The Kingdom of Liars

by Nick Martell

  “Children?” she snapped. “Your father might disagree.”

  “I am not my father.”

  “The rebel who triggered the explosion did so in your father’s name. You were there, and you left the colosseum to meet the Rebel Emperor at your father’s grave. That’s beyond a coincidence.”

  “I go to Kingman Day every year. I was there with my friends. We were trying to escape, when we were caught in the attack… I was trying to protect Jamal and get to the battlements. We were caught by the rebels by accident and they—”

  Naomi leaned closer to me, and there was something in the way she looked at me that I couldn’t quite determine. “The future doesn’t look good for you, Michael. You left your district to be a part of an attack in your father’s name. You refused to come with me for questioning. You have minimal injuries, as if you knew where to be when the explosions went off. Your mysterious, potentially rebel friends are nowhere to be found, and you’ve admitted to being at a meeting with the Rebel Emperor. You’re a rebel. Admit it.”

  I had underestimated her. Badly. “Is this why you helped me get out of the ruins? To frame me for the attack?” I couldn’t help but smile at my own naïveté. “Did your mother even die in Naverre?”

  “Would you even believe me if I said no?”

  Before I could respond, the door behind Naomi flew open, and my foster father stormed in. “Naomi, I told you no one was to question Michael Kingman without me in the room. Leave before I decide to file this foolish slip of your judgment as insubordination.”

  She stood, chair screeching behind her, and saluted Angelo. “Sir, he was about to confess—”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Naomi left the room, eyes and head down, while Angelo took her seat. “Days like these make me wish I hadn’t given up drinking. Anything you want to tell me?”

  “I was only trying to protect my friend. How much trouble am I in?”

  He drummed his fingers against the table. “It’s difficult to say. It looks suspicious on paper, compounded by your meeting the Emperor, and Naomi is keen to place the blame on you. Only that boy’s death shows your innocence… though it would help if a family member could confirm you were friends. I should’ve been here sooner. I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “Lyon?” I asked.

  “Safe. Worried but safe.”

  “Did they attack you on the wall?”

  “No, they snuck into Hollow somehow. The fighting was confined to the Militia Quarter.”

  My mind felt fuzzy, so all I did was nod in response. “What happens now?”

  “You won’t be held. I’ve convinced my superiors to put you on probation for a month. Like how it was when you first came to live with me. But if Scales finds any evidence to suggest you’re working with the rebels—or if you’re caught fighting, robbing, trespassing, or even refusing their questions—they’ll arrest and then likely execute you.”

  “By hanging or by cutting off my head?”

  Angelo slammed his closed fist against the table. “Will you take this seriously, Michael? They could charge you with treason!”

  I already had the brand on my neck; getting charged for it wouldn’t matter. And at this point my brand, and my infamous family, had already kept me alive more times than I deserved. It was only a matter of time until someone noticed it too late—or didn’t care when they did. I’d been hung from a tree, caught in the middle of an explosion, and held at gunpoint in the past day and only had bruises, burns, ringing ears, and cuts to show for it.

  Except… except now I was to blame for Jamal’s death. I’d been looking after him. Would Trey ever be able to forgive me?

  Angelo moved from his seat and gave me a hug, a warm, tight embrace I needed in that moment. “It’ll be all right, son. It’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Angelo stayed with me until the tears had dried up and I could speak complete sentences again. He was there for me in that moment and made the pain bearable. It was something my father had never been able to do. Not after he chose ambition over family. With no other reason to keep me there and more work to do than ever, Angelo showed me where Jamal’s body was and then escorted me out of the building—Scales Headquarters, I discovered—and released me back into the wild.

  There was normalcy in Justice Hill, and only the black smoke across the river indicated what had happened to the colosseum and the Militia Quarter. Just the sight of it was enough to make me want to crawl into bed and never leave.

  But, I couldn’t. I had to keep moving forward.

  It was time to change things. I’d become a pawn for nobles and rebels, and an obvious scapegoat for Scales… and my battle to protect my family month to month for ten years had left me with nothing but an everlasting hatred for those in power. If I truly wanted to contribute to the Kingman legacy and be remembered, I had to figure out how to protect myself.

  And even though I didn’t like the risk of learning how to use Fabrications, I would have to know how to use them. Because maybe, if I did, things in the graveyard with the rebels would have gone differently. Maybe Jamal would still be alive.

  If I was lucky, maybe I’d even be able to find a magical cure for my mother’s condition. Or determine why I didn’t remember that rebel woman.

  But before I could learn how to use Fabrications, I had to find Trey.

  Armed with a stuffed dragon, I made my way to Margaux Keep.

  THE FORGOTTEN BOY

  Despite being born on the wrong side of the river with a skin tone that made him feel isolated no matter where he was, Trey had survived for eighteen years on his own. For more than a decade he’d had his younger brother at his side—the only thing worth a damn his parents had ever given him. And he was only interviewing to join a High Noble Fabricator army to give Jamal a better life. He would never be the same once he heard what had happened.

  I was frightened he would go after the rebels, using his untrained skills, and lose his memories of Jamal in the process. That fear was ever-present as I made my way to Margaux Keep to find him; it wasn’t news that should wait. Trey deserved to know, and to hear it from me.

  Thankfully for me, anyone could watch the selection process for the High Noble Fabricator armies so long as they paid to get in. Thus, despite the fact I looked like a tweeker, in bloodied, dirtied clothes, the female guard took my silver moon and let me enter the keep. Although anyone could attend, I couldn’t imagine that included the traitorous Kingman children. So I kept my head down, hid Jamal’s stuffed dragon in my pocket, and did my best to avoid anyone that looked too important.

  Which was hard to do. The public spaces were filled with the High Noble families in attendance for the selection process—even the Braven family, which was odd, as they generally only participated in religious events. Everyone who wasn’t a High Noble was a merchant, a foreign ambassador, a high-ranking member of Scales, or a Mercenary.

  It was clear that if Kingman Day in the colosseum was to entertain the commoners, hand out survival rations, and watch rebels die, then the selection process for the nobility was defined by excess. The hallways were lined with long tables stacked high with the kinds of rich, decadent food that Angelo would have a hard time turning down. There was even a fountain filled with wine instead of water at the entrance, and everyone was dressed in colorful silk or lace or leather, tailored in the latest fashion—which included short capes for some asinine reason. Maybe I had always misunderstood this event; I had assumed it was a test to gauge Fabricator aptitude, not a party.

  I was clearly wrong, but only when I reached the ballroom did I see the true horror of what was going on.

  There was no test or evaluation by master Fabricators… This was a fucking auction. The applicants were standing on display, being poked and prodded and ordered to show off their skills. Those from Low Noble families wore their sigils. Those who lacked a noble title wore a thick metal chain on one of their wrists instead, and I hated to think what that was meant
to signify.

  As I searched for Trey, I couldn’t help but watch as different Fabricators demonstrated their abilities on the main stage. I saw a commoner Wind Fabricator conjure up a gust of wind to make capes and dresses flutter wildly. Then I saw a Low Noble Fire Fabricator summon a ball of fire and juggle with it like he was a jester. There was even an Ice Fabricator who created an elegant dress for a marble statue. If it weren’t so barbaric, treating these Fabricators like attractions and auctioning them off, I might have been in awe of their gifts.

  When an auction-goer wanted to bid on a Fabricator, they called over a strange person in a ridiculously tall hat. From what I saw, the going rate for a Lightning Fabricator who already had some control was roughly two hundred suns, while a Lightning Fabricator with barely any control was triple that. I couldn’t help but wonder where the money was going, because none of that was going to end up in Trey’s pocket.

  The Low Nobles were treated differently from the commoners. Most of them seemed to already have a position guaranteed in the armies of the High Nobles their families pledged allegiance to, and rather than being visibly confused and nervous, they attempted to convince other families how useful they would be to drive their price down and their position up. Their specializations were the biggest leverage they had. The High Noble Solarin family was actively avoiding any Fire Fabricators, while the Bravens were talking only to them.

  It sickened me to be in there, so it was a relief to see Trey in one corner, alone on a raised platform. I was stunned that he was still participating in this monstrosity; I wouldn’t have been able to bear it.

  Before I could say anything to him, one of the men in the pointy hats along with two High Nobles—one from the Andel family and another from the Castlen—made their way over to Trey. I held back and waited for them to leave.

  “This is applicant fifty-five,” the pinhead said. “Born on the East Side in the Rainbow District. Mother passed recently, and his father is unknown and likely the source of him being able to use Light Fabrications. Reserve price is eight hundred suns.”

  High Noble Andel crossed his arms as he looked Trey up and down. “Does the applicant have any combat experience?”

  “Minimal, High Noble Andel. Hand-to-hand primarily.”

  “A shame,” he said. The High Noble pinched Trey’s biceps and almost got rewarded with a backhand. “Plenty of muscle. A few months with the Weapon Master should make him good enough to wield a sword. But I’d want him to specialize soon after. Maybe with a mace or short spear.”

  “Why waste such a remarkably rare Fabrication specialization on combat training?” the other High Noble questioned. “Have him begin training at the Hawthorn Medical College immediately. If the applicant shows promise, marry him into one of the Low Noble families under us. Keep his talent close by.”

  Trey exhaled and closed his eyes as the High Nobles continued to squabble about his future. When he opened his eyes, he saw me and said, “Michael? What… Are you… wait, where’s Jamal?”

  I had rehearsed the words over and over and over again until saying them should have been as easy as breathing. But seeing my friend’s face had knocked them out of me. Wordlessly, I held Jamal’s singed dragon out to him.

  He took the dragon from my hands, seeing the dried blood on it. “Where’s my brother?”

  “Rebels attacked the Militia Quarter,” I said, my voice shaking. “Attacked Kingman Day. I tried to protect him, but… but…”

  He had the dragon in a death grip. “Where is my brother?”

  The tears wouldn’t fall down my face, but my eyes were red and my throat ached all the same. “Scales Headquarters. They have his body there. Trey, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Applicant,” the pointy-hatted man said as he snapped his fingers, “show us your Light Fabrications. We need to make sure you’re not lying about your specialization.”

  Trey wobbled, eyes glazed over. Had the High Nobles not heard what just happened?

  “Applicant. Get on with it already,” he repeated.

  Trey muttered something to himself.

  “Applicant!” one of the High Noble’s shouted. “Are you blind? Deaf? Either show us your Fabrications right now or—”

  “My apologies, High Noble,” Trey declared, standing straight. “I’ll show you my light.”

  The sun was dimmer.

  Everything went white, Trey’s wails and sobs all that could be heard.

  “Trey!” I screamed through the light, my face flushed and body warm.

  The light vanished in an instant, but I had to blink repeatedly to regain clarity.

  Trey broke there and then, folding over as he clutched the dragon, as if it would disappear if he let it go. His performance had drawn a different kind of crowd now. Even the High Nobles who had been interested in him backed away, perceiving what had happened as uncontrollable recklessness. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl in a red dress with an Endless Waltz patch part the horde to get a better view, watching carefully. Others in the crowd had already turned away or were openly mocking Trey, and she gently but firmly turned a few away from the scene.

  When Trey, huddled on the floor, could form words again, he said, “Why? Why would they kill him?”

  I was helpless before his grief and told him everything. The attack, the explosion, our escape through the quarter and into the cemetery, the rebels’ careless ruthlessness… even, in my shock, because I blamed myself for Jamal’s death, the rebel’s final words: that I lived because I was a Kingman and that I was too valuable to die until I remembered everything.

  I had barely finished when he uncoiled like a whip and punched me in the jaw, and only as I landed on my ass, him standing over me, face neutral, did I realize how it must have sounded.

  “I trusted you. You were my friend. And you’re the reason my brother is dead.” Trey seized me by my collar and held my face close to his. “I lost everything because of you.”

  “Trey, please, let me explain.”

  “Explain what? Explain that my brother’s life wasn’t as valuable as yours? That he deserved to die so you could live?”

  “Trey, that’s not what I—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” he screamed. “My brother is dead! And it’s all your fault, you High Noble prick!”

  “Treyvon Wiccard!” The girl in a red dress was approaching us. “The way you’re acting is not becoming of a Fabricator for a High Noble family. The auction is almost over, so get yourself under con—”

  “As if I care anymore. I only wanted to know how to control my Fabs because of my brother,” he said, choking on the words. “I could only survive this to give my brother a better life. But now? Now I refuse to bow to anyone.

  “Michael,” Trey continued, facing me, the crowd around us no longer of interest to him, “I will avenge my brother. You’re responsible for my brother’s death. You destroyed my family. So I will destroy yours, and your precious legacy. You will be the last Kingman.”

  It wasn’t befitting for a Kingman to beg, but I did anyway, desperate for my friend to forgive me. “Trey—”

  “Do you hear me, Kingman?”

  “Are you finished, Treyvon?” the girl in red demanded. “After this outburst, what High Noble family do you think will take you in their army and teach you how to use Fabrications?”

  “I can still think of one that would.” Trey looked down at me. “Goodbye, Kingman. Enjoy the time with your brother and sister while you can.”

  Trey stormed away, hugging Jamal’s stuffed dragon. I would have followed him, but I couldn’t stop shaking and I doubted I could find the words that would make any of this better. If there were any at all.

  Maybe with some time to grieve he wouldn’t be so angry… but if our positions were reversed and Gwen had died, would I be able to forgive him?

  I had no chance to ponder it. The girl in red dismissed the crowds with a flick of her wrist as she went to my side, kneeling next to me even if it meant staining
her dress. She spoke quickly and softly.

  “Are you well?” she asked. “What happened? Why did he threaten you?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “It’s between us. No one else.”

  “I see,” she said. “While I would have preferred different circumstances, it is good to see you again, Michael. Even if I do wonder why you ignored all my attempts to contact you.”

  Still in a daze, I said without thinking, “You are who, again?”

  She slapped me. Hard. Hard enough to forget what had happened between Trey and me and focus on her instead. The girl in red was biting the bottom of her lip with her nostrils flared. Both of her fists were clenched, and I thought she might hit me again.

  “Would you like to try that again?” she asked.

  “Not if you’re going to slap me again.”

  She didn’t. This time she whacked my stomach and I returned to the ground. I had never been hit that hard. It left me breathless and wide-eyed, and it wasn’t even a punch.

  “We were childhood friends before you disappeared after your father’s execution. I thought we were best friends, but you vanished, cut us all out, so clearly I was wrong. What, did you think your old life ceased to exist after your father died?”

  I mumbled something, squinting at her, hoping her appearance would trigger my memory. She was shorter than most Hollow-born women, had three stars tattooed behind her left ear, and there was something about how her brown hair was twirled upward in a messy bun that seemed familiar. Was it similar to one of the styles Gwen sometimes put her own hair in?

  “Don’t try to claim that you’ve forgotten me because of Fabrications either,” she said. “Treyvon would have mentioned it, or someone would’ve noticed if you used them involuntarily. Almost all Fabrications are visual in nature.”

  “Besides the ones that aren’t, which I still wouldn’t know about.”

  “Do you want me to hit you again?” she asked.

  I didn’t, so I considered my next words carefully. Despite having no idea who she was, I said, “I’m sorry.”