erupted into screams and chaos. Quarrah dove forward, snatching up the fallen violin and pouncing at Cinza, who was cocking the Slagstone hammer for a second shot.

  Quarrah brought the violin around like a club, slamming it into the side of Cinza’s bald head. It exploded into scraps, splinters of wood floating lazily through the cloud of weightlessness that mushroomed up from beneath the stage.

  The panicked musicians had retreated as far as possible, abandoning instruments in their haste, only to realize that they were trapped onstage by the detonation of Barrier Grit. Outside the protective dome, citizens and nobles were screaming and retreating from the sudden violence. A few Regulators had fired on the Barrier dome before taking to a more sensible plan and scouring the perimeter for some way in. Beyond the stage, the audience stumbled away from the danger like a crashing wave of fear and confusion.

  From the corner of Quarrah’s eye she saw Ard and the man grappling on the podium, the bayonetted cello bow on the ground at their feet. At some point in the fight, the man’s hair had come loose, revealing it as a wig with an artificial forehead attached. The rubbery skin was folded grotesquely back as if his face had melted in a hot blast. It was clearly Elbrig Taut, and he was screaming in Ard’s face.

  “You sold us out, Ardor Benn! You were a trusted client, and you sent the queen’s own Reggies hunting for us!”

  Ard began to articulate a response, but Quarrah’s attention was stolen by Cinza, who was coming around with the Roller, a trickle of blood dripping down her pasty forehead.

  Quarrah jumped backward, catching the pocket of Drift Grit and sending her higher than Cinza had expected as the second shot sounded. This time the ball ricocheted off the inside of the Barrier dome, chipping into the stage.

  Glancing through the trapdoor as she passed over, Quarrah saw the dead figure of Kercha Gant lying facedown in the mud. The responsibility for her death struck Quarrah like a Roller ball. She and Ard had taken precautions for themselves, but they hadn’t considered for a moment that Kercha would be in danger. And their precautions were turning out to be more of a detriment since Cinza and Elbrig had managed to get themselves inside the Barrier.

  Quarrah landed adroitly on the edge of the stage, her spacious gown swishing around her legs. She lunged forward, only to find that her right heel had come down between two boards, wedging itself impossibly tight from the extra weight of her landing.

  “You thought a simple detonation of Barrier Grit would keep us from fulfilling our word?” Cinza squawked, moving toward her with dread determination. “We warned you, Quarrah. You didn’t have to throw in your lot with him. Now you’ll die unarmed, dressed like the lady you could never hope to be.”

  But Cinza was wrong. Quarrah wasn’t unarmed. Whipping up the front of her gown, she plucked a mesh teabag of Grit from a strap around her thigh. She pitched it as Cinza raised the Roller.

  Sparks flared on impact and the Void Grit erupted at Cinza’s feet, throwing the woman forcefully backward. The gun went off in a harmless direction as it left her hand, half its balls now spent.

  “Elbrig!” Ard shouted. “It doesn’t have to end like this!”

  The two men were standing ten feet apart among toppled chairs and music stands. Elbrig was holding his bow knife, but Ard had something in his outstretched hand as well. A small glass Grit vial.

  “Our kind of trust cannot be rebuilt,�
� Elbrig said.

  “And that’s worth dying over?” Ard asked. “If I drop this vial, it’ll snuff out the Barrier. You’ll have two dozen Regulators swarming you and Cinza in seconds.”

  “I only need half that time to kill you,” he sneered.

  Ard hurled the vial at the stage, thin glass shattering as a flash cloud erupted from the sparks. At the same moment, the Barrier around the stage was extinguished.

  Elbrig thrust, but Quarrah was faster, throwing a small bag of Drift Grit in his path. He lost his balance in the unexpected weightlessness, kicking helplessly as he floated forward. He exited into the arms of two Regulators, one of them breaking the bow as they wrested it from his grasp.

  “There was another,” Ard informed the Reggies. “A woman.” He moved to Quarrah’s side, breathing heavily, but otherwise looking uninjured. His mustache had fallen off, but that unflattering blond wig was still intact.

  Quarrah scanned across the stage. “Where did she—”

  Cinza leapt up from behind the podium, rushing Elbrig’s captors in what looked like a hopeless rescue.

  “Look out!” Ard shouted.

  The Regulator with the knife bow whirled, bringing up the broken weapon in self-defense. The sharp tip skewered Cinza’s neck, drawing along a string of bloody horsehair as it passed through.

  The bald woman reached up, gasping, gurgling. The Reggie let go and she staggered backward, pawing at the fatal wound. Cinza stumbled into a music stand and fell to her knees, the life fading from her eyes.

  Quarrah felt her own breath stolen away by the gory shock of it. Her gaze turned to Elbrig, who stood in horrified silence with both arms pinned behind his back. He stared at Cinza—his mysterious other half. His face shone with a look of unspeakable sadness, twinged with visible disappointment. Then he nodded resolutely to Cinza, his curly wig accentuating the gesture. Straining against his captors, he kicked something across the stage.

  Cinza’s Roller skidded directly to her. With one bloody hand, she picked it up, her thumb pulling back the hammer. One of the Regulators shouted, “Gun!” and then the shot sounded.

  The ball took Elbrig through his wrinkled false forehead, the curly wig slumping off as he fell against the Regulator holding him. Everyone stood rigid, but by Quarrah’s count, there were still two more shots in that gun. Just enough to carry out what Cinza had threatened.