Ard turned to Quarrah, her face flushed nearly as red as her wig. Ard didn’t know why she was so nervous. It wasn’t Quarrah’s likeness that the Reggies were passing around.
Perhaps Raek would make a move and attempt some daring extraction. He was supposed to be watching the concert hall from outside. Surely his partner had noticed the sudden assembly of Reggies.
“This is terrible,” Lorstan Grale muttered to Ard. “Just terrible. Do you think it’s possible? A villain in our midst?” The conductor moved away as a pair of Regulators ascended the steps to the stage.
Quarrah’s nervous hand slipped into his. Ard would have liked to lay out some brilliant plan of escape. But the fact was, he didn’t have one. Even if he did, it would have been impossible to share the details with Quarrah. Cantibel Tren and half a dozen other musicians were seated easily within earshot.
Another Regulator had taken the stage, and despite Lorstan Grale’s protests, the Reggies were positioning themselves to verify the identities of the musicians. No one was beyond suspicion, a fact that should have made Ard feel proud of his reputation. For once, he wished people might not think him capable of so much.
One Reggie moved down the line of violinists, pausing only feet away from Ard and Quarrah to have a short conversation with Cantibel. She seemed to answer his questions adequately, speaking to the identities of several male musicians.
Then the Regulator turned toward Ard.
Trust the disguise. Trust Elbrig’s coaching. Ard wondered if his sweat had caused the adhesive to slip on his false forehead.
“I just have a few questions for you, sir.” The Reggie was holding a scribing charcoal in one hand, and a list of names in the other. “Can you state your—”
A gunshot sounded.
Ard’s hand instinctively swung for his gun belt, but Dale Hizror didn’t carry a weapon. Screams lit up the concert hall, and the patrons swarmed for the exits like a school of fish, Reggies taking up defensive positions at every doorway in an effort to contain the situation.
The Regulator questioning Ard promptly dropped his charcoal and paper in exchange for a Roller, turning away to find the source of the gunfire.
On the stage, the musicians were also in turmoil. Some abandoned their expensive instruments, while others tried to tow them along.
Quarrah had cast aside her bouquet of flowers and dropped into a defensive crouch. To Ard, her dress had never looked more like a disguise than it did in that moment. The body and stance were so clearly Quarrah Khai. The gown looked ridiculously out of place, spilling about her tensed figure.
Ard dropped to a knee beside her, his shoulder cape drooping across his arm as he touched her shoulder. “We have to get out of here,” he whispered, casting his eyes over the chaos.
“Who fired that shot?” Quarrah asked.
“I don’t know,” Ard answered. The well-timed gunfire had to be Cinza or Raek. There would be time to ask later. For now, they needed to take advantage of the chaos and escape.
Ard saw the fallen list of names and the scribing charcoal. Snatching them up, he quickly scanned the paper until he found Dale Hizror. He crossed out the name, copying what had been done to the names of the male musicians the Reggie had already investigated. Ard dropped the list as Quarrah sprang up, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him across the stage.
They ducked behind the curtains and Quarrah gestured down a narrow backstage hallway. Other musicians were navigating toward the back exit, too, but the way was sealed off with a blast of Barrier Grit at the door, a pair of Reggies standing guard with loaded crossbows.
“Please return to the stage!” one of them shouted at the panicked musicians. “The situation is being handled, but it’s necessary for us to get a proper accounting of every man and woman!”
“Oh, flames,” Quarrah muttered, pulling Ard back around the corner. She dashed partway down the narrow hallway and opened a door, pushing Ard into the performers’ lounge, where Quarrah had been so nervously awaiting her performance. Funny, in many ways she seemed calmer now that the Regulators were searching for them and their lives were in danger.
Maybe Raek was right about Quarrah. Maybe she and Ard did go well together.
Quarrah shut the door and leaned against it. Gratefully, no one else had sought refuge in the lounge, so they would be able to speak openly.
“We have to assume that the Reggies are covering all the exits,” Ard said.
“They have to make sure the king gets safely away,” added Quarrah, “but they’re also hopeful to use this opportunity to trap you.”
“I don’t understand!” Ard slammed a fist against the table of desserts. “How did they know I was going to be here? And in disguise, nonetheless.”
The implications sickened him. Only a handful of people knew about Ard’s attempt to infiltrate the king’s orchestra. Were they dealing with a spy?
“Not all the exits are blocked,” Quarrah said. “There’s a glass skylight above the mezzanine.”
“You consider that an exit?” Ard cried. “It’s probably fifty feet up.”
“Thirty, if we jumped from the mezzanine,” said Quarrah.
“You can’t jump thirty feet,” said Ard. “Why are we even discussing this?”
“We need to do something,” cried Quarrah. “If we stay here, our false identities are shot. The Reggies aren’t going to stop until they find Ardor Benn.”
Ard put a hand to his fake forehead, running through a number of possible scenarios. He couldn’t jeopardize Dale Hizror’s character. Especially not now, after Lorstan Grale had acknowledged him in front of the king. If the Reggies were determined to find Ardor Benn, then perhaps he should give them what they want.
Ard reached down and scooped a large dollop of sweetened cream from the top of a plum pudding.
“Oh, seriously?” Quarrah protested. “Why don’t we just fill ourselves with pastries? That might stop a ball from passing through your gut.”
But Ard wasn’t planning to eat it. Stepping over to a standing mirror, Ard slapped the cream against his face, massaging it over his thick sideburns and mustache. Reaching into his vest, he drew a short knife from a leather sheath. It was a poor excuse for a weapon, but it was the only thing Elbrig would approve for Dale to carry.
Ard placed the sharp edge of the blade against his cheek and dragged carefully downward, shaving off the sideburns along with the makeshift shaving cream. He understood now why Elbrig had suggested adhesive facial hair. It would have made the task of transitioning between himself and Dale much quicker.
Well, he’d certainly be needing adhesives now.
As soon as the deed was done, Ard stepped over and blotted his face on the tablecloth.
“You can’t turn yourself in,” Quarrah said, as Ard worked his fingertips under his artificial eyebrows and peeled back the false forehead. With it came the long wig, and Ard scratched his fingers through his real hair to alleviate the itchiness of the hairpiece.
“Turn myself in?” Ard crossed to the wardrobe beside the mirror. “Now, that wouldn’t be very clever at all.” He stripped off his shoulder cape and his vest, donning a long black coat from the wardrobe.
He now held an incriminating bundle of clothes, as well as the wig and forehead, which simply couldn’t be left behind as evidence for the Regulators. “Stuff these down your bloomers.” He tossed the items to Quarrah.
“Excuse me?” Was she seriously blushing now?
“The bustle on your dress is wide enough to hide the bulge,” Ard explained. “Now stuff those down your bloomers, or I’ll come over there and do it myself.”
That gave Quarrah the motivation she needed. Turning away from Ard, she hiked up the front of her lacy burgundy dress and began packing the cape, vest, and wig into her bloomers. Ard scoured the room for anything else that might be useful in their escape, but it was a performers’ lounge, not a mobsters’ hideout.
Quarrah turned back to him, letting her dress fall to her ankles. She
shifted uncomfortably, scratching at her crotch in a very unladylike fashion.
Ard nodded knowingly. “The wig itches.” He stepped over to Quarrah, positioning himself directly behind her. “Azania Fyse,” he whispered. “I’m afraid Ardor Benn is going to need a hostage.”
Ard put one hand around her middle and brought his short knife up to her throat. They moved as one toward the door. Quarrah sighed heavily at the way things were developing.
“This is your plan?” she hissed. “You’re going to get us both shot.”
“Nonsense.” Ard threw open the door to the backstage hallway. “The people loved you tonight. They won’t let the Regulators take unnecessary risks.”
They ducked out of the performers’ lounge to find the hallway vacant. Ard relaxed his grip so they could move swiftly while not being seen.
“I have an idea,” Quarrah whispered as they paused by the curtains. The Regulators seemed to have successfully herded all the musicians back onto the stage and the patrons into the seating area. A frantic feeling still emanated from the concert hall, but the Reggies were getting things under control to resume their search for Ardor Benn.
“We’re going to need Drift Grit,” continued Quarrah.
“How much?”
With so many Regulators in the venue, there was bound to be Grit. Crossbow Drift Bolts were standard issue on the Regulation sash, but each bolt created a blast radius of only about fifteen feet.
“We need enough to Drift Jump from the stage to the skylight,” said Quarrah.
“You’re back to the skylight?” Ard hissed. “Drift Jumping is a great way to get yourself killed.”
His last Drift Jump had been unusual, propelled haphazardly over the docks of Marow with Raek. Usually, the jumper simply sprang from the ground. Ard knew plenty of people who had done it wrong. If the person didn’t stick the landing, they would come crashing down through the Drift cloud from a dangerous height.
“I do it all the time,” replied Quarrah.
“At fifty feet?” Ard noticed Quarrah’s lack of reply. If one Reggie Drift bolt created a radius of fifteen feet, then two should make thirty, right? That would be a sixty-foot diameter, if he could somehow detonate them in the center of the room.
But no, Ard remembered Raek saying something about how the effect didn’t truly double with twice as much Grit. Raek had probably gone on to spout some equation about energy loss and consumption, equal to the weight of a horse’s behind …
Sparks! Where was Raek when he needed him? Simultaneous Grit detonations were a complicated thing. Raek had once described it to Ard by saying that a single detonation was like tossing one stone into still water. It created a unique set of ripples, originating from a specific point. Once those ripples were rolling across the water, a second pebble could be tossed beside the first, creating a new set of ripples that would outlast the first.
However, if someone were to throw a fistful of stones at the same time, the ripples would be indistinguishable from one another, making what appeared to be a larger splash than any single stone.
Ard’s takeaway from that was: more Grit bolts equalled bigger boom. And without Raek to run a complex mathematical equation, Ard was going to have to calculate it his way.
Overkill.
“You ready for our scene?” Ard took his stance with the knife to Quarrah’s throat. “Remember. Whatever happens, I’m your enemy out there.”
Ard shoved Quarrah past the curtains, stepping into the Light of the reflected detonations above the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Ard’s voice was loud enough to demand attention over the hubbub of the concert hall. “I believe someone was looking for me?”
Two dozen Rollers and a dozen Reggie crossbows trained on him instantly. That got the blood pumping. But garnering some attention as Ardor Benn was exactly what he needed to do in order to steer any possible suspicions away from Dale Hizror.
“Let’s not be pointing those things in the direction of this beautiful young lady.” Ard kept his body close behind Quarrah’s to prevent any clear shot. “Let me explain how things are going to go here. The two Regulators nearest me are going to deposit their weapons and bolt sashes in front of Lady Azania. This simple act will prevent me from slicing open her elegant neck. And between you and me, I don’t think her vocal cords will sound nearly as impressive outside her throat.”
Ard waited until the nearest Reggies realized that they were the ones to relinquish their weapons. They unclipped their belts and sashes, stepping toward Quarrah.
“Slowly,” Ard cautioned, visibly tightening his grip on Quarrah. The last thing he would need was for some hotheaded Reggie to slam the sash down, detonating all the various Grit bolts in an effort to entrap him.
Fortunately, the two Reggies were compliant and a decent arsenal was now at his disposal. He pushed Quarrah forward as the Regulators retreated. Glancing down, Ard took stock of what was available.
Two crossbows, four Rollers, two dueling swords, and the Grit bolts on the sashes. Ard tried to remember what Raek had taught him about the coding system for the clay-tipped Grit bolts.
Blue for Barrier. Green for Drift. Yellow for Blast Grit.
“All right, sweetheart,” Ard said to Quarrah. “Slowly reach down and pick up eight bolts with green tips.” Eight ought to do the trick, right?
Ard and Quarrah bent as one. He kept his knife to her throat but managed to reach around and grab the nearest Roller. Judging by the weight of it, the thing was still loaded. Once Quarrah succeeded in picking the bolts off the sashes, they stood together.
By now, the Regulator chief had reached the stage, stepping past a frightened looking Cantibel Tren and Lorstan Grale, and stopping beside his two disarmed Regulators. The chief had his empty hands in the air and a composed look on his face.
Only minutes ago, Ard and the chief had been standing side by side before a large audience. Had no one truly recognized him? Did it only take some fake hair and a shoulder cape to make people think he was someone else entirely? It was funny how blind people could be.
“Ardor Benn.” The chief’s tone was calm and unthreatening. “Please put down the weapons and step away from the lady.”
“Who told you I would be here tonight?” Ard demanded.
“Put down the knife and gun, and I’d be happy to share that information with you.”
Clearly, the chief had been trained in hostage negotiation. No sense in wasting time talking. Ard had a lot to do tonight. He had exposed himself as a ruse artist and been positively identified. In order to exonerate Dale from suspicion, he’d have to race back to the bakery, don the fake sideburns and mustache that Elbrig had encouraged him to wear, and return to the concert hall before everyone departed.
“Everybody back up!” Ard waved the loaded Roller toward the Regulators on the stage. Dragging Quarrah as he strode forward.
He couldn’t imagine doing this with a real hostage. It simply wasn’t his style. There was no class in threatening an innocent person. Ard feared what this might do for his reputation.
They had reached the front of the stage, standing near Lorstan Grale’s podium. Raising his Roller, Ard pulled back the Slagstone hammer and felt the cylinders lock into place. Aiming at the dark glass of the skylight overhead, he pulled the trigger. It shattered, eliciting screams from the patrons as glass rained down on the seats.
“It’s been a pleasure.” Ard tucked the Roller into his pants and took all eight bolts from Quarrah. He gripped them like the bouquet of flowers that Quarrah had dropped, the round clay tips bunched at one end. “You can tell Noet Farasse that he picked the right soprano, even if the lyrics of his aria were atrociously fawning. I may not be of noble blood, but I surely enjoy a night at the symphony. Good evening, everyone!”
Ard reached out and smashed the heads of all eight Grit bolts against the podium stand. The effect, as Raek had described it, was like many stones splashing through the still surface of a quiet pond.
&n
bsp; There was a slight outward rush of energy. Just enough to kick everything up off the floor and send it adrift in the sudden weightless environment. Chairs and music stands were suddenly afloat alongside a stage full of startled musicians and expensive instruments. The Reggies nearby, including the chief, were pulled off their feet and sent, arms pinwheeling, into the air.
The only reason Ard didn’t drift away was because he was holding on to Quarrah. And Quarrah, obviously experienced in detonating Drift Grit at her feet, had the wherewithal to seize the edge of the anchored podium.
Ard glanced up, squinting against the mirrored lights above the stage. The air seemed hazy and discolored all around them, but he had no idea if the detonation cloud had reached as high as the shattered skylight.
He noticed people in the mezzanine, holding on to the backs of their seats as their feet came off the ground. That was a good sign, at least.
Ard leaned forward, pressing his mouth close to Quarrah’s ear. “All right,” he whispered, though no one was likely to hear him over the screams in the weightless room. “How do we make this jump?”
Quarrah gently released the edge of the podium, drawing into a crouch, her burgundy dress hanging weightlessly around her like a sail. In the utter chaos of the hall, Ard hoped that no one would see him let go of the knife. It floated out of his grasp so he could hold on to Quarrah with both hands.
Quarrah looked up, and Ard assumed she was checking the angle to the skylight. “On three,” she said, whispering the numbers back to Ard. They sprang upward, both of them kicking off the stage with as much force as they could muster.
In the weightless environment, the two figures hurtled upward, angling out from the stage and over the heads of the terrified patrons. The skylight was growing rapidly closer. Now past the blinding stage lights, Ard could see stars in the square of dark night above.
The cloud of Drift Grit ended just two or three feet shy of the broken skylight. Ard and Quarrah exited the top of the cloud, the distinct feeling of gravity returning below them. The momentum from their jump propelled them the needed distance, and Ard’s shins clipped the rim of the skylight as they toppled onto the gently angled roof.