The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Tyler Whitesides

  Cover design by Lauren Panepinto

  Cover illustration by Ben Zweifel

  Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Map by Serena Malyon

  Author photograph by Jamie Younker

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  First Edition: December 2020

  Simultaneously published in Great Britain by Orbit

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Whitesides, Tyler, author.

  Title: The last lies of Ardor Benn / Tyler Whitesides.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Orbit, [2020] | Series: Kingdom of Grit; book 3

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020014350 | ISBN 9780316520324 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780316520317

  Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.H58485 L37 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020014350

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-52032-4 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-52029-4 (ebook)

  E3-20201021-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part I Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part III Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part IV Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part V Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  Extras Meet the Author

  Also by Tyler Whitesides

  To Dean and Wally

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  PART I

  Life should ever point us to the Homeland, though each day is not without its mighty tribulations. Though we struggle in a line, the circle saves, and the sphere governs all.

  —Wayfarist Voyage, vol. 3

  That great red eye foretells with clarity, recalls with wisdom, and perceives the present as in one still moment.

  —Ancient Agrodite poem

  CHAPTER

  1

  Ardor Benn stumbled on the hem of his sea-green Islehood robes. Well, wasn’t that befitting? He might have chuckled to himself, if there hadn’t been so many people watching.

  The Char was as bustling as usual, though the day carried a chill uncommon to summer. A reminder that, although it was the Third Cycle, spring wasn’t a distant memory.

  Still, Ard wasn’t cold. In fact, he probably would have been comfortable wearing nothing beneath his Islehood robes. But he’d learned pretty quickly that free-flying was frowned upon in the Mooring. And now things were awkward with Isless Shora, and Isle Ton couldn’t look him in the face, and he’d earned his second visit to Cove 1 for remediation from the Prime Isle… Anyway, today proved it was a lesson well learned, since Ard needed a belt beneath his robes to strap on his holsters.

  There was a crowd waiting at Oriar’s Square—mostly working class Landers who’d caught wind of today’s showdown and wanted to see it unfold for themselves. They parted as Ard approached, a few holding up pendants of the Wayfarist anchor to show their support. Nice to know he had the blessing of the crowd, but he didn’t let it lull him into false security. If this went like last time, the crowd would just end up getting in the way.

  It’ll go better than last time, Ard tried to convince himself, scanning the mossy flagstone pavers in the center of the square. He was supposed to stand on the one shaped like a tricorn hat. Really, Raek? All the stones were roughly triangular.

  “I said, come alone,” Dalfa Rhed called, cutting through the row of onlookers. She was a wiry woman who barely reached Ard’s shoulder. One of her front teeth was missing, and she spit through the black hole of its absence.

  “I am alone,” Ard reassured her.

  Dalfa pointed at the throng surrounding them. There must have been fifty people already. “What’s all this?”

  “Citizens of Beripent, enjoying a summer’s afternoon,” Ard answered. “You can’t have expected me to close the Char. I’m only a humble Isle.”

  “Cut the slag,” she said. “You’re Ardor Benn. Criminal ruse artist.”

  “Reformed,” Ard said. He wasn’t trying to hide his past. “Or at the very least, retired.”

  This earned him a chuckle from the crowd. Little comments like that only helped to build the image he was developing. There was a reason Ard had a waiting list of people who wanted to see him for spiritual guidance at the Mooring. Holy Isle Ardor Benn was something of a novelty—a legendary criminal turned pious.

  “I got your request to meet.” Ard held out his arms, the wide robe sleeves hanging like curtains. “What can I do for you?”

  Instead of answering him directly, Dalfa turned to the crowd. “This man defiles the Islehood robes with his Settled lies! Five years ago, he gained access to my chateau in northern Strind, posing as a nobleman looking to expand his interests.”

  “That’s a little vague,” Ard cut in. “What was I doing, exactly?”

  Dalfa spit again, glaring at him. “It slips my memory.”

  Ard sighed. She was too smart to confess to counterfeiting Ashings in front of a crowd. There might be Regulators observing the exchange from the peripheries.

  “The point is,” Dalfa continued, “while I thought we were engaged in honest business, Ardor Benn was actually plotting to rob me!”

  Ard could see that her punchline didn’t land with the impact she’
d hoped. The crowd hardly seemed surprised. Most of them had probably read about worse in the official Letters of Apology that Ardor Benn had written after the queen had pardoned him.

  It was by no means a complete summary of his decade of rusing. Many of his targets had been other criminals who Ard had decided would rather not be apologized to, for fear of drawing the Reggies’ attention. Really, he was doing them a favor by keeping quiet.

  But he’d worked hard on the letters he had written, choosing words that technically apologized for his crimes, but never for his cleverness in committing them.

  “He left my chateau,” continued Dalfa in what seemed to be a more calculated attempt to shock the onlookers, “went directly to the public treasury, and withdrew a thousand Ashings in my name!”

  This did earn a reaction. Because, well, a thousand Ashings. That sum was far more than these citizens would see in a year.

  “Don’t let it shake your trust in the public treasuries,” Ard assured the throng. “A withdrawal requires all kinds of paperwork, two signatures authenticated against the ones in the treasury’s books, a wax seal with a notary’s signet stamp…”

  “Then how’d you do it?” someone called from the crowd.

  Ard scratched his head. “I don’t recall. Dalfa?”

  Her face was twisted into an ugly sneer, and he knew he’d pushed her too far to admit it now.

  “Oh, that’s right!” Ard said in mock recollection. “You signed the paperwork and had a notary present for the seal—”

  “I thought I was signing something else,” Dalfa yelled.

  Ard smiled at the onlookers. “And that, my friends, is why it’s always important to read the fine scribing.”

  The cocking sound of a Slagstone gun hammer returned Ard’s attention to Dalfa. She had a Roller leveled at his chest, not a drib of amusement on her face. Ard, too, felt suddenly less amused. The public setting was supposed to avoid all this threatening and gun-pointing.

  Ard held up his hands, a somber look on his face and his tone to match. “You can read my apology in the official letter I addressed to you,” he said slowly. He certainly wasn’t going to apologize again.

  “I don’t care about your apology,” Dalfa said, waving the Roller. The wiser citizens in the crowd were repositioning themselves to avoid the line of fire. “I want my Ashings back.”

  “I paid you in full,” Ard said. Sparks, this was shaping up to be just like last time. That was what happened when old enemies learned of his official pardon. The little rats were hungry to exploit the fact that the legendary Ardor Benn had gone clean.

  “I paid you all back,” he insisted. Well, everyone mentioned in the Letters of Apology, at least. “Do you really think the Islehood would let someone with criminal debts join their—”

  “You’re not part of the Islehood!” Dalfa bellowed. “You’re a ruse artist. And this”—she gestured at his holy attire—“is nothing but an elaborate ruse for reasons only Homeland knows.”

  “Come on, Dalfa. Have a little faith.” He might still be able to diffuse the situation. “You know my old reputation. I was a busy criminal. Would I really sit in the Mooring for over a year with nothing to show for it?”

  “I know you to be patient, too,” she said, not lowering the gun, “if the payout is big enough.”

  “Are you aware of my agreement with Her Majesty?” Ard asked. It would be good for the people to hear it, too.

  “Queen Abeth Agaul employed you—a known criminal—to find her missing son and heir to the crown,” Dalfa said.

  “Which I did,” answered Ard. Never mind that the poor lad had promptly been shot on his brand-new throne.

  “Whatever deal she offered you after that was clearly swayed by Her Majesty’s feelings of gratitude for what you’d done.”

  “Questioning our crusader monarch is grounds for treason,” Ard said. “Queen Abeth has accomplished more good in two years than many kings and queens do in a lifetime.”

  The crowd murmured its approval. Queen Abeth had always been well loved, even as an expatriate of Termain’s Archkingdom. She was the woman who seemed to have endured it all—the assassination of her husband and son, the exiling from a kingdom she had been groomed to rule, her own supposed assassination in the streets of Beripent. Abeth Ostel Agaul had risen through it all.

  Ard hadn’t been one bit surprised when the new Prime Isle had decided to instate her as a crusader monarch. Like King Pethredote had been, Abeth was a placeholder ruler, not allowed to marry or produce an heir, working closely with the Prime Isle to establish stability across the islands until a decision could be reached about a new ruling bloodline.

  “As payment for my services,” Ard explained, “the good queen pardoned my crimes on the condition that I don’t commit another. I made my apologies, paid my restitutions… Why would I jeopardize this arrangement just to slight you?”

  “And if the pardoning wasn’t enough,” said Dalfa, “I heard the queen paid you a pretty Ashing, to boot.”

  It was true. And Dalfa Rhed was the third person to try to take advantage of this. Never mind that Ard had already paid her back. Now that he was wealthy and lawful, it gave her the perfect opportunity to leverage his new reputation for more Ashings.

  “So how about you do the right thing?” Dalfa said. “Prove your honesty to these people and pay up.” She finally holstered her gun, probably realizing how much it looked like she was threatening him.

  “I’d be happy to produce proof of my payment,” Ard said. “The receipts are in my cubby at the Mooring.”

  They were actually under his bed in his apartment in the Northern Quarter. He didn’t keep anything of true value in his Mooring cubby. Too many Holy Isles disagreed with his admittance into the Islehood. There was no telling what lengths they’d take to get him expelled.

  “Receipts that you could easily forge or falsify,” Dalfa said. “As you’ve already proven.”

  Ard shrugged. “Well, I’m not paying you twice. If you’re determined to investigate this further, perhaps you should contact a private inspector. I’d happily refer you to one I’ve used in the past…”

  “Anyone will do the right thing if a Regulator is twisting their arm,” said Dalfa. “But this is a matter of character.”

  “Yours, or mine?” Ard asked.

  Half a dozen fellows suddenly appeared through the crowd, taking up positions behind Dalfa Rhed. Had they been there a moment ago? Surely, Ard would have noticed such ugly-looking sons of guns. They seemed happy to show off the Rollers on their hips, and one went so far as to crack his beefy knuckles.

  “Hey, now.” Ard held out his hands. “I know northern Strind is still a bit of a wild frontier, but you’re in Beripent now. We take our laws seriously.”

  “We know the laws,” said Dalfa. “And it’s well within our rights to haul a suspicious character to the nearest Reggie Outpost.”

  That threat was barely even veiled. He wouldn’t make it to the Outpost. Once Dalfa’s thugs had him away from the crowd, it would be lights-out for good.

  “Suspicious character?” Ard glanced down at the flagstone pavers. Aha! That one looked a bit like a tricorn hat. He took a large step sideways, positioning himself in the middle of the flat stone with his feet at shoulder width, knees slightly bent.

  “I don’t believe it’s lawful for a Holy Isle to carry guns concealed beneath his robes,” said Dalfa, pointing at his midsection.

  “Who says I’m wearing anything under this?” Ard slipped his hand into the pocket of his robes, fingers wrapping around a cool glass vial.

  “Sparks, I hope I don’t find out,” she answered. “I’ll let the Regulators sort that out once we get you to the Outpost.” Dalfa raised her hands and the six muscled men lumbered forward.

  Showtime.

  Ard dropped to his knee on the paver, pulling his fist from his pocket and smashing the vial of Ignition Grit against the flat rock beneath him. The chip of Slagstone inside the vial sparked on impa
ct, consuming the green liquid solution in a short-lived detonation cloud.

  The Ignition Grit did its job as calculated. The brief cloud detonated the loose Void Grit that Raek had placed beneath the triangular paver. The result was a rush of wind that propelled the flat rock straight into the air like a flying platform. There was only one problem.

  Ardor Benn was kneeling on the wrong stone.

  He fell sideways, bits of loose rock and soil pelting him in the face as the stone paver in front of him soared up. He cursed as his ride went skyward without him, but the sudden eruption had still been enough to knock back the goons and disperse the crowd of innocent citizens.

  Ard’s original overwrought escape plan was shot. He was supposed to have ridden the paver into the sky, grabbing a thick rope that Raek had strung between two treetops directly overhead. He could have hung there for a moment like fresh laundry on a line, before cutting the rope so he could swing out of Oriar’s Square like a swashbuckler.

  Well, now it was time to improvise.

  Ard sprang to his feet, yanking up the front of his robes unceremoniously and drawing his twin Rollers. The Prime Isle would give him another reprimand for this, but it wouldn’t be serious. Ard knew Olstad Trable secretly enjoyed having a celebrity in the Islehood.

  The nearest thug lunged at him, a knife in one hand and a Singler in the other. Ard baited him forward. One step. Two steps. Okay, that was far enough. This meathead clearly didn’t spend much time thinking, since he’d forgotten one of the world’s most basic truths—Things that go up typically come down.

  The flat paver stone took him straight over the head with a crunching sound that made Ard’s stomach turn. How was that for a tricorn hat? Oh, things were as bad as they could get now, with a dead man between him and Dalfa. One of the other men cracked off a shot, but the ball went wide. Retreating across the Square, Ard shot twice in response. He intentionally aimed low, letting the Roller balls chip the stone ground with hopes of deterring his enemies from chasing. He really didn’t want to shoot anyone. Prime Isle Trable would have a hard time justifying that.