The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Just the sniffles,” Tobey said. “She’s holed up out back of Genni’s place, sleeping it off.”

  Ard held up a paper bag with spots of grease bleeding through the sides and bottom. “I brought you something.”

  The little boy set down his ball of twigs and crossed to Ard without hesitation, snatching the sack before moving to a bench in front of the healer’s shop. Ard joined him, the wooden boards bending and creaking under his weight. No sooner had they settled in than Ard noticed the twig ball rolling across the street, seemingly of its own accord.

  “Um…” Ard said as the boy reached a grubby hand into the bag, withdrawing a buttery croissant with an ooze of chocolate coming out the ends. “Your twigs are on the move.”

  “That’s just Bunson,” the boy said before taking his first bite.

  “It has a name?” Ard raised an eyebrow.

  “ ’Course,” he replied, setting the bag aside and jumping down from the bench. “He’s my pet.” Tobey picked up the ball and held it out for Ard’s inspection. Peering through the tightly woven twigs, Ard could see a brown-and-white rat inside.

  “Is he stuck in there?” Ard asked.

  Tobey laughed as if the notion were ridiculous. Then he cradled the ball in the crook of one arm while working a straight twig out of the weave. This allowed him to open a little door in the side of the ball, through which he dropped a flaky piece of croissant.

  The rat squeaked its gratitude and Tobey closed the door, pushing the stick in place to hold it shut.

  “Did you make that thing?” Ard asked, impressed with the creative engineering.

  “Yup,” Tobey replied, setting the twig ball down on the street. “I keeps him in there so he don’t get lost.” He walked over and took his seat on the bench again.

  Ard didn’t point out that maybe Bunson wanted to get lost. That rats could fend for themselves in this city better than orphans. But Tobey clearly liked having something to take care of. And Ard wasn’t going to ruin that.

  “Anything to report?” he asked as the boy picked up the pastry bag again.

  “I got inside a few days back,” the kid said proudly.

  “Tobey, no!” Ard scolded, his voice a little harsher than intended. Sparks, maybe it was a terrible idea to employ homeless children. He took a deep breath and tried again. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I hired you and the girls to watch the front of the shop. I’m not paying you extra to get inside.”

  “It’s just hats, Mister Ash,” Tobey said through a mouthful.

  Ard hadn’t told the orphans what to call him, so Kelse had made up her own nickname a few cycles back. Mister Ashing. It stuck with the others, eventually earning a subtler abbreviation. Ard went along with it now. After all, he’d certainly been called a lot worse in his time.

  “They gots all kinds,” Tobey said, swallowing. “Rain caps, sun hats… lots of those three-point kind the rich folk like.”

  “That’s a good report,” Ard said. “You’d almost think it was a hat shop.”

  “Is,” Tobey said, missing the sarcasm as he dove for another pastry. “And I don’t think there’s nothing more to it.”

  “Leave that for me to decide,” Ard said. “You see anything else this week?”

  “Delivery, day before yesterday,” Tobey said.

  “What was it?” Ard asked. “Did it come in a box?”

  “Not this time,” Tobey answered. “Just some cloth. Bundle of straw—what’s that about?”

  “Probably for weaving sun hats,” Ard said. Nothing unusual.

  “Guess that figures,” the boy said. “Marah said she saw a delivery, too. Same night. Just after dark. Couple of big heavy boxes. Like the ones I saw two cycles ago.”

  Ard nodded silently. There was the news he’d been hoping for. Why hadn’t the boy led with that? He didn’t need details—the amount being delivered didn’t actually matter. Ard just needed to make sure that Tall Son’s Millinery was still serving as the storage place.

  “Think they’re hiding something, Mister Ash?” Tobey interrupted his thoughts, a flaky piece of croissant clinging to the corner of his mouth.

  “Nah,” Ard said dismissively. He didn’t think it. He knew what they were hiding.

  Dragon shell.

  After the debacle of Prime Isle Chauster and King Pethredote destroying centuries’ worth of shell, Olstad Trable had been wise not to make the storage site publicly known. It was even a secret in the Mooring, except among a handful of the most trusted Holy Isles. It had actually taken Ard longer than he’d like to admit to figure out its location, though no one suspected him of knowing it—not even Raek.

  “Anything shipping out of the shop?” Ard asked. His biggest concern about the millinery in the Western Quarter was that it would only be a temporary place to store the shell. That, more than anything, was why he’d hired the orphans to keep watch.

  “Between Kelse, Marah, and me,” said Tobey, “counted only two hats sold this week.”

  That was a good sign. Ard had told them to keep an eye out for large boxed shipments going out. “Business is slow for the tall son.”

  “Don’t know why it’s called that,” said Tobey. “Isn’t even a son what runs the place.”

  “What makes you say that?” Ard checked.

  “Only gots two folks working there,” said Tobey. “Fat old woman and a man.”

  “Is he tall?” Ard asked. “Maybe he’s the son.”

  Tobey shook his shaggy head. “Can’t be. He’s too old.”

  Ard chuckled. “That doesn’t mean he’s not a son. Everyone had a father sometime.”

  “Not I,” said Tobey, like it was something to be proud of.

  “Yes. Even you,” Ard said. “I guarantee it.”

  The boy suddenly turned to him, pausing mid-chew with his eyes open wide. “Ashes and soot,” he muttered. “Are you my pops, Mister Ash?”

  Ard cuffed him playfully on the shoulder, downplaying the boy’s utter sincerity.

  “Flames, no, you little street lizard.” Ard dug a pouch of Ashings from his belt. “Now get out of here before I gut you and take back those pastries.”

  Tobey jumped off the bench, rolling the paper bag shut over whatever was left of the croissants.

  “Hup!” Ard cried, flicking an Ashing into the air. The polished dragon scale went just high enough to glint in the setting sunlight. Then Tobey caught it with a grin.

  “Here are some for the girls,” Ard said, passing him two more Ashings. “Make sure those get to them.” He gave the boy a stern look. “And next week, I’m going to start getting suspicious if I don’t see Marah or Kelse.”

  “Don’t worry, Mister Ash,” Tobey said. “Wouldn’t try nothing. Not strong enough to hide the bodies.”

  “Sparks,” Ard muttered as the little boy scooped up his rat ball and ran off. “You’re too young to make jokes like that!” he called as Tobey disappeared around the corner. Ard chuckled to himself and turned one more glance toward Tall Son’s Millinery.

  He needed to tell Raek about this place. Ard knew his partner wanted to steal the dragon shell—all of it—to make sure the Islehood could never make more Visitant Grit. To make sure that no one would be capable of traveling through time and erasing this existence.

  Ard wasn’t convinced that taking the shell was the right move. After all, that was essentially the same thing Pethredote and Chauster had done nearly a decade back. Look at the trouble that had drummed up.

  Maybe it was better to let the Islehood store it. Let them keep tinkering with it. Prime Isle Trable wouldn’t likely succeed in summoning a Paladin Visitant without the knowledge he needed from the Anchored Tome.

  And what was the point in stealing all the shell anyway? The dragons were flourishing now, with more being born every cycle. Steal the shell now, and the Islehood would just get more. Raek was sure they could stay ahead of it, but Ard wasn’t convinced that he wanted to live out his days as a habitual shell thief.

  And t
hen there was the matter of Ard’s studies. If he told Raek about Tall Son’s Millinery, his partner would insist that it was time to leave the Islehood. Ard’s research would come to an abrupt end, and he’d never discover the true meaning behind the Great Egress.

  Not that he was making big strides in that area anyway. After a year of studies, did he understand it any better? The only thing he really knew was that all the signs had come to pass. Signs that predicted a huge departure to the Homeland.

  But which Homeland? A long-lost distant continent? The remnants of an ancient civilization on the bed of the InterIsland Waters? Or the transformation to a more powerful and perfected being like Gloristar?

  A scream cut through Ard’s thoughts. It was close. Familiar. It sounded again, this time punctuated with a cry for help.

  Tobey.

  In a flash, Ard was moving down the quiet street, slipping a loaded Roller from its holster. His other hand clutched a small pot of Barrier Grit as he clenched his jaw and sprang around the corner.

  Hedge Marsool stood in the middle of the narrow lane, his half-bald scalp covered with a black tricorn hat. Tobey’s small figure was grappled tightly against the man’s body, held in place with Hedge’s one good arm. Bunson had fallen to the street, the ball of twigs rolling away as Hedge’s spike hand pressed against Tobey’s back.

  “Let him go,” Ard said, keeping his voice calm. He couldn’t help but picture the man holding that cat underwater in the Be’Igoth. Skewering a helpless street orphan seemed like the next step.

  “But I caught him stealing,” Hedge said pragmatically.

  “What did he take?” Ard asked.

  Hedge reached out a toe and kicked the greasy paper bag that Tobey had dropped to the stones. “Your dessert.”

  Ard lowered his gun, risking a step forward. But he didn’t fool himself into thinking that the situation was actually diffused. “He’s not a thief. I gave the boy some food.”

  “And the Ashings?” Hedge asked, spreading the three coins between his fingers like a performer in the Char.

  “What can I say,” Ard remarked. “I was feeling charitable tonight.”

  “Pandering to the beggars…” Hedge said. “What does that teach them? Like feeding a stray. Don’t know about you, but I’d like to keep the Western Quarter a nice place.” He flexed and Tobey let out a scream.

  “Stop!” Ard shouted, raising his Roller again. “The kid is just passing through. Let him go.”

  Hedge tilted his head, ugly face darkly shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. “And here I thought the boy watched these streets for you.”

  Ard felt the grip of hopelessness reaching out for him, remembering the kind of adversary Hedge Marsool had become. Unbeatable.

  “Fine,” Ard spit. “I’ve been paying the boy.”

  “Why?” Hedge asked. “What’s around here that strikes your fancy?”

  Ard shrugged, keeping his gun up. “I’m sure you already know.”

  “That’s not how it works,” he said. “But I could find out easily enough.”

  Not how it works? This only supported Ard’s hypothesis that Hedge’s ability to see into the future was not omniscient. It was reliant on something. He remembered the broken glass vial in the Be’Igoth. If it was Grit, Ard needed to make sure his enemy didn’t detonate any right now.

  “He’s watching the hat shop!” Tobey blabbed, his face turned sideways against Hedge’s chest.

  The crippled man glanced back down the street toward Tall Son’s Millinery. “Got your eye on a new cap?”

  “I’ve never really been a hat guy,” Ard said, trying to stall. Anything to keep that pike from killing the boy. “I mean, I’d love a big tricorn like yours, but I don’t think I could pull it off. As a fashion statement, you understand?”

  “Slinking around behind my back,” muttered Hedge. “Keep that up and you won’t have a thinker to put your new hat on.”

  “That’s why you followed me?” Ard said. “More threats?”

  “Followed?” cried Hedge. “You forget. I always know where you’ll be.”

  “Then you’re just here to prove a point?” Ard said. “I’ll consider this a reminder.”

  “I’m here to kill two birds with one stone,” said Hedge.

  Homeland, Ard prayed. Don’t let one of those birds be Tobey.

  “I wanted to have a little chat about the job,” Hedge said. “At the same time, you tell me your obsession with the millinery.”

  “And the boy?” Ard said. “What part does he play in your big plans?”

  “He stops you from trying to shoot me,” said Hedge.

  Fair enough. At this distance, hitting Tobey was too great a risk.

  “If the boy is only here for your protection,” said Ard, slowly clicking down his Roller’s hammer as he lowered the gun, “then I’ll put down my weapons and you let him go. You and I can talk to each other like civilized men.”

  “Civilized!” Hedge chuckled. “That would require a good amount of pretending from both of us.”

  “Sure.” Ard slowly holstered his Roller and unbuckled his Grit belt. With overly exaggerated movements, he set them in the street and took a step backward, fully realizing how vulnerable he’d just made himself. But his own safety wasn’t really in question here. Hedge wouldn’t kill his own employee. At least not until the job was done.

  “Now, release the kid,” Ard said.

  Hedge beckoned with his pike arm. “Come closer.”

  Ard stepped over his weapons and approached the man, stopping at arm’s length. Beneath Hedge’s long brown coat, Ard could see a well-stocked Grit belt—a Roller holstered on the right, an array of clay Grit pots nestled in hardened leather pouches, and something else. Something Hedge Marsool should not have had…

  Hedge’s scarred face slowly twisted into a smile. He grunted, thrusting his pike arm through the back of Tobey’s shirt.

  Ard cried out, lunging for him. He barreled into the awful man, pawing desperately as he tried to grab Hedge’s arm.

  But Hedge Marsool merely laughed. He let go of Tobey, who, to Ard’s surprise, did not slump to the ground. Instead, the boy jumped away with a yelp. In relief, Ard saw that Hedge’s spike had merely torn through the urchin’s ragged shirt, leaving not so much as a scratch on his skin.

  Tobey scampered around the corner, tripping once as he scooped up his pet rat, the twig ball having gotten stuck in a pothole of a missing cobblestone. Then the poor kid dashed away, never looking back, his bare feet slapping the street.

  “Walk with me,” Hedge said, shrugging away from Ard.

  Ard cast a glance at his own belt and guns lying in the street. The poacher must have noticed, because he added. “Fine gear, but nobody’s going to take it. The street is ours for now.”

  Well, that explained the lack of foot traffic for such a lovely evening. Hedge’s goons must have blockaded both ends of the street.

  “The millinery,” Hedge said. “Why is it important to you?”

  Ard cleared his throat. “It’s personal,” he began. “I’d rather not—”

  “I like what you did with the Be’Igoth,” Hedge cut him off unexpectedly.

  “Um… thanks?” Ard said. He wasn’t surprised to learn that Hedge had stopped by the soakhouse while Ard wasn’t there. After all, the King Poacher had the run of Tofar’s Salts. As far as secret hideouts went, Ard realized it was their least secure, since their evil employer actually had a key.

  “I assume you drained the bath before you floored it over?” Hedge asked.

  Ard took the question as a good sign. It meant that Hedge hadn’t noticed the trapdoor, either on his own, or using his ability to predict the future.

  “We had it drained, yes,” answered Ard. “Though I don’t know how they removed all that water.” This comment would lead Hedge to believe that he didn’t know about the sluice gate drain, Ard’s secret escape route.

  “You realize what a leech you are to my business?” Hedge said. “Ev
ery day you’re in the Be’Igoth means Trothians aren’t. That’s Ashings down the drain.”

  “You said we could use it—”

  “Forever? No. I expected you to be making better progress in getting my dragon.”

  “We’ve actually been making great headway,” Ard countered.

  “Ho, really?” Hedge’s mouth twisted in a grin. “Last I heard, you were being held in a hole on Ra Ennoth waiting for the seawater to fill your lungs.”

  “All part of the plan,” Ard said. “They let me go eventually. I knew they would.”

  “There are no dragons on the Trothian skals.” Hedge stopped walking. His tone was unamused.

  “We were just doing things in the order you specified,” Ard replied. “You made it clear that we needed to secure a space for the dragon before we moved it off Pekal. Baroness Lavfa’s demands sent us to Ra Skal. We got what we needed.”

  “Then why haven’t I seen the agreement for Lavfa’s property in Helizon?” Hedge demanded.

  “Well, we didn’t get it yet,” Ard said. “We have her payment. We’re just waiting to deliver it.”

  “Waiting?” Hedge snapped. “I did not hire you to wait.”

  “Technically, ‘hiring’ us would imply that there’ll be some kind of payment,” Ard dared.

  “Not all payments are in Ashings, son,” said Hedge. “I’ll uphold my part.”

  Not to transform your men into Glassminds, Ard thought. How kind of you. He would have said it aloud to almost anyone else, but Hedge Marsool was not to be trifled with.

  “I find myself in a delicate position,” Ard explained. “I was the one who met with Baroness Lavfa, so I need to be the one to deliver the goods she asked for. Unfortunately, I can’t exactly go galavanting over to Talumon right now.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m in a bit of hot water with the Prime Isle right now,” Ard said. “Well, maybe just uncomfortably warm water. You see, Trable didn’t exactly sign off on having me go to the Trothian islets. In fact, the whole thing sort of reflected poorly on him. When I got back, he should have pulled me into remediation, but I’ve already had too many warnings and that would have gotten me suspended from the Islehood. Trable’s a good guy and he didn’t want that to happen—especially since so many people were paying attention after the Trothians released me. Instead, we reached another agreement.”