They rounded the corner, finally reaching the entrance to the throne room. Ard couldn’t tell if the kettledrums he had left by the doors were still there. The entire hallway was choked with Regulators!
There must have been fifty of them, lined up before the closed doors of the throne room. They stood in silence, Rollers ready in their holsters, and crossbows strung and loaded.
“Homeland afar!” Ard muttered. “What is going on?”
King Pethredote finally turned to face him, eyes cold even though the tension was not directed at Ard. “Return to the reception hall at once. This is no matter for you.”
“With all due respect, sire,” said Ard. “Any matter involving your safety is a concern of mine.”
“I have ample protection, Dale Hizror.” King Pethredote motioned at the ranks of Reggies lined before the doors. “And this is less a matter of safety as it is security. There is a thief in the palace tonight. I received word that a strike would befall the throne room. I took precautions.”
Sparks! Pethredote received word? How? It was a fact Ard had been pushing to the back of his mind since his position was made known at Farasse’s concert. Someone was giving Ard’s whereabouts to the Reggies.
But who even knew about tonight’s theft? Elbrig and Cinza had intentionally been excluded from the plan. Tarnath Aimes hadn’t been given any more information since he’d delivered the replica regalia. They were all contractors, and Ard had paid them flat fees for their services.
Isle Halavend knew, but the old man could hardly be considered a suspect since he was the instigator of his whole ruse. Besides, Ard hadn’t told the Isle specifics about which night they were going to attempt the theft.
Tonight’s extraction of the regalia had been left to the three people who would share the final million-Ashing payout.
Ard. Raek. Quarrah.
That didn’t leave any reasonable suspects. Quarrah was on the receiving end of this betrayal, and Raek was … well, he was Raek. Sparks, Ard trusted his partner as much as he trusted himself.
King Pethredote turned away from Ard, probably expecting that Dale would obey orders and return to the reception hall. Instead, Ard caught the king by the arm. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to say, but he needed to stall longer. Give Quarrah a chance to escape out the balcony.
This time, as King Pethredote faced Ard, his steely gaze was intended for the disobedient Dale Hizror. Under the pressure of the king’s stare, a strategy suddenly presented itself to Ardor Benn.
“You didn’t wear that regalia in honor of Grotenisk’s death.” Ard’s voice was low and his head tilted toward the king’s ear. “If there was a threat of theft in the throne room, you can be certain that the subject of such a heist would be the Royal Regalia.”
Pethredote paused. Ard was afraid he might not reply at all. Or if he did, that Ard wouldn’t hear the whispered response over the hammering heartbeat in his ears.
“And why would you assume such a thing?” the king finally answered.
“Everything in that throne room has value,” Ard answered. “Everything is one of a kind. A thief would be a fool to attempt selling any of it. It’s too loud. Too expensive. But the Royal Regalia represents the monarchy. Perhaps this theft isn’t about swiping an item to make a pretty Ashing. Perhaps it’s about undermining your kingship.”
Pethredote nodded. “My source told me as much. The regalia was intended to be the subject of tonight’s theft. I ordered a trap left in its place. The thief should be contained within.”
“A trap?” Oh, flames. This was worse than Ard had supposed. “What kind of trap?”
“A Barrier Grit detonation,” whispered the king. “By the time the cloud collapses, the thief will be surrounded by Regulators. A fused Light Grit alarm was tripped only moments ago, signaling my men that the trap was sprung. They await my command to enter.”
Once more, Pethredote tried to step away, but Ard held fast to the king’s arm, an action to which Pethredote seemed unaccustomed. He looked again at Ard, the king’s limited patience seeming to evaporate. Ard had to think of something good, or Pethredote was likely to turn a few Reggies on him.
“Perhaps storming into the throne room isn’t the best course of action,” Ard hastily threw out.
“And why not?”
“Whoever is inside was hired to steal the regalia as a strike against you,” said Ard. “But why? You are the beloved crusader monarch. Your rule has been long and prosperous. You’ve stabilized inter-island relations, lowered taxes, improved Regulation, increased support of Wayfarist Voyages. You’ve made working conditions safer for the common citizen and provided basic education for their children. What reason would anyone have to go against you?”
“What are you saying?” The king’s quiet tone implied that Pethredote was already considering what Ard was about to point out.
“I’m saying, that there has only been one notable blemish on your otherwise impeccable record.” He didn’t need to spell it out. Turroc root and Stigsam resin. Poisoning the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.
“We mustn’t take chances.” Ard’s lips were mere inches from the king’s ear. “If the thief finds himself with no retreat, is it worth the risk that he could spill such sensitive information to a room full of Regulators?”
King Pethredote finally pulled away in such an abrupt manner that Ard recoiled. The king glanced toward the throne room doors, then scanned over the lines of armed Regulators at his command. Ard’s words had clearly upset the old king. His cheeks were rosy and his breathing heavy as he seemed to ponder what the best course of action would be.
“I will enter the throne room alone,” King Pethredote announced, causing an awkward shuffle among the waiting Regulators. “I need to assess the situation before making the arrest.”
One of the Regulators stepped out of the front line, as the king approached the doors, his uniform a deeper red than most palace Reggies, with stripes sewed onto the shoulder.
“Chief Aufald, Your Highness,” he said, by way of introduction. “I must counsel against this action. It’s very possible that the thief will be armed and dangerous. The Barrier Grit detonation will only contain the enemy for another few minutes. I cannot allow you to be alone in there when the cloud comes down.”
“Chief’s right.” Ard stepped toward the king. “You can’t go alone. Let me come with you.” He exchanged a knowing look with Pethredote, which Ard hoped would help solidify the decision to trust him. Pethredote had nothing to lose by taking Dale Hizror. From that meeting in the throne room cycles ago, Ard had made it clear that he knew the true demise of the bull dragons.
“I can handle myself with a gun,” Ard continued. “And I needn’t remind you that I’ve already taken a ball for you once.”
The king nodded. “Give this man a Roller.”
The nearest Regulator slipped a gun from his holster and handed it to Ard. Well, this is new, Ard thought. Reggies handing me their weapons?
Chief Aufald slipped a crossbow from his shoulder and ratcheted back the string. “At the very least, I must accompany you also.”
The king grunted, squinting his eyes in hesitation. “Very well,” he muttered, a cold, disconnected haze settling over his face. Ard suddenly felt concerned for the future well-being of Chief Aufald. According to Isle Halavend, the king was not afraid to arrange accidents to eliminate people who discovered his big secret.
Ard followed Pethredote and Chief Aufald until they stood before the closed doors. There was no sign of the timpani drums, and Ard assumed the Reggies had moved them when they formed ranks. The missing drums were actually something of a relief to Ard. One less thing to explain at the moment.
“The lock was sprung when we arrived,” spoke the nearest Regulator, his voice barely above a whisper. “No sign of the two Regulators who had been standing guard here. We believe the thief entered through these doors.”
“Of course,” said Pethredote. “This was the intended access point.”
“
What if the thief has already escaped?” Ard tried not to sound too hopeful. “The balcony would make an easy exit.”
The king shook his head. “We planned for that possibility. My men installed a locking bar on both sides of those doors.”
“If the thief is prepared, he might have Blast Grit,” said Ard. “He could blow his way through the doors if desperate to escape.” He was probing the king now, testing the new security systems so he’d know exactly how to get out once he rescued Quarrah.
“The balcony doors are laced with Barrier Grit,” answered the king. “Detonating Blast Grit would ignite the security fuses and throw a Barrier blockade into the doorway to prevent anyone from passing in or out.”
Ard let the matter drop. This setup was well planned, with expensive traps designed by clever Mixers.
Pethredote nodded, and the Reggie pulled open the throne room door. The king strode forward, Aufald at his side, and Ard quickening his step to keep up. As soon as the three men had crossed the threshold, Pethredote barked an order, and the Reggie outside closed the door behind them.
It was dim inside the throne room, and Ard’s eyes had a hard time adjusting to the flickering illumination of the bonfire skull.
On the far side of the room, the familiar discoloration of a dome-shaped detonation cloud shimmered slightly in the firelight. The Barrier Grit trap. Ard immediately saw the victim within—a hunched form in dark garb, indecipherable in poor lighting at such a distance.
“Show your face!” Ard called, careful to be the first one to engage her. Quarrah ducked her head lower, remaining crouched in an indistinguishable heap on the floor.
Good, Ard thought, at least she’s well practiced in doing the opposite of what I suggest.
Chief Aufald nocked a Barrier Grit bolt onto the crossbow’s string and lifted the weapon, ready to recapture the thief in case the first cloud burned out.
King Pethredote strode across the dim chamber, his gait cautious. The rattle of the regalia’s shell fragments accompanied the pop and crack of the bonfire.
“The game is up, thief,” Pethredote called. “It was a fool’s hope to think you could succeed.”
Don’t reply, Ard thought frantically. For Homeland’s sake, don’t say anything, Quarrah. What was the likelihood that King Pethredote would recognize Azania’s speaking voice? Quarrah didn’t attempt to change her timbre as Ard did when portraying Dale Hizror. She had tried it in practice sessions, but Cinza said she sounded like a choking horse and demanded she stop.
Even if Quarrah didn’t speak, the king would reach the Barrier cloud in seconds. He’d see that the trapped thief was a woman. Aufald would apprehend Quarrah the moment the cloud burned out. And something told Ard that it wouldn’t take long for the king to see through her disguise. A red wig and a loud pair of spectacles would only go so far. Under scrutiny, Azania’s identity was sure to dissolve quickly.
Ard put his thumb on the Slagstone hammer of the Roller, but stopped himself from pulling it back. What was he going to do, shoot Chief Aufald? Shoot the king? There were fifty Regulators waiting in the hallway outside.
Ard supposed a right hook to the king’s jaw might give them an opportunity to pry the regalia away from him. But that was a brute option. Where was the Ardor Benn finesse in that? The result would leave a disgruntled king who knew he’d been robbed. Pethredote would alert every Regulator in the Greater Chain. They’d never make it to Pekal with the shell fragments.
The point of this entire ruse had been to quietly swap the regalia with a replica. That was the reason they’d waited cycles for Tarnath to forge his piece. And it was the only way his team would have the breathing room to carry out the second half of the ruse and create the Visitant Grit for Isle Halavend.
Pethredote was nearly to the edge of the Barrier cloud, Quarrah still huddled to hide her face and figure. Aufald stood a few paces back, sighting cautiously down the crossbow with Ard at his elbow.
Ard had to act now. He couldn’t stand by and watch Quarrah get taken. Not even to preserve the character of Dale Hizror. Ard had gotten Quarrah into this mess. He’d insisted that she go along with the costumes, the singing, the receptions. And now his mistakes were going to ruin her.
He thought of his hand on Quarrah’s knee as they sat through tedious rehearsals in the bakery’s upper room. He thought of how confident she’d been, standing on the palace roof after breaking them out of Farasse’s concert. He imagined the soft brush of her face against his, giving her a habitual peck on the cheek whenever they parted.
Ard suddenly found himself standing in a very different place, in a time just before the debut of the ruse artist, Ardor Benn. He was on Pekal with Tanalin Phor. He’d roped her into his plan, and now Tanalin stood beside a stolen Drift crate, a look of terror on her face as the Harvesting crew closed in on them. The decision he’d made that night was really no different from the one he faced now.
Well, sparks. Maybe Raek was right. Maybe he was falling in love with Quarrah Khai.
Ard made his move, seizing Chief Aufald’s crossbow at the butt. He spun the man around, ducking as he squeezed the trigger.
The crossbow string snapped, and the clay bolt struck the throne room doors about four feet off the ground. Clay shattered, Slagstone sparked, and the Grit ignited, throwing an impenetrable cloud against the twin doors and sealing them shut.
Aufald reeled, but Ard was still carrying through with his surprise attack. An upward fist caught the Reggie chief just below the jaw. His head snapped back, helmet tumbling to the stone floor as Aufald collapsed, unconscious.
Ard shook out his fist, the pain of the blow numbing against his already tender knuckles. It was remarkable what a single well-placed strike could accomplish.
At the commotion, King Pethredote whirled around, a small Singler appearing from his boot. Ard sensed the movement and dove for the cover of the burning throne. He saw the flash of the muzzle as the Blast Grit cartridge exploded, sending a lead ball screaming in his direction.
The king’s aim was wide, and Ard dropped to his knees beside the fiery skull. Heat from Grotenisk’s bonfire was intense at such proximity, but at least the firelight was bright enough for him to see what he was doing.
Ard scrambled to lift his silk shirt and vest, exposing the Grit belt that Quarrah had given him outside the throne room. He glanced at the clay detonation pots, each securely housed in its own hardened leather pouch. Each clearly labeled in Raek’s scrawl. This was blazing convenient!
Ard quickly found what he was looking for. There were only three of this type, and honestly, that was more than Ard had hoped for.
On the far side of the skull throne, Ard heard Pethredote repositioning. He didn’t know what kind of weaponry the king was toting. Pethredote could easily be carrying a second Singler. And if the king was adept at reloading, he might already have another shot prepared.
Ard held the three clay pots awkwardly in one hand. Detonating them at the same time would increase the blast radius, but Ard didn’t really know what the exact dimensions would be. Best to do it now, while Pethredote was fairly close.
Ard smashed the three pots against the floor, seeing little sparks dance across the clay shards as the Grit ignited. The detonation cloud flew up around him. Ard couldn’t see the perimeter, so that certainly gave him enough space to operate in.
“Quarrah!” Ard called. “The moment that Barrier cloud burns out, I want you to engage the king. We have to take him down and get the regalia!”
Ard pulled back the Slagstone hammer of his Roller and fired a threatening shot toward the ceiling, using the intimidation to emerge from behind the skull.
King Pethredote bolted from the shadows, moving hastily toward the hallway doors. Ard fired a second shot, intentionally wide of the king, but close enough to get him to veer aside. At the same moment, the shimmering cloud of Barrier Grit extinguished around Quarrah. She sprang from her place on the floor, tackling King Pethredote from behind and dropping him to
the floor.
Ard was there in a moment, swatting the Singler from the king’s hand and putting the barrel of his Roller against Pethredote’s forehead. The dragon shell crown had tumbled from his head in the struggle. It lay on its side, casting jagged shadows in the firelight.
“Dale Hizror,” muttered the old king as Quarrah knelt on his back. “You are a traitor to the Greater Chain.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ard turned to Quarrah. “Where’s the fake regalia?”
“It’s in the bag on the floor over there.”
Ard crossed to retrieve it. “We need to put it on him.”
“What are you talking about?” Quarrah cried. “I think our opportunity for subtlety has passed. Let’s just take the real regalia and get out of here.”
“It’s never that simple.” Ard opened the bag and produced the fake shell crown and coat.
“It could be,” answered Quarrah.
Ard shook his head. “If the king knows we stole the regalia, we’ll never make it to Pekal.”
The king lifted his head defiantly. “Whatever you’re planning will fail!”
Quarrah shot Ard an incredulous look. “Whatever happened to not spilling our entire plan in front of the Focus?”
“It’s all right,” answered Ard. He waved his hand through the air around them. “Memory Grit. Processed from the digested skull of a human being. The stuff usually gives me the creeps, but this is one use I fully endorse.”
Quarrah’s eyes went wide at the realization. “How long do we have?”
“Oh, less than ten minutes,” replied Ard.
“And then we won’t remember any of this?”
Memory Grit was rather uncommon. Ard doubted Quarrah had ever found herself victim to it. Strange sensation, losing a portion of one’s memory.
“And neither will he.” Ard pointed a boot at the downed king. “If we can swap the regalia and get out of here, it will keep the ruse intact. Pethredote will come to his senses wearing the coat, and he’ll naturally think that the theft was a failure.”
“You will not get away with this!” the king hissed. “I will find you out. You can’t escape!”