Ard pushed open the apartment door, bracing himself for the inevitable as the Regulators casually swept in. Pethredote didn’t even wait for the all-clear sign, stepping over the threshold just behind Ard.
Holding his breath, Ard scanned the spacious room. Somehow, miraculously, the five conspicuous Roller crates were gone. Homeland be praised! Darbu, their Trothian contact, must have picked them up from Raek earlier this morning. The space in front of the double-wide hearth was now vacant.
Ard felt his muscles relax in silent relief, glancing over the room to make sure there weren’t any other incriminating things on display. He didn’t spot anything illegal, but the place could have done with a good cleaning.
Ard’s dirty socks littered the floor, and the table was crowded with paper wrappings from that sandwich place down the street. Ard was sure the large bed wasn’t done up, but at least he’d left the four-poster curtains closed so the king couldn’t see his wrinkled blankets.
“By the Homeland,” King Pethredote remarked. “I’d say you need to hire a new housekeeper.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got one at all,” Ard admitted, closing the door behind him while the two Regulators stood stoically beside the windows.
The apartment really was quite nice. Everything from the artwork on the walls to the color of the rug had been hand-selected by the disguise managers as a fit for Dale Hizror’s tastes. There was a composing desk in one corner, where Ard continually practiced his notation. That at least added a bit of veracity to the place. Then again, Ard sometimes doodled little mustaches and hats on the semibreves, so perhaps it was best if no one inspected his work too closely.
“Aspiring composers don’t have a lot of Ashings—or time—to spare on keeping house,” Ard continued.
“Aspiring?” King Pethredote cried. “You, good sir, have already achieved! You can only imagine my surprise when I learned your identity at last night’s concert.”
Ard faltered for a half a second before realizing that the king wasn’t talking about his identity as Ardor Benn, the ruse artist whose presence at the concert had incited mayhem.
“Yes,” Ard replied. “Well, it wasn’t necessarily my plan to come forward about the symphony. But Lorstan Grale is an astute man, and I figured it was only a matter of time before I was found out.” Ard hoped that statement didn’t hold true for his real identity. “Can I take your coat and cape?”
“Thank you.” He unclasped them and Ard helped him slip out of the heavy winter fabrics. There was a chill inside, but Ard couldn’t very well light a fire after all that nonsense about the flue backing up. With the king’s wool coat and cape draped across one arm, Ard crossed the room to the large wardrobe and pulled open the door.
Blazing sparks! Raekon Dorrel was in there!
Ard slammed it shut, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to see if any of the other three people in the room had noticed the large bald man crammed into the otherwise empty wardrobe. The king was studying his bottle of scotch, and the Reggies were staring out the window.
Ard wanted to risk a second peek, just to make sure that his eyes hadn’t tricked him. What was Raek doing in the wardrobe? He must have just finished business with Darbu and didn’t have time to get out of the apartment before the king and a host of Reggies arrived outside.
“Just remembered,” Ard said, crossing the room. “Terrible moths in that wardrobe. Big ones that have a knack for chewing things up. I’ll just put your things on my bed if that’s all right.” He reached the large four-poster and drew back one of the curtains.
And there was Darbu. Sitting on top of five crates of illegal guns.
Ard dropped the king’s coat and cape and let the curtain fall back. “Definitely time for a drink.” He retrieved two glass tumblers from a rack and used his forearm to sweep the table clear of its paper wrappings. It was a rather undignified thing for Dale Hizror to do, but Ard needed some liquor in him quickly to steady his nerves.
The king took a seat at the table, removing the cork from the bottle. “Will you indulge me for a moment?”
“Anything you ask, Your Majesty,” Ard said, recovering some composure as he settled into his chair. “It is you who have indulged me with your personal visit.”
“The Unclaimed Symphony,” the king began. “What you did with the episodes of the Rondo in the fourth movement was absolutely incredible. And bold, not to return to the tonic key for the final iteration of the theme. Very unexpected.”
“That’s something of my specialty,” Ard replied. The king poured a shot of liquor into each glass.
“Tell me, Dale,” said the king. “Are you a Wayfaring man?”
Ard picked up the glass and downed the scotch in a single gulp. “Absolutely,” answered Ard. “In fact, I attribute much of the inspiration for the Unclaimed Symphony to the Urgings of the Homeland. I had always intended the development of that piece to represent the Homeland’s commandment for us to drive forward and progress.” It was a rehearsed answer. A poetic one that he and Elbrig had devised.
“Isn’t that the very reason we love music?” Ard went on. “Every composer starts with the same available notes, but stretching before him is a seemingly infinite number of creative possibilities. Just as I can make something of those simple notes, I believe the Homeland can make something of me.”
The king nodded, pouring Ard another shot. “As spiritual as you are talented.” He downed his own drink and deposited the glass on the table. “Surely the Unclaimed Symphony is not your only composition.”
“No,” answered Ard. “But it is the only one that has been performed outside my head.”
“I intend to rectify that tragedy,” stated Pethredote. “Are you familiar with the Grotenisk Festival held in Beripent during the First Cycle?” Ard could feel it coming. This was what they’d hoped for!
“Yes, of course,” said Ard. “Wonderful event. I’ve personally attended twice.” It was an unapproved detail that Ard threw in, and he hoped it didn’t contradict anything from Dale Hizror’s file.
“Then you know it has become tradition each year to debut a new musical work,” King Pethredote said. “It is my hope that you will accept my invitation to be the featured composer at this spring’s festival.”
Ard did his very best to look shocked. Then he let that emotion give way to excitement. The latter was totally natural. King Pethredote was playing perfectly with their plans for the ruse.
“I would be honored.” Ard took a small sip from his glass. “That’s only two cycles away. A rather pressing deadline.”
“I understand,” he replied. “I’ll have my people bring by a thousand Ashings. Think of it as a commission for the project.”
Ard nearly choked. One thousand Ashings? Someone would just stop that by like a neighbor dropping off a loaf of bread?
“Unless that sum is insufficient to cover your needs over the next two cycles.”
“Oh, no,” Ard said. “It’s quite sufficient.” He could live years on that. “I already have the score prepared, though scribing out the parts can be quite laborious.”
King Pethredote waved his hand. “I have people for that! You are Dale Hizror. I can assure you that you’ll never find yourself copying parts out of a score again.” He poured himself another. “What’s the piece?”
“A cantata,” answered Ard. “Borrowing Wayfarist text from Isless Vesta’s poem on the rebirth of Beripent after Grotenisk’s destruction. A suitable topic, considering the festival.”
“Indeed.” Pethredote had an excitable look on his face. “Cantata. I imagine your beautiful companion will be the featured soloist?”
“Azania is already studying the part,” answered Ard. “Unless another soprano would please His Highness more.” It was a risky offer, but Ard was confident that Pethredote would choose Quarrah.
“Azania Fyse is a darling,” answered the king. “Hearing her debut your cantata would greatly please these old ears. How is she faring after last night’s fias
co? I had already been whisked away when I heard that she was taken hostage by that savage man. Homeland be praised she was not killed.”
“Azania is resilient,” answered Ard, remembering Quarrah walking comfortably along the edge of the roof. “She will be fine.”
“My people tell me they have been unable to find the man responsible,” said the king. “They called him a ruse artist, but he seemed more of a violent thug to me. Opening fire during a Regulation inspection like that …”
Ard didn’t point out that the criminal in question had not fired the first gunshot. The identity of that shooter was the second mystery of the night, following the question of how the Reggies had known Ard would be at the concert.
“I’m sure the Regulators will catch the criminal,” Ard said. Another statement he hoped would never come true. “Word on the street has it that the man had no intention of harming anyone. They think he had come to the concert merely to prove a point. To listen to music only suitable for the ears of the rich and noble.”
“Anyone who saves their Ashings for a ticket is welcome to the Southern Quarter, or half a dozen other concert halls on Espar,” replied the king. “I can’t fund free concerts year-round. That’s what the spring festival is for. A concert for the common citizen. I’m not so exclusive as to deny them such a simple delight.”
“No, indeed,” answered Ard. “Your generosity is spoken of through all the Greater Chain. And now I can boast that I have experienced it firsthand.”
“My scotch?”
Ard smiled. “Your commission of my cantata for the Grotenisk Festival.”
King Pethredote nodded. “If the conditions are acceptable to you, here’s how I’d like to proceed.” He scratched a hand through his beard. “So much of the festival is about hype. I’d like to present you to the public, announce you as the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony, and get them excited for your upcoming cantata.”
“A public announcement?”
“At the palace,” said the king. “In two weeks’ time.”
Ard felt the tingling sensation of giddy success. This could be the opportunity they needed for Tarnath Aimes to get close to the regalia so he could complete his forgery.
There was just one thing he needed to check.
“What do I wear to such a public presentation?” Ard asked. “Should I try to match your attire?”
King Pethredote laughed. “I’m afraid that would be impossible, since I’ll be wearing the Royal Regalia.”
Now it was Ard’s turn to laugh. “How foolishly presumptuous of me.” Good. He’d confirmed that the king would be wearing the dragon shell. “I’ll just wear something green.”
King Pethredote slapped his hand gently on the table and stood up. “Keep the scotch. I must get back to the palace, and you must get composing.”
To Ard’s horror, he moved toward the four-poster bed to retrieve his coat and cape. Ard leapt up, passing King Pethredote in two big steps. But the king was close now. Too close for Ard to pull back the curtain. Instead, Ard simply stuck his hand through and began waving desperately. Darbu must have correctly interpreted Ard’s gesture, because within a moment, he felt the Trothian press the king’s coat and cape into his grasping hand.
Ard pulled it out from behind the curtain and helped slip it onto Pethredote’s broad shoulders. The king clasped his shoulder cape and moved to the door, one of his Regulator escorts pulling it open for him.
“It was a pleasure, Your Majesty.” Ard bowed once more.
“The pleasure was mine, Dale Hizror,” replied the king. “I shall see you at the palace in two weeks. Midmorning.”
King Pethredote and his Regulators strode out of the apartment, shutting the door behind them. It had barely latched when Ard leapt up from his bow, staggering forward to ram his key into the lock. Ard quickly moved to the window in time to see the king climb into the royal carriage. The Reggie horsemen led the way, and the entire processional moved down Avedon Street.
“Not a bad guy, old Pethredote.”
Ard whirled around to find Raek sitting at the table, pouring himself a scotch. Ard motioned for his friend to pour him another.
“Sparks, Raek. Couldn’t you have warned me that you were still in the apartment? I used a Trothian gun dealer as the king’s coat hook!”
“Hey, Pethredote’s policies have always been inclusionary toward Trothians,” said Raek. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“Should we tell Darbu it’s safe to come out?” Ard asked. The Trothian could surely hear them, but he understood so little Landerian, he would likely wait until the others called for him.
“No rush,” replied Raek. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“On keeping your big shiny head hidden in that wardrobe?”
“That thing was not made for a man my size.”
“That was an obvious oversight on Elbrig’s part,” Ard said. “Next time I’ll make sure he furnishes the apartment with Raek-sized wardrobes.”
Raek drained his glass in a swallow. “You want me to tell Tarnath about the public appearance in two weeks?”
“Might be just what we need to get him in contact with the regalia,” Ard answered.
“You got something in mind?”
I do not feel like a guest here. Most days I feel more like an intruder, trying to catch a glimpse of the island’s well-kept secrets.
CHAPTER
15
How is your ruse artist?” Lyndel asked Isle Halavend, as she took her usual place on the bench in Cove 23.
“He is proving to be as good as I had heard,” answered Halavend. “Ardor has taken an elaborate disguise to infiltrate the king’s own orchestra.”
“A bold position,” said Lyndel. “One he will need if he is to gain access to the Royal Regalia.”
Halavend nodded. “Ardor told me the king came to visit him. His Majesty has commissioned him to debut a new composition at a festival in the spring, two cycles from now. The festival is to honor the defeat of Grotenisk and the rebuilding of new Beripent.”
“I am familiar with it,” said Lyndel. “I know many Trothians who have attended in years past.”
“Yes,” Halavend continued. “That is what makes the festival so wonderful. It is a coming together of all classes and races. Anyone is free to attend the concerts in the Char.”
“Will Ardor have a chance to get close to the king as he prepares this new music?”
“He has already won the king over by claiming to be the composer of a famous symphony,” Halavend explained. “Tomorrow morning, King Pethredote intends to present Ardor publicly from the palace.”
“This all seems positive,” said Lyndel. “Why do you look troubled by Ardor’s success?”
“Ardor Benn told me that his location was betrayed at the concert two weeks ago,” explained Halavend. “Homeland be praised that he made it out unscathed.”
“A traitor?” Lyndel asked. “Someone involved in the ruse?”
Halavend shrugged. “Ardor does not know what to think. Since that incident, the ruse has gone on smoothly. Better than planned, in fact.”
“He must be more careful,” said Lyndel. “He does not know the consequences, should he fail.” She paused. “Perhaps we should tell him.”
“I have considered it,” answered Halavend. “I don’t think it would be wise. Ardor is a man easily carried away by his passions. His very name implies it.”
“But perhaps that passion would drive him,” suggested Lyndel. “If Ardor learned the truth, he would be more motivated than ever.”
“Ardor Benn can be motivated by a million Ashings,” Halavend said. “If he knew the reasons behind his job, I fear there would be no payment sufficient to stop him from telling others.”
“But a day must come when everyone will be told the truth,” said Lyndel.
“Yes, but not until our part is finished,” Halavend replied. “If the truth gets out now, Prime Isle Chauster would easily link it back to me. You know I am w
illing to die for this cause, but not until the Visitant Grit is prepared. Not until you and I have discovered the true factors that make a person worthy to detonate it. Otherwise, what hope will mankind have in surviving the coming Moonsickness?”
“I suppose you are right,” said Lyndel. “We will keep the truth between us. As we always have.”
Halavend nodded. Their secrecy was more important than ever, especially considering all the things he’d learned since their last meeting. He knew the implications of his new discoveries were damning, but Halavend needed Lyndel’s help to piece it all together.
“Ardor Benn’s forger recognized the counterfeit dragon shell found by your divers,” Halavend began. “Years ago, there was a man named Reejin who made a living creating replica shell fragments. The operation was very much illegal and funded by an anonymous source.”
“That’s it, then,” said Lyndel, a hint of excitement in her voice. “We find this Reejin, and we can trace the shell back to the person who hired him.”
“Reejin is dead,” declared Halavend. “Twenty-eight years ago. Shot by bandits in the slums of Beripent in 1210. Two years after the plague that claimed the lives of the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.”
“Are you saying these events are somehow connected?”
“I’m beginning to think that everything is connected,” Halavend answered. “I’m just not sure exactly how. Reejin was commissioned by an unknown source to make replicas of hundreds of shell fragments. Plague strikes the bull dragons, eliminating any possibility of new shell, and two years later Reejin ends up dead. No more shell to forge. Reejin was obsolete.”
“You believe someone had him killed?” asked Lyndel.
“Likely the same person who hired him to make the shell,” answered Halavend.