The Kingdom of Liars

by Nick Martell

  “Honestly, given how childishly you act, it’s shocking to hear you have any goals at all—”

  I kept my silence about curing my mother. I knew it was a foolish dream—one he would ridicule, but one I wouldn’t want to give up until I had tried everything. Until I knew there was no hope for her.

  “—and don’t feel indebted to this city because of that brand on your neck or your last name.”

  A pause. “What if I can’t help it?”

  “Then, when the rebels attack, join me on the battlements. Either you’ll die a hero or live long enough to see you can never redeem your family in the eyes of the king.”

  If there was no chance at redemption for my family, then what was I supposed to do?

  Who was I, if not a Kingman?

  “There,” Angelo said, cutting the thread. “Done.”

  “Thanks, Angelo.”

  He rose from his seat with a smile. “It’s why I’m here. But if you steal my guns again, I’ll throw you out on the streets. No more second, or third, or fourth, or fifth chances. I’d be in as much trouble as you if they were traced back to me. Understand?”

  A nod.

  “And in thanks for my remarkable healing skills, you’re going to make breakfast every day next week. Fair?”

  “Fair.” It was well worth the price. A few infections had taught me as much.

  “Still planning on going to the stadium to celebrate Kingman Day today?” Angelo asked.

  I touched the stitches to see how tender the cut was. Which only seemed like a stupid idea after I’d done it. “Haven’t missed one yet. I’m seeing a friend first, though. Are you cooking tonight?”

  “No,” he said, tidying away his supplies. “You’ll be on your own. Nothing fresh, but there’s plenty of pickled food in the pantry.”

  I groaned. Pickling was a hobby of Angelo’s, and he liked to experiment. Suddenly skipping breakfast this morning was fine; I’d need to be hungry later. I waved goodbye and went in search of Trey.

  There was a whole world waiting for me if I abandoned my family’s name. But, for now, I had a friend waiting for me and an execution to attend.

  Maybe tomorrow I’d stop fearing the future.

  THE LIVING LANTERN

  Even though Trey lived on the east side of Hollow with tweekers and thieves, he worked on the Isle surrounded by scholars scared of ripping paper with their delicate fingers.

  It was normally impossible to get a job outside of one’s quarter. But since Trey worked to organize a blind Archivist’s personal records, she didn’t care where he was from, only that he did his job well. If Trey could read and write fluently, it would have been perfect. But there were words that he had never learned or heard before—having taught himself how to read and write with partially burned books found in the trash—so I spent a portion of my mornings helping him.

  Today was no different.

  I entered the Archivist’s house and joined Trey in the basement, where he had dozens of papers spread out in front of him. He had a pencil in one hand, the other fisted, ready to pound the table when he was stuck. Based on how much was on its side or teetering, he’d had a frustrating morning.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  I took a seat opposite him. Even though we looked different—him lanky, quick, and of mixed race, whereas I was broad, muscular, and light-skinned—we were brothers more than Lyon and I were anymore. Maybe because our disagreements didn’t devolve into shouting matches. Family was supposed to be able to do that, too.

  As Trey cracked his knuckles, I took the paper he was working on and scanned through it:

  On the fortieth day of the seventh month, a piece of Celona, fallen when the moon was at its apex, was retrieved from the Iliar mountain range. Our initial attempts to discern its message were futile, but eventually a child was able to relay it to us:

  “Enough with the past, let it die with them.”

  Once we had recorded the hidden message correctly, we placed it in our vault for safekeeping. Archivist Laetia, you and your assistant, Trayvon, would have to come to us to see it yourself. As promised, we are transcribing our work on why only a select few can hear the messages. May this aid your endevors.

  The Institute of Amalgamation

  “I see Archivist Laetia is still obsessed with the pieces of Celona. Please tell me she doesn’t actually believe they’re messages from God like the fanatics do.”

  “I don’t know what she believes,” Trey said, adding the paper to a pile and scribbling a note to himself. “We don’t talk about that.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not curious enough to ask and risk losing my job if our beliefs don’t match. You know how Archivists are. They only see the world their way.”

  “If you left, you could always con nobles again with me and Sirash.”

  “And leave Jamal alone all night? No, thanks.” Trey pushed a piece of paper back to me. “What do you think?”

  “You spelt ‘endeavors’ wrong. You’re missing the a between the e and v. Use ‘pursuits’ instead.”

  “No, it’s better if I use the same language as the Archivist, in her reports. Was that the only mistake?”

  “Your name was spelt wrong, too. It’s an e instead of an a.”

  Trey cursed a few times and scribbled something out with his pencil. “We can leave once I’m done with this. The Archivist is letting me go early so I can participate in the selection process for the High Noble Fab armies.”

  “I thought you’d have more work today.”

  “I’ve been here since first light and I’m only finishing now. You’re still planning on spending the day fishing with Jamal, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “You swear you’re not going to Kingman Day?”

  “After what happened last year? Not a chance. Where is Jamal, anyway?”

  “Visiting our ma’s grave.”

  I held my tongue as I watched Trey clean up his workstation. As he did, I couldn’t help but glance at some of the pages. His notes were so clear and concise, no one would have been able to tell that a few years ago he was completely illiterate. Except recently he had started making obvious mistakes with words that should have been impossible to forget. His name the most obvious. There was only one logical answer.

  * * *

  We’d crossed over the eastern bridge on our way to the graveyard when I finally said, “You’ve been tinkering with your Fabrications again, haven’t you.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, then furrowed his brow and said, “What gave me away?”

  “Everything you’ve written for the past week has had your name misspelled.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  Trey held up his hand and a steady glow of light came off it. “I know that my specialization is light, but I can’t control it most of the time, and I need to. Otherwise I’m nothing but the world’s least useful lantern.”

  “Tinkering with them by yourself is dangerous until you know the basics. Why not wait until you’ve joined one of the High Noble Fabricator armies?”

  “Because they won’t teach me unless I sign an eight-year contract to do their bidding in exchange. I don’t want to live with those self-righteous High Noble pricks for that long if there’s another way. Especially not when I just want to learn how to control my Fabs and move on. I don’t want to be remembered… I just want to live without fear.” A shrug. “So I experimented. Even tried to find a book about it.”

  As we passed a group of children play fighting with sticks and rocks, I said, “Everyone wants to be remembered.”

  “Not me.”

  “You’re lying, but, regardless, you can’t go your entire life unconsciously using Fabrications. You’ll be a Forgotten before you’re twenty-five—and in the army you could be trained by twenty-six.”

  “But once I know how to control my Fabs, I never have to use them—and I think
I’ve almost got it. It has something to do with how I see the world. The glow occurs when I imagine things lighter in my head. Although I can’t figure out what’s going on with the shadows—”

  “Is your freedom worth more than your life?”

  Trey stopped. “Besides my brother, my freedom is all I have.”

  “And is it worth more than your brother? What would he do if you forgot about him? It may just be words now, but it won’t be forever. No one is that lucky. Find a teacher and learn from them before it’s too late.”

  Trey glared at me, but we continued walking. “I wouldn’t have to teach myself or join one of the Fab armies if Hollow Academy was still open.”

  “Blame my father for dying. Or the king for getting rid of it instead of finding someone else to oversee it.”

  “The king has always been incompetent. But running the academy was a Kingman family responsibility. So it seems reasonable to blame the only Kingman I know.” He said it with a grin.

  “You going to blame me for shattering Celona next?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Then maybe I should yell at you for being a moonstruck—”

  “Can you let it be? I took your advice once already and applied to join the Fab armies. The selection process won’t conclude until this evening,” Trey said. “I need to go. No doubt, unless I show up early, they’ll say I’m late and reject me.”

  “Fine,” I said, wondering if that was the whole truth or whether it had something to do with Trey having no desire to see his mother’s grave. We’d reached the graveyard’s iron gates, and going further would take him out of his way. “Want me to bring Jamal to Margaux Keep afterwards?”

  “Please. I promised we’d get some chicken after my interviews, no matter what happened. You’re still planning to spend the day fishing, right?” He was always overprotective of his little brother, double-checking what he’d be doing.

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks, Michael. Catch a redfish for me.” Trey slapped me on the back and took off for his interviews, while I passed through the gates and started to walk down the hill through a sea of graves to find Jamal. He was sitting cross-legged in front of a recently disturbed patch of dirt, in the shadow of a destroyed stone tower. As usual, his stuffed dragon was with him. It was his most prized posession, and he took it everywhere.

  “How’s your mother?” I asked. Jamal was darker and shorter than Trey, but their eyes were the same. One day I hoped to have as close knit a family as they did.

  Jamal kicked at the dirt. “Still dead, but I wanted to know where she was. Makes me feel better.” He checked behind me, to be sure Trey wasn’t hidden from sight, then perked up and said, “We’re still going to the colosseum for Kingman Day, right? And the execution?”

  “Obviously.”

  Before either of us moved, Jamal looked back into the sea of graves behind us. “Oh. Do yah want to visit your da while you’re here?”

  I didn’t look back. “No, he isn’t going anywhere.”

  If I had to see a Kingman who’d disappointed me, I’d rather it be my executioner brother than my child-murdering father. At least when Lyon killed people, I could pretend they deserved it.

  THE CHAINED EXECUTIONER

  “Do you know who’s being executed this Kingman Day yet?”

  “Not this year, no.”

  I only ever knew if I went to a bakery the day before. They were always gossiping about the latest noble drama there, and I never truly cared. Either the person being executed for treason was a rebel or they weren’t… and the fact that their guilt wasn’t always that clear made me feel sick. As did the Royals and High Nobles who had turned a day once meant to celebrate my family into the day my brother stood in front of a crowd and executed others.

  The High Nobles didn’t even attend, always preferring to watch from a distance.

  “It’s Low Noble Philip Grossman.”

  I knew him. Sirash and I had conned him a few weeks ago, when he first arrived in Hollow for the Endless Waltz. He’d been one of the easiest targets, and his aim was atrocious. During the mock duel, his hands had shaken more than a wet dog trying to get dry.

  “What’s the charge?” I asked.

  “Transportation of firearms from New Dracon City to Hollow with the intent to sell,” he recited carefully.

  “Low Noble Grossman oversees grain farmers. I doubt he’s smart enough to smuggle guns into Hollow. Let alone sell them.”

  “The Royals wouldn’t charge him with treason if it wasn’t true.”

  “If you say so,” I said, letting the conversation go, knowing Jamal saw these executions more as a form of entertainment than a representation of justice. Probably because he and Trey had grown up hating and envying the nobility. It had taken Trey years to call me a friend, and longer still before he let me meet his brother.

  “Trey will be fine today, you know.”

  “I know. I’ve just been worried about him ever since your mother died. He seems to be handling it…” I trailed off, unable to find the right word.

  “Ma was always addicted to Blackberry,” Jamal said. “He’s protected me from her outbursts, the stealing, and the rest of it. When she died… I don’t know, I think he’s trying to find his place in the world. We survived the East Side; now he has a chance to do more than that.”

  Something else Trey and I had in common, unlike my actual brother. He may have bowed to the nobility, but I never would.

  “He won’t tell me how she died,” I said.

  “Me neither. Just that she died like she lived: alone and only caring about herself.”

  “Didn’t she steal food from you two when you were young?”

  “Every day.”

  “Then I suppose she deserved her fate. Just like my father,” I said as we neared the large crowds for the execution.

  Kingman Day used to be held in the Great Stone Square on the Isle or in front of the castle in the Upper Quarter. But since it became a spectator event where rebel nobles met the ax, they had decided to hold it somewhere the nobility never went. Luckily, no one on the East Side cared, seeing it as a business opportunity. The children, in particular, were always selling pointy rocks, rotten vegetables, and fresh dung in such large quantities, it made me wonder where they got their stock from. Aside from the dung, it certainly wasn’t coming from their own district: the Militia Quarter had been stripped clean of anything that could turn a profit.

  The Militia Quarter was one of the oldest districts in the city, having been built back when Hollow was founded. The buildings were a motley mess of different materials, having been hit by moon-fall more often than any other part of the city. Everything in the quarter was misplaced and run-down, from the broken cobbles that could pierce shoes to the cracked and pothole-riddled roads. Sirash and his brother worked in one of the bakeries—although, as it was Kingman Day, the baking was all done in advance so they could enjoy the festivities.

  I was thankful there were no masks depicting my ancestors this year. The ones meant to look like my father didn’t, and still made me angry. As part of the day, an Archivist was regaling the crowd with a stupidly detailed list of all the historical mistakes uncovered in the past year, deciding what the truth truly was. When it became clear they weren’t going to slander my family again this year, I ignored the rest of the scandalous noble drama.

  “We should get a good spot for the execution,” Jamal said. “I want to hear the rebel’s last words. I want to know if he feels remorseful for what he did and who he helped in his last breaths.”

  Usually they just cried.

  “You don’t want to get food rations?”

  Jamal shook his head. “If I show up with rations later, Trey won’t be able to pretend we went fishing. We’ve been enjoying the king’s diet lately, and I wouldn’t want to ruin a terrible thing, you know? Besides, the line is too long. By the time we got up there, all the bread would be gone.”

  “Do you want something to thro
w?”

  Jamal took a few rocks from his pocket with a smile. “Brought my own! The children always charge so much for them. We only charged an iron trite a stone, but now they cost two! It’s a robbery!”

  “Jealous?”

  “Yes,” Jamal said with a roll of his eyes. “Since Trey is trying to learn how to use Fabs. When are you going to?”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you’re a Kingman! You have to catch lightning like the Unnamed Kingman could!”

  “You can’t catch lightning. Fabrications don’t work like that. At best you could create some lightning of your own if that was your specialization, but—”

  Jamal shushed me. Loudly. “Let me have my Kingman stories. Hearing them from my ma was the best. And if I have to be friends with the lamest Kingman ever, let me at least pretend you might be a legend one day.”

  “You only want me to be a legend to get into the stories yourself.”

  “Yah,” he said. “Best chance to be remembered by someone other than you and Trey.”

  I rubbed my arm. “I’m still sorry you’re not a Fabricator, Jamal.”

  “Me too. But it makes sense. Trey’s only a Fab because his deadbeat father was a High Noble. My father was a fisherman. Not a drop of magic in his blood. Sadly, not all men are created equal.”

  “I—”

  He looked up at me, serious now. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I may not be a Fab, but you are. So you should learn how to use them. Then I can be remembered, too.”

  If only it was that simple. My ancestors were titans, insurmountable by any mortal… and the older I got, the less it seemed the three of us could ever be remembered as fondly as they were. Or, if we would be a generation without greatness, only remembered for allowing the Kingman name to survive when it should have died with my father.

  “Weren’t we going to meet your friend and his brother?” Jamal said after I had grown quiet.

  “They’re saving us seats in the colosseum.”

  “Close to the stage?”

  “Not too close. I don’t want to accidentally end up in line for the ax.”