“Hog farm? Any chance I could convince you to change that to a horse ranch?”
Elbrig shook his head. “Must be hogs.”
“Oink, oink,” Cinza added, chuckling at herself.
“Young Dale’s father was in possession of an old violin, which Dale began to learn by ear,” Elbrig continued. “When Dale was nineteen years old, his parents were killed in a boating accident and he inherited the farm. The hog life had never suited him, so he sold the farm for ten thousand Ashings.”
“Must have been a lot of hogs,” Quarrah interrupted.
“With enough Ashings to live comfortably,” Elbrig said, “Dale moved to Beripent to pursue his true passion—music. He lived in the city for nearly ten years, exhausting his funds as he auditioned for orchestra after orchestra. Discouraged, Dale left Beripent for a more familiar rural setting. Long story short—and we will get to the long story, just not today—Dale later discovered that his greatest talent was not in playing orchestral music, but in composing it.”
Ard nodded. Composer. That was brilliant. Skilled composers were lauded as much as, or more than, the musicians who played their music. Taking the role of a composer would also prevent Ard from having to perform in front of anyone. It took massive amounts of knowledge and skill to compose, but the work was done in private. An ideal situation for an impersonator.
Elbrig crossed to his bag and withdrew a wooden portfolio. From it, he produced a folder, fat with papers. “Everything you need to know about Dale Hizror’s public interactions is contained in this folder, beginning with a record of sale of the hog farm.”
“Wait a minute,” Quarrah cut in. “How do you have a record of that? I thought this Dale person was made-up.”
“Not simply made-up,” said Elbrig. “We like to use the term created.”
Ard thumbed through the documents. “These are forgeries, then?”
“Absolutely not!” cried Elbrig. “Every document you hold is legitimate.”
There were a number of sales receipts, signed tenant agreements, dozens of rejections signed by orchestras in the city. Sparks, this was an actual person!
“Was he real?” Ard finally asked. He didn’t know much about the way Elbrig and Cinza did their work, but it wasn’t a stretch to think that they’d been the cause of an unfortunate accident for the real Dale Hizror, stepping in to impersonate the dead man however they pleased.
“He’s real to us,” said Cinza. “And to any of the folks that meet him.”
“I mean,” pressed Ard, “will I be impersonating someone who actually used to be alive?”
“Shame on you, Ardy,” Cinza said. “We don’t take advantage of the dead.”
“Too much uncertainty in that,” added Elbrig. “If we tried to keep the dead alive through impersonation, there would be too many unknowns about their life. Conversations they had with people, key memories we wouldn’t know about.”
Ard gestured to the folder. “What about all these conversations?”
“I had them myself,” said Elbrig, “while developing the character of Dale Hizror.”
“So there is an actual hog farm?” Quarrah asked.
“Of course,” said Elbrig. “In the township of Nint in rural Strind. I bought that hog farm fifteen years ago so I could resell it to establish roots for my character.”
Fifteen years? Sparks, Ard knew these two were good at what they did, but Elbrig had been building this character for fifteen years? And now he was going to sell it off to Ard. Suddenly, the high price they had agreed upon seemed reasonable.
“You’re selling us a product that you’ve been developing for more than half my life.” Quarrah seemed even more shocked than Ard.
“It’s not so crazy, is it?” Cinza rounded out the back of Quarrah’s short cropped hair. “You can’t sell a tree for lumber if you only planted it last year.”
Ard was astonished by the amount of detail presented in the folder, let alone the backstory Elbrig had only begun to explain. Ard felt capable of juggling a lot, mentally. He’d once run four ruses simultaneously. But what Elbrig did was a different thing altogether.
“How many of these long-term identities are you currently developing?”
“We have dozens of burners,” answered Cinza. “That’s what we call the ones with minimal history. Not much more than a good costume, those.”
“The more established personas run at a higher price,” said Elbrig. “And we save those for premiere clients worthy of cashing out on the work we put in.”
Ard noticed how Elbrig had skirted his question. They were secretive people, and Ard didn’t press it.
“Clients like Ardy,” Cinza said with a smile. “We’re dusting off the best for you, my boy.”
“Thanks,” replied Ard. “But I am curious to know how we take an unknown composer with no formal training and present him at the royal circles. Emerging composers are an Ashlit a dozen. But I’ll need to gain enough notoriety to get close to the king.”
“Of course,” said Elbrig. “That’s part of the deal. Every spring, the king selects a composer to debut a new composition at the Grotenisk Festival.”
Ard nodded. The Grotenisk Festival was a long-standing tradition. People came from all over the Greater Chain for the festivities. Spring—a time to celebrate regrowth. A time to celebrate killing the dragon that destroyed half the city.
“This year”—Elbrig smirked—“King Pethredote is going to choose Dale Hizror.”
“That’s quite an impression I’ll need to make.”
“It’ll be easier than you think,” answered Elbrig. “You see, we’re going to convince those Moonsick royals that Dale Hizror composed the Unclaimed Symphony.”
Ard felt an uncontrollable smile spreading across his face. This was why he’d hired Elbrig Taut. He was the only other person that seemed to think on the same scale Ard did. The Unclaimed Symphony. Flames, this really was going to be the ruse of a lifetime.
“What’s the Unclaimed Symphony?” Quarrah asked.
Cinza snipped the scissors aggressively beside Quarrah’s ear. “Don’t you know anything about high society?”
“I know lots of things,” Quarrah said. “Things I can steal. Tangible things. I can’t steal music. I’ve looked into it. Too many copies floating around. A stolen stack of parchments is rather useless on the thief’s market.”
“The Unclaimed Symphony is indisputably King Pethredote’s favorite piece of music,” answered Elbrig. “Personally, I don’t find the composition too riveting. In my opinion, its popularity is largely owing to the mystery that shrouds it. You see, no one knows who wrote the Unclaimed Symphony.”
“Hence the name,” Cinza cut in.
“It was deposited at the palace four years ago,” explained Elbrig. “And it’s driven the royals mad ever since.”
“And we’re going to convince everyone that Dale Hizror wrote the symphony?” Ard said. “I imagine this type of claim has been made before.”
Elbrig nodded. “Half a dozen times. But each claim was ultimately disproven.”
“What makes you think our attempt to prove it will be any different?” asked Quarrah.
“Because Ardor Benn will be selling the bit,” answered Elbrig. “The claims made before came from actual aspiring composers, not ruse artists.”
“So …” Quarrah said. “You’re saying that Ard will successfully convince people that he’s a famous composer because he’s actually not one?” She rolled her eyes. “Besides …” Quarrah’s tone furthered her skepticism. “If we do succeed in convincing everyone that Ard wrote the symphony, won’t that prompt the real composer to come forward and dispel the claim?”
“I will ensure that does not happen,” said Elbrig. “I’m developing a character who disposes of threats like that.”
“Flames, Elbrig!” Ard cried. “You can’t kill the real composer!”
“I doubt it will come to that,” he answered. “But it’s best to have someone waiting in the wings.”
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Cinza produced a hand mirror from the large sack and held it in front of Quarrah. “What do you think?”
Ard liked the haircut. It framed Quarrah’s face in a new way, bringing out features he hadn’t noticed before. Quarrah didn’t say a thing. The look on her face implied that she didn’t hate it, but Ard knew she wouldn’t come right out and say that to Cinza.
Ard had to admit, he enjoyed the way Quarrah handled herself. She was confident but vulnerable. There seemed to be no pretenses with Quarrah Khai, and that kind of honesty was attractive to him.
“What’s my role in all of this?” Quarrah turned away from the mirror to face the chalkboard.
Elbrig tossed the piece of chalk across the room and Cinza caught it. “You’ll be taking on the role of Azania Fyse, Dale Hizror’s lovely and soft-spoken fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” Quarrah repeated. Ard thought he saw her cheeks growing slightly more pink.
“It’s the easiest way to connect the two of you in social circles,” explained Cinza, reaching the chalkboard and writing Quarrah’s new name.
“Do we have to be connected?” Quarrah asked.
“I suppose not,” said Elbrig. “It’s certainly more convenient. Finding an alternative would incur an additional fee …”
“Just shut up and marry me,” Ard said to Quarrah. It was amusing to watch her fluster under comments like those. Endearing, really, which was why Ard found himself wanting to pester her. Besides, it was good practice. Ard’s jibes would be nothing compared to what happened in daily conversation with the rich and royal.
“So that’s it?” Quarrah said. “I’m just supposed to hang on Ard’s arm? He gets the hog farm and a whole rags-to-riches backstory, and I get ‘lovely and soft-spoken’?”
Ard was trying not to laugh. He was known for getting passionate, but Quarrah had a way of getting fired up in a single snap. Like an explosion from the spark of a Slagstone ignitor.
“Patience!” Cinza cried. “That’s supposed to be one of Azania’s best qualities.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve got my work cut out … Now, the two of you met through music. Dale is a composer, and Azania is a budding vocalist.”
“A singer?” Quarrah cried. “You’re making me into a singer?”
“The other option was a violinist,” said Cinza, “but in order to pull that off, you’d need to play the violin, which we know you don’t do.”
“I don’t sing, either!” Quarrah insisted.
“No, I imagine you don’t,” answered Cinza. “But we can work around that. Teaching you to open and close your mouth properly is going to be a lot easier than teaching you fingerings and bowing. We’re already into the Fifth Cycle. Only five more until the First Cycle and the spring festival. That may seem like a lot of time to you, but this is going to be complicated. Trust me. Azania the soprano is the way to go.”
Quarrah sat back in her chair. “I really don’t sing.”
Ard felt like she was missing the point. Quarrah was no more a singer than he was a composer. But Elbrig and Cinza were going to transform them. Of course, they couldn’t turn Ard into an actual composer, but they were going to make him passable in public. The same would be done with Quarrah if she trusted Cinza’s methods.
“I was under the impression that King Pethredote favors instrumental music,” Ard said.
“It’s true,” replied Elbrig. “But even the king’s personal tastes cannot compete with what is trending among the nobility. Vocal soloists are gaining popularity, and while the king approves all the music played by his orchestra, the repertoire is mainly chosen by the conductor. Besides, we trust the king will change his opinion when he discovers the identity of his favorite composer and learns that Dale Hizror is writing a new cantata.”
Quarrah threw her hands in the air. “Ard’s going to write a cantata?”
“Of course not,” Elbrig said. “We have people for that. But his beautiful face will be what sells the new composition.”
“Let’s establish your look,” Cinza said to Quarrah. She crossed to her sack and withdrew a wig of vibrant red hair.
“Ginger?” Quarrah asked. “That seems a bit flashy.”
“Well, that’s the point,” said Cinza. “I didn’t cut off your bland hair just to replace it with a wig of a similar color. Red is uncommon and, as you said, flashy. It will draw some attention away from your face.”
Cinza began situating the bright wig on Quarrah’s head. Elbrig moved around the table with another wig in his hands. The hair was black, shoulder-length, and already tied back in the noble fashion. Ard noticed a built-in prosthetic forehead ending in bushy eyebrows that would conceal his real ones.
He slipped the piece onto his head and examined himself in Elbrig’s mirror. He was surprised how much it changed his appearance. The artificial forehead, though not yet tacked down, subtly changed the shape of his face. There was a single streak of white hair rolling off the front of the wig, a distinctive touch that Ard knew wasn’t there by coincidence. He thought it aged him a bit. Made him look distinguished.
“We’ll also shape your beard once it gets to length,” said Elbrig. “Dale Hizror wears the sideburns long with a gentleman’s mustache on the lip. Best to have a real mustache on first introduction. Everything must stand up to scrutiny. After you’ve established yourself in court, I would recommend moving to a fake mustache and adhesive.”
Ard stroked his upper lip. Fake mustaches and wigs. This was all rather exciting.
“Spectacles.” Cinza held them out for Quarrah.
“Let me guess,” Quarrah said. “To cover my face.”
“That’s one benefit,” Cinza answered. “Wide-rimmed spectacles like these are actually coming into vogue with the royal women. I’ve heard that some even wear them with a plain glass lens. No magnification. Purely for fashion. Something of a ruse in itself, fake spectacles. Anyway, these should also help with the squinting.”
“Squinting?” said Quarrah.
“Haven’t you noticed how she does that?” Cinza asked the two men. Ard chose to say nothing, but Elbrig agreed. “From simple observation, I’d say your eyesight’s failing. Sad thing, young as you are. So the spectacles should help.”
Quarrah slipped them onto her face, the red painted rims wide and ovular. Ard did admit, between the wig and the spectacles, Quarrah’s face seemed rather drowned out. A shame, really. But then, that was the point to a disguise.
“The wardrobe will also help with the transformation,” said Elbrig. “We have a few outfits for you both to try on. They’ll fit loosely today, but we’ll have them tailored to your figure.”
“Now go ahead and kiss each other,” said Cinza.
“What?” Ard and Quarrah replied in unison.
“You’re supposed to be in love, for Homeland’s sake,” Cinza cried. “That means you’ll have to dispel any awkwardness between the two of you. Best to get started on that now. What better way than a passionate kiss?”
This time, Ard felt his face growing red. And Quarrah’s cheeks nearly matched her new wig.
“Here?” Quarrah stammered. “Now?”
“Maybe we should work up to that,” Ard said. It wasn’t that he found the idea unpleasant. In fact, in many ways he would have found it easier to kiss Quarrah if she weren’t so endearing.
Ard stood up awkwardly. Quarrah was already on her feet, and Ard thought it might be so she could make a quick getaway.
“Sure,” Elbrig said. “No sense rushing into things. All we have to do is teach you both to read music, basic understanding of music theory and form, instrument ranges, lyrics, knowledge of composers past and present … not to mention mannerisms specific to your characters, nuances, idiosyncrasies, backstories. Oh, yeah. And we also need to create infallible proof that Dale Hizror is in fact the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony.”
Ard rubbed his forehead. This was going to be a lot of work. With only six cycles until the Grotenisk Festival, he and Quarrah would have to learn quickl
y. They weren’t just putting on costumes. They were becoming new people altogether. And Elbrig was right. With that long list of things to learn, they wouldn’t have time to fall in love.
Quarrah was standing beside him now. In one swift motion, Ard turned on her, his arms slipping around her thin waist. He kissed her lips before she could react to his advance.
It was easy. Ard just did what he’d done for the last seven years.
Pretended she was Tanalin Phor.
I saw a dragon today. Never before have I beheld such a magnificent creature. She was wearing a gown of scales, the deepest green, and her leather wings were like the shoulder capes of the noblemen.
PART II
No Settled hand can ignite that Holy Torch. Like a sentinel from the Homeland. A watchman on the highest peak. An impenetrable shield, else fire cloak these forgotten lands.
—Wayfarist Voyage, Vol. 1
Hail the Fire. The day is long. And thirty more shall pass before the torch is lit anew.
—Ancient Agrodite poem
CHAPTER
8
Isle Halavend waited in Cove 23. It was dangerous to keep inviting Lyndel to the Mooring, but he needed the books and manuscripts for their research. Taking those outside would be far more risky. Besides, the Agrodite priestess had been sneaking in for nearly a year now. No one had discovered her yet.
King Pethredote’s inclusionary policies toward the Trothians had no jurisdiction over the Mooring. The Prime Isle was the king’s counselor, but Chauster could not allow Trothians to convert to Wayfarism. Isle Halavend understood the reasoning, though the whole situation seemed to him like a cruel conundrum.
All Trothians were considered Agrodites. All the ones who valued their health, at least. The thick blue Trothian skin needed Fajumar, a daily soak in the salty water of the sea, though most could manage several days before the flaking became painful.
The saltwater soak was considered by Landers and Trothians alike to be an Agrodite ritual. And Prime Isle Chauster simply couldn’t allow anyone to join Wayfarism unless they willingly denounced all association with other religions.