The sickening of Brend only solidified what Halavend knew to be true. And it meant that they were already too late. Brend was the first to fall. Even if Ardor Benn’s ruse was successful, there was no way to be sure that the Paladin Visitant could fulfill the Wayfarist scripture and protect them from the coming annihilation. How would the fiery figure even do such a thing?
“The reports must be made of rumors,” Halavend finally replied. Isless Wyren looked frightened. Telling her the truth would only cause her panic and despair. He would continue doing what he’d done for a year now.
Lie.
“There is no way Moonsickness could touch Espar,” Halavend reassured. “Believe in the Holy Torch, dear Isless. Believe that the Homeland’s protection will cover the Greater Chain as long as we are faithful.”
He couldn’t tell her to believe in Ardor Benn, a ruse artist, whose current job gave them the only glimmer of hope in eventually stopping the coming Moonsickness.
“Thank you, Isle Halavend,” said the young woman. “You are indeed a wise Compass.”
Halavend turned away from Isless Wyren and moved quickly toward the stairwell, not daring to look back. He had lied to her because the truth was too frightening to face. It was a burden he had to bear alone, now that Isless Malla was gone.
He had Lyndel, of course. But her visits had to be few and secretive. For the majority of his time in the Mooring, Halavend was alone. It was terrible to feel so isolated in a place where he had spent most of his life.
The Mooring was a foreign landscape to him now, and the Isles and Islesses who occupied it seemed like vultures, waiting to feast upon his carcass should Chauster grow impatient in his suspicions. If it weren’t for Lyndel’s company, Halavend felt he might have gone mad, as though the Moonsickness had taken him after all.
Just a while longer. Ardor Benn was making significant progress. The last update said they were close to stealing the Royal Regalia. From there, they would need to take the shell to Pekal and pass it through the digestive tract of a sow dragon. Ardor assured him that preparations were in order to process the Grit, and Halavend didn’t want to know what criminal deeds would make that possible.
Then it would be up to him. Halavend would have the pot of Visitant Grit and the final stage of his plan would be executed. But by whom, he still didn’t know. One chance to summon a Paladin Visitant. One chance at picking a worthy candidate to ignite the Grit. Perhaps it could be young Isless Wyren.
He paused by the archway at the top of the stairs, finally looking back across the vast library. Wyren was gone, tucked back into her study table to write about inter-island taxation of coffee from over fifty years ago. What was the Mooring but an institute of useless knowledge?
There was no worthiness. At least not in the sense that Wayfarist doctrine preached. Lyndel was as likely a candidate as some studious young Isless. For that matter, more and more Halavend believed that a Paladin Visitant might come to anyone, regardless of the way they lived their life. Sparks, it might even be Ardor Benn.
Halavend sighed. Homeland help him. He had lost his faith.
I hope my findings will be known to future generations. There is power in the written truth, and it must be protected.
CHAPTER
20
In Ardor Benn’s long list of experiences, he had never broken out of a Regulation Criminal Stockade. Strangely enough, he had broken into one. It had been an odd job between jobs that he and Raek had picked up about three years ago. Shent Tasken, a Talumonian mobster with a reputation to uphold, hired Ard to infiltrate the Stockade east of Lalot.
Ard’s mission was to deliver a parcel to a prisoner who was locked up for life. Ard wasn’t supposed to know the contents of the package, but as always, the zeal of his name kicked in and he was fueled by a burning passion to find out.
The parcel held the hairpin of the prisoner’s wife, whose cousin turned out to be an old affiliate of Shent Tasken. It was a complicated matter, but Ard was able to sort it out by the time he made the delivery.
The job was purely for Tasken to gloat. As it turned out, the prisoner had double-crossed the mobster and landed himself in the Stockade. Ard had delivered the wife’s hairpin as a way for Shent Tasken to cause emotional suffering to his imprisoned enemy. As a way for the mobster to prove that he had found the wife.
It was nasty business. Not at all the type Ard usually went in for. And the payout hadn’t been extraordinary. But Ard was grateful to have done it now, as the knowledge he had gained let him know all the typical Stockade defenses and procedures.
Regulation Criminal Stockades were different from the common citizen’s jail. The latter was really more of a scare tactic, used for short-term discipline of penitent citizens who failed to pay their taxes, purchased Grit without a license, disputed property lines, or committed other petty legal violations.
The Stockades were another thing altogether, and the inhabitants were the worst breed that the Greater Chain had to offer. Murderers, anarchists, arsons, contrabandists, goons, and mobsters. And now, one ruse artist extraordinaire.
Ardor Benn sat in the dark, his eyes trained on the sliver of light at the bottom of the door. He had been introduced to his Stockade cell around midnight, after being dragged from the throne room by fifty armed Regulators.
Ard’s solitary cell was like a cold cellar, with a slanted door opening aboveground and steps descending into the isolated room. It was cool, damp, and maddeningly dark. He’d watched the sun rise through the crack beneath the door, unable to sleep a wink. It was still bright outside now. Probably late afternoon.
He took a drink from a keg of musty water and finally brought himself to eat the stale bread that had been set out for him. The hard, tasteless loaf was a far cry from Mearet’s fresh pastries at the Bakery on Humont Street.
So far, Ard had spent most of his time thinking. It was one of his specialties. Before a complicated ruse, Ard would often dive deep into his mind, running potential scenarios, testing every variable imaginable. Time passed at a different rate when he was thinking, and nothing could break him from his reverie—not food, not company, not sleep.
Ard had easily been able to achieve this level of focus in his dark cell. Homeland knew he had a lot to think about.
King Pethredote had an informant. That was the reason everything had gone sideways in the throne room. The reason why Ard was locked away here. Someone was obviously feeding information to the king. But who?
Quarrah was beyond suspicion, since it had been her neck on the line. And it clearly wasn’t Raek. He’d known the man for more than half his life. They’d been pals together in their Eastern Quarter Beripent neighborhood. Ard had been there when Raek’s parents had been caught in a storm and perished at sea. They’d failed together at the University in Helizon. Ard for being too distracted, and Raek for being smarter than the professors. They’d Harvested together on Pekal. Raek had helped take care of Ard’s parents—folks that became like his own after he’d been orphaned.
No. Ard wouldn’t even entertain the thought that Raekon Dorrel might betray him. They’d been through too much together.
So who else knew of their plans?
Isle Halavend obviously knew what they were planning, but Ard had been careful not to give the old man too many incriminating details. Besides, the Holy Isle could hardly be considered a suspect. Halavend wanted this ruse to succeed more than anyone else. He was risking his life by working with Ard, making illegal withdrawals from the Islehood Treasury. As far as employers went, Halavend was the most trustworthy Ard had ever had.
But Halavend didn’t work alone. Ard knew that he shared everything with the Agrodite priestess, Lyndel. Ard knew very little about her. He had only spoken to Lyndel once, on their first meeting in the Mooring. But Halavend spoke frequently of her. And they seemed to be meeting multiple times a cycle.
Ard had questioned Halavend about Lyndel before. The old Isle had vouched for her, saying that her motives were as pure
as his own. Sounded pretty altruistic, and it meant very little to Ard, who wasn’t privy to such motives. In Ard’s mind, Lyndel was the most likely suspect.
But Isle Halavend could be speaking with others as well. He had mentioned a young Isless on more than one occasion. Malla, was it? But Ard didn’t know how she played into it all.
Whoever it was, the king’s informant had struck twice now. The Regulator takeover of the Royal Concert Hall had been salvaged by quick thinking and Quarrah’s experience in Drift Jumping. But the failed theft in the throne room last night hadn’t turned out nearly as well. The truth was, with a stretch of memories missing, Ard was having a hard time figuring out exactly what had happened in there.
He remembered part of his plan—the part he had devised before igniting the Memory Grit. But it was a mystery how the events in the throne room actually played out.
Ard’s half-baked plan had been to strip Pethredote of the real regalia and dress him with the counterfeit. Had they succeeded? If so, how would any of them know?
They would have needed to smuggle the regalia out of the throne room before the Reggies swarmed the place. A tricky feat, since the only exit led into the hallway where the enemy had been waiting.
Still, if anyone could sneak past fifty armed Reggies, it would be Quarrah Khai. He had to assume she made it safely away, though he could only imagine how perplexed she must have been when the Memory cloud burned out.
If swapping the king’s attire had been successful, and Quarrah had managed to get the shell out of the palace, then she and Raek might already be on their way to Pekal. That would probably mean no rescue attempt for Ard.
But maybe the theft had failed. If that was the case, Ard would have asked Quarrah to maintain the role of Azania Fyse. Doing so would preserve the ruse. Quarrah might get a second shot at stealing the regalia, or rescuing Ard from the Stockade.
Of course, there was no way Quarrah could remember if Ard had asked her to continue as Azania. Therein was the great conundrum of Memory Grit. It affected everyone within the blast cloud, and that often involved the person who detonated it.
It was a double-edged sword. All one could really do was consider the facts from before the detonation occurred and compare them to the facts after the Grit’s effect burned out.
So, the facts were these.
When the Memory cloud in the throne room burned out, Ard had shed his disguise as Dale Hizror and was holding King Pethredote hostage. Aufald, the Regulator chief whom Ard had attacked, was nowhere to be seen. And in the chaos of being surrounded by Regulators, Ard hadn’t managed to spot Quarrah or the black regalia bag anywhere.
It wasn’t much to go on.
There was only one thing that seemed out of character for Ard. He had to have known that the Memory Grit was about to burn out. So why would he have struck such an aggressive stance against the king? It was almost as if Ardor Benn wanted to get arrested.
And that was what troubled him. Ard had a keen sense for knowing when it was time to abandon the ruse and save his skin. What were a million Ashings if he wasn’t alive to spend them? Putting a Roller to Pethredote’s head mere moments before the room filled with Regulators seemed inconsistent with his survival sense. What could mean so much that Ard would risk imprisonment—execution?
It was Quarrah. It had to be.
She’d gotten into his head over the last few cycles. Raek had called him on it, but Ard hadn’t been willing to entertain the thought of another woman taking a piece of his heart, which remained devoted to Tanalin Phor. Even here, in the darkness of the Stockade’s solitary cell, Ard had a hard time admitting that he would have sacrificed himself for Quarrah Khai. But he had once given up everything from his former life to exonerate Tanalin on Pekal. How strong were his feelings for Quarrah?
It was this kind of thinking that caused the hours to pass remarkably fast. Perhaps too fast. The Grotenisk Festival was only two days away. Should Ard have attempted some sort of escape by now? He wasn’t sure how much time he would have in here. The king would certainly dispose of Ard. But he’d have to do it publicly. Too many notable people at the reception would have heard of Dale Hizror’s treason. They would demand public justice.
The Grotenisk Festival was likely the only thing that had preserved Ard’s life this long. As much as he might like to, Pethredote couldn’t very well start off the festivities with a public execution. Nothing said growth and progress like shooting the most current musical celebrity.
King Pethredote was playing a careful game. To satisfy the citizens, he had to hold off on the execution. To satisfy the nobles, he had to bring justice on Dale Hizror. Keeping Ard in solitary imprisonment, where he couldn’t divulge the king’s secrets, seemed like the only course of action … at least for the time being.
Ard was resilient, but he didn’t know how long he’d have to endure this. He had to believe that the others would mount a rescue. Raek would Mix some daring explosive to get him the blazes out of here.
At the top of the stairs, Ard saw a sudden break in the line of sunlight beneath the door. He stood up cautiously, stooping slightly as the ceiling was rather low.
Ard shuffled across the hard dirt floor until he stood against the bars. Outside his cell was a small landing before the short flight of stairs ascended to the exterior door.
Ard heard a rattling against the lock and the door swung open. The cell was instantly flooded with blinding sunlight. Ard felt the rays strike his face, and he instinctively shut his eyes against the brilliance.
Footsteps descended the stairs, Ard heard them shuffle to a stop just outside his cell. The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, and familiar darkness dominated once more.
Ard blinked hard, his ability to see anything completely obliterated by the drastic change in lighting. There was a sound of shattering clay, and Ard saw a Slagstone spark in the darkness. Instantly, an orb of Light Grit sprang up from the detonation, hovering over the shoulder of the unexpected visitor.
At last, Ard’s eyes adjusted properly to take in the scene. The man waiting outside the jail cell was not a Regulator, as Ard had expected.
It was Lorstan Grale.
“I must say,” began the conductor, “your actions have left me in quite a precarious situation.”
“What are you doing here?”
The man reached up and scratched the side of his balding head. “Considering the unfortunate circumstances, I found it necessary to speak with you regarding the upcoming performance.”
“The cantata?” Ard asked. Lorstan Grale had traveled from the heart of Beripent to discuss music?
“The debut performance will go on as planned,” answered Lorstan. “And in your absence, the king has asked that I conduct the work. I have a question regarding the tempo of the exposition. Cantibel Tren is telling me one thing, and our soloist is saying another. I thought I could resolve the matter with a quick condescension to your current state.”
“Ha,” Ard scoffed. “Welcome to my humble abode. Not as lavish as 448B Avedon Street, but it’s feeling homier the longer I stay.” He squinted at the conductor. “Is Azania all right?”
“Dear Azania has been forced to endure scrutiny beyond compare,” said Lorstan Grale. “I hope she has managed to preserve the delicacy of her voice under such stress.”
Well, it helped that the voice belonged to Cinza Ortemion.
Ard smiled. So Quarrah had made it out. She had managed to preserve her character, despite the tremendous amount of suspicion that was undoubtedly cast on her due to Azania’s connection with Dale Hizror.
“I wanted to tell her so many times.” Ard hoped that his comment would solidify Azania’s cluelessness about Dale’s deception. “I never meant to string her so far along. I didn’t want to hurt her.”
“What’s expected from a selfish, criminal lifestyle?” Lorstan Grale withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the tip of his ruddy nose. “The king has made it clear that no one is allowed to speak with
you. It took all my persuasion to be allowed down here. Now, I’m sure I have already said too much. I insist you explain the tempo of the exposition, or my great persuasion will have been for nothing.”
Ard held on to the bars of the cell and leaned back. “Afraid I can’t help you. As I’m sure you know by now, I didn’t actually write the blazing cantata.”
“They said you were an imposter,” answered Lorstan. “I was not sure how deep your deception ran.”
“Deep deep,” replied Ard. “I’m talking bottom-of-the-ocean deep.” He leaned forward until his forehead touched one of the bars. “Remember the Unclaimed Symphony?” Ard grinned. “Didn’t write that, either.”
“Now, that I knew,” answered Lorstan Grale.
“What?” Ard took a step back. Lorstan Grale had been the primary voice to confirm Dale’s ownership of the mysterious symphony.
“You couldn’t possibly have written the Unclaimed Symphony,” said the conductor.
“And why is that?” Ard asked.
Lorstan Grale smiled. “Because I did.”
Ard’s breath caught in his throat. If Lorstan Grale was the true composer of the Unclaimed Symphony, then he must have known that Dale was a fraud all along. Sparks, Lorstan had been playing him! But why?
“I can see how this might confuse you,” Lorstan Grale said. “Technically, it was Dale Hizror who composed the work. It’s difficult to keep them all straight.” Lorstan stepped forward and pressed his face between two of the cell bars. “Ah, flames. Maybe I’m getting too old for this, Ardy.”
And with that, Lorstan Grale spat out a set of artificial teeth.
Great blazes! It was Elbrig Taut!
“Now let’s talk about the tempo of the exposition,” Lorstan continued. “Do you conduct it in one, or in three?”
“Three,” answered Ard, his whole body tingling from the revelation. And suddenly, Ard felt as if he were in the upper room of the Bakery on Humont Street, Elbrig quizzing him on musical terms and beat patterns.