CHAPTER

4

Tofar’s Salts was noisier than Ard had expected, exuberant shouts and splashes reaching his ears as he approached the soakhouse along Tassel Street.

The hubbub implied good business, though. Ard knew surprisingly little about the ritual, despite having seen Trothians soaking in the harbors all his life. He understood that it had to be done with regularity to keep their blue skin smooth and healthy. Given the Trothian ancestry on the seabed, this connection to the water made sense.

Participating in the soak was considered an Agrodite religious practice. So by default, every Trothian was considered an Agrodite. As such, they were barred from becoming Wayfarists, which excluded them from certain societal benefits.

It was a broken situation, with fault falling on both sides. A stubbornness that kept a wedge between Wayfarists and Agrodites—and thus, Landers and Trothians. Would things change if they knew the truth about their joint ancestry?

Ard glanced over his shoulder one last time, but Raek was gone. His big friend would be lurking around the soakhouse perimeter, a Regulation-issue brass whistle on a chain around his neck. He’d blow it in a specific pattern—long, short, long—to let Ard know if it was time to get out of there.

The structure was simple but unique—a wide pavilion enclosed by a wooden fence rising almost halfway to the roof. Through the open gate, Ard caught a glimpse inside. It looked like a maze of wooden walls, the dividers partitioning off deep pools of salt water.

“Can I help you?” A voice turned Ard’s attention to a Trothian woman standing just inside the gate. She was thin and willowy, with long braided hair falling down her back. Her ever-vibrating eyes studied Ard with a twinge of impatience, but not wholly without intrigue.

“Yes, um…” Ard flipped open the note in his hand to double-check the words. “Is this Tofar’s Salts?”

“It is,” she answered, speaking Landerian with no detectable accent.

“Sounds like business is good today,” he said in an attempt to soften her expression.

“Our business is our own,” she said. “This is an Agrodite place of ritual and healing. We do not allow muckmus inside.”

Ard held up his hand. “I mean no disrespect in coming here. I’m supposed to meet someone. Could you please tell the Be’Igoth that Ardor Benn is here?”

Her thin face cracked into a smile and then a full snicker. She called to another Trothian woman who was passing by, exchanging a few brief words in their native language. Then both women had a good laugh that seemed very much at Ard’s expense.

He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I probably didn’t pronounce that right.” He held out the note for her inspection, before suddenly remembering that Trothians couldn’t see the written word. Their unique eyes perceived the energy of things, but text was washed out on flat surfaces.

“Your pronunciation was fine,” she replied. “But Be’Igoth cannot see anyone.”

“But I was told to come here and ask to see him,” Ard said.

She laughed again. “And I was told to expect you. But it is past noon.”

“Just a few minutes,” Ard said dismissively. “But I’m sure Be’Igoth will understand.” Arriving late was almost like Ard’s signature of authenticity.

“Be’Igoth understands nothing.” She was very amused by something. “Because Be’Igoth is not a person.”

“Not a…” Ard trailed away. “Then what is it?”

“I will show you.” But instead of leaving, she held out her hand expectantly. “Three Ashings for the week. Five Ashlits for a single day.”

“Oh, I’m not going to soak,” Ard said.

“No,” she replied, still beckoning. “You are not.”

Ard nodded, digging into his Grit belt for his money pouch. He hadn’t brought his Rollers as a show of good faith, but he had a loaded Singler tucked into his vest.

He plucked out five metal Ashlits and dropped them into the waiting blue hand. The woman rubbed her fingers over the coins to feel for the marks and then plunged them into a pocket on her loose, flowing smock. Ard followed her closely into the soakhouse, wisely keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn’t accidentally say something offensive.

A nice summer breeze kept the pavilion fresh, passing over the exterior fence and the interior maze-like dividers. The woman led Ard down a narrow wooden walkway in the middle of the floor alongside a deep central canal, where Ard saw several Trothians swimming.

From time to time, Ard caught a glimpse of one of the pools behind a partition. They were large enough to comfortably accommodate a dozen people. The baths were maybe four feet deep, recessed directly into the ground with canals running under the walkways to connect them.

Ard saw Trothian men, women, and children—many of them lying completely underwater. The noise wasn’t yelling, Ard discovered. Rather, certain groups would burst out in chant-like singing. Cupping their hands, they would strike the water’s surface in complex overlapping percussive patterns.

Walking the damp planks, Ard was suddenly struck by the depth of the Trothian culture. Their bright noise was a far cry from the silent reverence of the Mooring, but both were supposedly religious sites of worship. And despite the difference in behavior, Ard suddenly saw some startling similarities.

The soakhouse, with its interconnected pools, was not unlike the waterway of the Mooring. There, Landers took rafts across the waters, seeking dry Coves for spiritual healing and guidance. Here, the Trothians swam the central canal, ducking into shallower pools for their restoration.

It’s because we all came from the same place, Ard thought. Isle Halavend had seen it, even if he hadn’t understood. When Lyndel and the old Isle had embarked on their joint study, they had found a shocking number of correlations between their seemingly contrastive religions.

“The presence of your kind during fajumar makes many of my people uncomfortable,” the woman explained.

“Fajumar?”

“It is our word for the saltwater soak,” she said. Ard noticed a Trothian woman and child dive under the water’s surface at the sight of him. “Your queen was right to open all borders to us again, but Lander offenses against Trothians in Beripent are not easily forgotten.”

Ard nodded. “I just want to make it clear that I’ve always been on your side. What Pethredote did to your people was terrible. And Termain was no better. Queen Abeth is doing her best to set things right.”

“That is what happens when you let a woman rule.”

The narrow boardwalk reached its end near the back of the pavilion, where a genuine stone building rose to join the roof, unlike the wooden fence on the other three sides. In a way, it looked like this was a home, and the rest of the pavilion was some kind of extended covered patio.

“The Be’Igoth,” the woman said, gesturing to the closed wooden door. The word sounded a lot smoother coming out of her mouth. “Or in your language, the hot bath.”

Ah. He suddenly understood how foolish he must have sounded, insisting that he had an appointment with the hot bath.

The woman reached out her thin arm and knocked a quick rhythm on the door. It was answered almost immediately by a large Trothian man wearing nothing but a tight pair of shorts. The black hair on his chest was thick and curly, half concealing the pendant that dangled at the end of his gold necklace.

The man and the woman conversed briefly in Trothian before the big fellow stepped aside and gestured for Ard to enter.

“Thanks,” Ard said to the woman.

“Geppel,” she said by way of introduction. “I assume we’ll be seeing more of each other in the near future.” She winked one blurry eye in a distinctly Landerian gesture, then turned and walked away, leaving Ard to puzzle over her comment in the doorway.

“Come in, come in!” beckoned a gruff voice from inside the dark building. Ard casually checked to make sure his Singler was accessible, then stepped inside.

It felt like walking into a cave, the midday sun completely blotted out inside the windowless structure. Hot, heavy steam filled the expansive room, making Ard feel instantly sticky as he squinted.

The conditions wouldn’t be a problem for the unique Trothian vision, but Ard felt half blind. At least someone had detonated a few orbs of Light Grit. They hovered in the steam like stars in a midnight fog.

The vapor in the room was rising from the pool at its center. It looked deeper than any of the ones he’d seen outside, but it took up only about half of the room. The rest of the floor was open, the high ceiling supported by stone pillars roughly hewn with square corners. A rack of Heat Grit pots lined the back wall and on both sides were individual stalls with privacy curtains for disrobing.

Ard startled at movement through the mist. The person had likely been there all along, visibility was so poor in here. Ard took a step closer, hand close to the Singler in his vest. There was something familiar about the hunkering mound of man crouched at the edge of the bath. The figure raised an ugly face, and Ard saw him clearly in the glimmer of the Light Grit.

“Hedge Marsool.” Ard whispered the name. The King Poacher himself. He felt a chill, at odds with the sticky humidity.

“And here I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

The man was an alarming sight, the left side of his face terribly disfigured with thick scars that looked like thin crisscrossing ropes of red and white. A leather patch concealed his eye on that side, and sparse brown hair grew only on the right half of his head, hanging almost to his shoulder.

His left arm was missing from the elbow down, and in its place he wore a metal spike, its length dewy from the steam, catching a shine in the soft light. Crouched at the edge of the pool, his good hand was plunged forward into the warm water and it looked like he was holding…

“Sparks.” Ard shuddered. “Is that a cat?”

“Just a scrappy little Tom,” Hedge Marsool said. He released his grip and the small animal’s lifeless form bobbed to the surface, dark fur matted. “Mousing around the wrong soakhouse. You gotta hold them mewlers down a long time before the bubbles stop.”

Ard took a step back, horrified by the barbarity. Yeah. This was the Hedge Marsool he remembered.

“Keeps me sharp, though,” Hedge continued, rising from his crouch with a groan and an audible crack of his battered bones. “Good to feel the scales tip from life to death. Makes a man know what he’s got. And what he could lose.”

“Can’t imagine the soaking Trothians appreciate that, though.” Ard gestured at the drowned carcass.

“The Be’Igoth isn’t a traditional Agrodite practice,” Hedge said. His voice was somewhat strained, like his vocal cords might slip out of his throat at any moment. “You take a hearty dip in the InterIsland Waters during the winter cycles and you’ll feel it cold enough to perk the titties of a dead man. But the cold don’t bother the Trothians like it does us. That’s why I find the hot bath so curious.”

As he spoke, he moved toward Ard with his trademark jolting gait, a battered shell of a thin man draped in a damp cloak, a leather courier’s bag over one shoulder. Nothing about his unfortunate appearance was too shocking to Ard. The man had looked this way the last time Ard had seen him—which was the only time. After that job, he and Raek had put the name Hedge Marsool on their personal blacklist, deeming him far too dangerous to be worth their while.

This was the man who had left the note in the wall of the ruins? The man who had predicted Ard’s unpredictable escape? Deep inside, Ard had hoped it would be an old ally—or at least some enigmatic stranger. Hedge Marsool was neither.

“When the first inland soakhouses were set up during Pethredote’s reign, their construction required the oversight of a Lander landlord,” Hedge continued. “They were the ones who demanded a building where the salt water could be kept hot. Made sense to them, and many of the Trothians found the experience more soothing on the blues. Good Agrodites would never debase themselves in the Be’Igoth, but the less religious Trothians are willing to pay extra for the novelty of soaking in hot water. I think that’s why I like it. The room we’re standing in is a rare hybrid of cultures. An illegitimate child, born of Trothian necessity and the overexertion of Lander control.”

“Look, if this is about the gem cutter job…” Ard began. “I swear to you… that goat got a hold of the bag and shook those diamonds everywhere. We recovered what we could, but—”

Hedge held up his spike hand. “I didn’t bring you here to shake you down for Ashings. I’m making plenty from Tofar’s Salts.”

“Wait. You’re running this place?” Ard asked.

“One of my many enterprises,” the crippled man said. “It’s Ashlits to Ashings what I’ve done with this tub. The soak brings them in to Tofar’s Salts, but I like to think they stay for the drinks.”

“Drinks?” Ard said.

“Oh, yes. The Trothians can order food and drink from the comfort of their piss-water pools,” said Hedge. “Like a genuine tavern.”

“But with drowned cats.” Ard glanced once more at the animal carcass.

“Oh, my people refresh the water every other day.” Hedge’s face cracked into a crooked smile. “Or at least, that’s what I advertise.”

Ard cast a glance at the large Trothian man beside him. Hedge’s comment didn’t seem to faze him, his blue face staring impassively into the mist.

“Don’t worry about Eggat.” Hedge pointed to the Trothian. “He doesn’t speak a word of Landerian. But he and his brother are a fine piece of muscle.”

Without so much as a hiccup, Hedge Marsool switched into Trothian, speaking to Eggat in long fluid sentences. That was the trouble with Hedge Marsool. He was terribly smart, but his brains were backed by a measure of ruthlessness that Ard found quite distasteful.

When Hedge had finished speaking, the Trothian nodded, sunlight flashing into the room like a beacon from a lighthouse as he opened and shut the door behind him.

“Eggat will stand guard outside,” Hedge explained. “We wouldn’t want anyone pressing an ear to our conversation.”

“What conversation would that be?” Ard asked.

“The one where I hire you to steal me a dragon,” Hedge Marsool declared.

“Sorry, what?”

“Draaaaagon.” The man strung out the word patronizingly. “Mature sow. Alive and healthy. You’ll bring her to me.”

“Here?” Ard cried, not bothering to hide the incredulity in his voice. “Live dragon… Does the name Grotenisk the Destroyer ring any bells?”

Hedge chuckled slowly, as if the action pained him. “You’re not going to bring her to Beripent, you wet goom,” he said. “There’s no place for her here. She’ll be lodging in Helizon until I’m ready for her.”

“Ready for her to do what, exactly?” he pressed. “You planning to raze the university? Destroy Talumon’s prize city?” Ard scoffed. “Besides, why would the King Poacher need me?”

“Look at my body, Ardor.” He held out his arms. “Pekal is a healthy man’s game.”

“From what I understand, you still have the contacts,” Ard said. “Experienced poachers. Why do you need a ruse artist?”

“My poaching contacts do fine work,” Hedge agreed. “On Pekal.”

“And your smuggling ring gets the goods into the Greater Chain without difficulty,” Ard added, shrugging.

Hedge coughed something up and spit it onto the floor of the Be’Igoth. “I need you because I think it will be… amusing.”

“Forget it.” Ard turned to leave. This was some kind of vengeance hiring for the way Ard had cheated him out of those diamonds. “I’m not helping you with anything.”

“Why haven’t you asked me yet?” Hedge’s question stopped Ard in his tracks. “Why haven’t you asked me how I knew you’d be bashing your way out the back of that historic building in the Char last week?”

Ard swallowed. He’d come here with that sole question eating away at him. But his need to know had dried up the moment he saw it was Hedge Marsool. This man was as clever and conniving as they came.

“How many thugs did you have watching me?” Ard asked.

“None,” he replied.

“Then how did you learn my escape plans?” Ard replied.

“Didn’t,” Hedge said. “We both know that ducking shelter in the Char ruins fell far outside your plans.”

Ard narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t come here to discuss what a clever note-dropper you are. I assumed there’d be a job, and now that I’ve heard it, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but you are interested.” Hedge used his spike arm to make a reprimanding gesture. “That is, if you’d like to stay alive.”

Ard breathed out in disbelief. “Are you threatening me, Hedge? You, of all people, should know I don’t respond well to that.”

“I’ll admit my threats were insufficient last time,” said the scarred man. “But things have changed.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Ard said. “From your pungent stench to my superior intellect.” He turned once more, this time determined to follow through with his exit.

“Be careful,” Hedge said as Ard yanked open the door. “The steps are as slick as a toad’s back from all that Trothian splashing.”

Ard ignored the comment, pushing past Eggat, who seemed to be waiting for a command to pounce. The air outside felt fresh, a wake of steam following him down the stone stairs.

When Ard’s boot hit the third step, he went down, slipping like a clumsy fool and taking a painful knee on the wooden boardwalk. But his heart seemed to fall farther, beating twice as fast when he heard the pained chortle of Hedge Marsool from within the Be’Igoth.

Ard righted himself, tugging self-consciously at his vest. What the burning blazes? Subtly, Ard inspected the slick step. It looked ordinary enough, with a touch of green algae adorning the ever-wet stone. Slippery, to be sure, but Ard had been watching his step.

Sucking in a deep breath, he skipped back into the room, avoiding the slickest step as he passed Eggat.

“How’d you do that?” Ard asked flatly, in no mood for games.

Hedge Marsool had moved to the far wall of the Be’Igoth, his back to Ard as he plucked a pot of Heat Grit from the rack. “I didn’t do nothing,” he replied. “You were the hobbledehoy who slipped. I knew you would, just like I knew you’d retreat into the Char ruins.”

“What are you saying?” Ard whispered, not even sure if his voice was cutting through the steamy air.

Hedge Marsool tinkered with a long pole hanging on the wall beside the rack. A thin rope ran its length, tied to a small metal basket on one end. Hedge loaded the clay pot into the basket, and then removed the pole.

“I told you things have changed,” he said, resting the pole against the shaft of his arm spike. Guiding it this way, he carefully lowered the end with the clay pot into the hot water. “I need a dragon, and you will get her for me.”

Hedge tugged sharply on the rope and Ard saw the pot shatter underwater, the metal basket containing the shards as a fresh cloud of Heat Grit stoked the bath.

“And if I refuse?”

He shrugged, pulling the pole from the pool. “I know where you’ll be. Ha. Even before you do. Haven’t I proven that?”

“You’ve proven nothing,” Ard said, agitated. His history with Hedge Marsool was enough to keep him on edge, but this latest turn of events was putting him over. “All you’ve done is left a note and told me to watch my step. In case you’ve forgotten, before I was a Holy Isle, I was a ruse artist—and a blazing good one. Rule number one: When you want to control someone, show them that you can predict their every move.”

“I can do more than predict your move,” Hedge said. “I can see your future, Ardor Benn.”

“That would be something.” But Ard didn’t dismiss the comment as quickly as he would have liked. He knew firsthand that time travel was possible. But the lies and trickery of Hedge Marsool seemed even more so. “Why don’t we put your claims to the test?”

Hedge leaned the pole against the rack. “What do you propose?”

“Something you couldn’t possibly orchestrate,” said Ard, digging in his pocket. “The flip of an Ashing.” He produced a circular dragon scale—a three-mark.

Hedge tilted his scarred head. “What will this accomplish?” He casually reached his hand into his courier’s bag. “You’ll just whimper foul play when I predict each flip.”

“The Ashing’s mine.” Ard hefted it in his open hand. “I’ll be doing the flipping. I see no way you could cheat.”

Hedge pulled his hand from the bag and Ard thought he saw something glint. He tensed, but the crippled man merely coughed. “Yep. Go on.”

Flicking the Ashing with the edge of his thumb, Ard sent it spinning through the thick air. He caught it, glancing down at his palm to see the outcome.

“Marks up,” Hedge declared.

Ard swallowed. It had indeed landed with the three indentations upward. Without a word, Ard flipped it again.

“Marks up,” repeated Hedge. Again, he was right. Ard sent the scale spinning once more.

“Marks down,” said Hedge. And the Ashing in Ard’s palm had landed just as the man had said.

“Wrong,” Ard lied, using a bit of sleight of hand to turn the Ashing over as he displayed it to Hedge. But Ard’s own heartbeat told the truth he feared. Fifty-fifty chance to guess it right once. But three times in a row?

“What a rascal,” Hedge said, squinting his good eye. “You know I was right. How else could I predict chance?”

“Chance.” Ard stuffed the three-mark Ashing into his pocket. “I would never take a job based on the fact that you guessed right three times in a row.”

“I knew you’d be irked by it,” Hedge said. “You demand more proof.”

Ard nodded, an idea occurring to him. “A test of skill,” he said. “Shooting.”

“Explain.”

“I’ll set up six of those Grit pots—blanks, if you worry about wasting Heat Grit,” said Ard. “I’ll shoot at them and you can predict how many I’m going to hit.”

“Oh,” Hedge said, striding across the Be’Igoth toward the privacy stalls on the left. “Like this?” He pulled back the curtain to reveal six clay Grit pots propped side by side on a low shelf.

Ard’s mouth went dry. What was happening? Maybe he should just leave. “I don’t have a…”

He trailed off as Hedge reached into his vest and produced a Roller. He proffered it from his spike arm, the tip threaded through the trigger guard.

“All right.” Ard accepted the gun. “Why don’t you tell me how many I’m going to hit? And keep in mind that anything less than six is insulting.” He pasted on a cocky smile, but he wasn’t feeling it.

“I won’t say,” replied Hedge. “Influence your shooting, and whatnot. How about I write down the number on a scrap of parchment?” He held out a folded piece, pinched between his index and middle finger. “You can check it after the shots are made.”

“Don’t you need to write the number?” Ard asked.

Hedge’s lips curled in a grin. “Did that before you came in.”

Wordlessly, Ardor Benn took the scrap of paper and tucked it in his pocket. Hedge was playing a mind game with him, that was all. Ard’s reputation would suggest that he’d hit all six. But Hedge would be aware of that, possibly assuming that Ard would intentionally miss one or two in an effort to throw his prediction.

But there was one number that Hedge Marsool couldn’t possibly have guessed.

Ard leveled the Roller and snapped off six shots in rapid succession. Each found its mark, shattering a blank Grit pot. Ard’s ears were ringing, his vision further obscured by the heavy smoke that filled the steamy bath house. But there was one more shot to be made.

Reaching into his vest, Ard withdrew the small piece of paper. But with it came his Singler, snapping off the last shot in Hedge’s direction. The ball went over the man’s shoulder, exploding into another pot of Heat Grit on the rack behind him.

While Hedge stood anchored, not even trembling from the close call, Ard unfolded the paper and glanced down at the single word.

Seven.

His eyes darted up to the thin man, whose chest was heaving with the exhilaration of victory.

“What the blazes?” Ard muttered. “How?”

“Same way I knew you’d be in that ruined building in the Char,” he explained. “Same way I knew you’d flip three marks up. I can see the future. And that’s how I know we’re not alone in here.”

Ard spun around, scouring the spacious Be’Igoth as if it might suddenly turn into an ambush. When he glanced back at Hedge, the man had crossed to the privacy stall next to the one Ard had shot at.

“I believe you already know the other rapscallion I invited to this meeting.” Hedge Marsool pulled back the curtain and Ard found himself staring into the tense face of Quarrah Khai.

Quarrah didn’t run. There was no sense in that. This stranger—Hedge Marsool—obviously didn’t want her dead. Taking a deep breath of hot, misty air, she stepped out of the dressing stall, eyes locked with Ardor Benn.

“Quarrah?” he sputtered. “How did you…? What are you…?”

She gestured at the man with the spike for an arm. “Left me a note, same as you.”

“Righty ho,” said Hedge. “Though it’s a blazing shame you had to break that vase to find it. Worth more in one piece.”

Quarrah stiffened. Who was this creep? Claiming to see into the future? Sparks, she should have guessed Ard would somehow be involved. But judging by the conversation she’d just overheard, he didn’t understand what he was up against, either. Unless he and Hedge were in it together, planning this entire thing to convince her to steal a dragon…

“This room only has one door,” Ard said. “How long have you been in here?”

“Long enough,” she replied. Patience was one of Quarrah’s best qualities, but she didn’t need to go bragging to Ard that she’d been inside the Be’Igoth since dawn.

“You look… good,” Ard said hesitantly, as if he was aware that this wasn’t the time or place for unnecessary compliments. Still, at least he was showing some restraint. Unlike the last time he’d seen her, shortly after he’d joined the Islehood—and what was with his sudden religious proclivities anyway?

Hedge Marsool reached into his courier’s bag, withdrawing a folder of papers. “Documents and orders,” he announced. “Captain Torgeston Dodset sits in command of my largest smuggling ship—the Stern Wake. The vessel can easily hold a mature sow, and with the right paperwork”—he waggled the folder tauntingly—“the captain can get you into and out of any harbor without a cargo inspection.”

“Hold on,” Quarrah said. “We haven’t agreed to take the job.”

“Sure you did,” said Hedge. “What else are you going to do? When you leave Tofar’s Salts, I know where you’ll go. You try to hide, I find you. You try to run, I cut you off.” He glanced at Ard. “You decide to double-cross me, I already know about it.” Then he took a step closer to Quarrah. “You’ve got no idea what you’re up against, dearie.”

Quarrah drew back, his breath reeking of spicy fish. “I think I’ll take my chances,” she said. “You might scare Ard with your mystic abilities, but I’m not so easily hoodwinked—”

“Glassminds,” Hedge said.

“What?” Quarrah and Ard replied in unison.

“That’s what people are calling the creature that Prime Isless Gloristar transformed into.”

“How do you know about—” Ard began.

“Rumors crawl the city,” Hedge cut him off. “But I know better. I’ve got the cure.”

“Cure to what?” Quarrah couldn’t help but think of Lord Dulith’s deranged claim. Hedge Marsool seemed no better.

“Moonsickness,” said Hedge. “ ’Course, you have to catch the poor sap in a cloud of Metamorphosis Grit before the final stage.”

Quarrah felt her heart skip, and Ard sucked in a sharp gasp. Only a handful of people knew about Portsend’s final discovery. How did—

“Digested dragon teeth,” the man went on, “extracted from a mound of Slagstone and processed to powder. Dissolved in a liquid solution with a balance level of negative flat five.”

“Sparks,” Ard whispered.

“I’ve got a few bruisers in mind for a quick transformation,” said Hedge. “Just think how my smuggling business would soar if I had an army with powers like Gloristar had.”

“How did you learn that formula?” Quarrah asked, her voice low.

“Oh, don’t fuss.” Hedge chuckled. “Secret’s safe with me. So long as you get me what I’ve asked for.”

“I, for one, think it sounds like a delightful challenge,” Ard abruptly announced, swiping the folder from Hedge’s hand. “Stealing a dragon, that is.”

Hedge sniffed, turning his spike hand slowly like he might gore Ard where he stood. Then he reached out and took the folder back without any resistance from the ruse artist.

“Smarter than a stray tom, Ardor Benn.” Hedge gave a twisted smile, tucking the folder back into his courier’s bag. “I’ll give you the documents you need to get aboard Captain Dodset’s ship after you secure a place to store the dragon.”

“My contacts in Helizon aren’t—” Ard began.

“I’ll give you the contact,” Hedge cut him off. “There’s a fat old baroness in Helizon by the name of Lavfa. A real ear-sore, but she’s got the space to store the beast.”

“And this baroness will agree to work with us?” asked Quarrah. “She’s a friend of yours?”

“She doesn’t know I exist,” admitted Hedge. “But I understand she’s willing to lease out her land to anyone if the price is right.”

“A price you’ll be fronting?” Ard ventured.

Hedge’s scarred face contorted in a chuckle. “Don’t play with me. They say the queen set you up for life when you signed her little pardon. I’ve heard figures over a million Ashings.”

“Well, they’re clearly exaggerating,” said Ard. “It was only an even million.”

Quarrah glanced at him, aware of the lie. According to Raek, the payment had been half that between both men. Queen Abeth had paid from her personal accounts, but most of her assets had been in the Guesthouse Adagio, which, regrettably, had been blown to bits in their battle against the Realm.

“The cost is yours,” Hedge said. “Along with the negotiation. But I’m a fair man. Consider the Be’Igoth at Tofar’s Salts exclusively yours until you get me that dragon.” He strode between Ard and Quarrah, moving for the exit. “I won’t even pop in to bother you.”

“Thanks,” Ard said, his tone bordering sarcasm. “In my negotiations, I’m sure the baroness will want to know how long we’ll be renting the space. What are your plans for this dragon?”

Hedge laughed—little more than a rasping wheeze, but it must’ve been a laugh because his face was twisted into something like a grin. “You know what they say about you, Benn?”

“Best-smelling ruse artist in the Greater Chain?” Ard joked.

“You stick it in too deep.” Hedge jabbed the air with his spike arm. “Don’t know how to pull it out. Jobs need doing, not explaining.”

Ard raised his hands defensively. “Just tell me how long to rent the blazing property, Hedge.”

“I’ll need the dragon for a full cycle,” he finally said. “Don’t worry your flimsy britches about what happens after that.”

Hedge pulled open the door, and Quarrah saw the bare blue shoulder of the Trothian man standing guard.

“I’ll send in Raekon Dorrel,” Hedge called as an afterthought, carefully limping down the algae-slicked steps. “The Hegger’s currently stuffing his face with a huckleberry turnover from the bakery across the street. That’s what he calls keeping watch.”

And then the door closed, plunging Quarrah and Ard into the steamy dimness of the waning Light Grit in the Be’Igoth.

“Care for a swim?” Ard finally asked, gesturing at the hot pool with the drowned cat. She could tell he was desperately trying to play it cool. Not to explode, like that day in the Char when he’d berated her for not letting him know she was alive after the Old Post Lighthouse had collapsed into the sea.

“Are we really doing this?” Quarrah asked.

“I mean, I was joking. But if you want to take a dip—”

Homeland, he could be annoying sometimes.

“I’m talking about the job, Ard.” Quarrah sighed. She’d been extorted into a job before—when the queen dowager, Fabra Ment, had threatened to distribute a painting of her. At least there had been Ashings that time. In the years since, Quarrah had been living quite comfortably from the payout she’d collected before suspecting Fabra of being the masked leader of the Realm.

“Oh, we’re doing it,” Ard said. “We have to find out how he knows so much.”

“Do you believe him?” Quarrah asked. “About predicting the future?”

Ard shook his head. “No… I don’t know. Maybe. There’s got to be a trick to it.”

“Almost seems like the work of a ruse artist,” she probed. But her suspicion went over Ard’s head in a way that reassured her.

“Hedge Marsool is a lot of things,” he replied, “but I wouldn’t call him a ruse artist. He certainly has the skills to mastermind something as clever as a ruse, but he doesn’t usually attach his face to it, because, well… you saw his face.”

The disfigurement from the burn scars seemed to cause him a lot of pain. “Was he like that when you did the gem cutter job for him?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Ard answered, a distant look on his face.

“How long ago was that?”

“Six or seven years,” he replied. “Before I met you.”

“He’s been operating in Beripent all this time?” Quarrah wondered why his name had never reached her ears. He could have been part of the Realm.

“He covers a lot of the Greater Chain,” said Ard. “But his real reputation is tied to Pekal. They called him the King Poacher. There wasn’t a Harvester on Pekal that didn’t fear him. Then old Hedge tangled with a dragon and his days of running the island came to a sudden end.”

Quarrah felt the tingling of a dark thought in the back of her mind. Maybe it was born of her recent nightmare with Lord Dulith.

“Ard,” she whispered. “What if this is a revenge job?”

“I thought of that. But it’s been so many years since I double-crossed—”

“Not against you,” she cut him off. “What if he wants a live dragon just so he can kill it?”

“He wasn’t after a specific dragon,” Ard said. “He said any mature sow would do.”

And any Moonsick person would do for Lord Dulith. Revenge at that level wasn’t logical. Quarrah had seen how twisted it could make someone. Working for a man like that would be beyond dangerous.

“Once he got back on his feet after the attack,” Ard continued, “Marsool decided to work the other end of the poaching business. He became a notorious fence and know-all regarding dragon-related items. He’s now as much a king of smuggling as he was poaching.”

“What about those papers he had?” Quarrah asked. “You think they’re really worth anything?”

“If we do this, we’ll need a big ship and a willing captain able to convince harbor Regulation to look the other way. I’m not surprised that Hedge has these kinds of connections—especially when it comes to moving things out of Pekal.”

But moving an entire dragon? Alive? Quarrah had single-handedly taken an unfertilized egg from Pekal, but this was going to be infinitesimally more perilous.

“Why would he pick the two of us?” Quarrah asked. “I’m known for stealing things, but usually only things I can pick up. And you… Well, I heard you were out of the rusing business.”

Ard wiped some glistening dampness from his forehead. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m part of the Islehood now. So you don’t have to worry.”

“Worry?” she said. What was he talking about?

“About me, you know…” He gestured awkwardly between them. “It’s just… we can’t be together. That’s a choice I made when I became a Holy Isle.”

She bit back a disbelieving chortle. Was he seriously working this angle with her? She didn’t believe for a minute that Ardor Benn had actually joined the Islehood for a genuine purpose. He was clearly doing a long job. His new robes gave her no assurances that he wouldn’t continue his hopeless attempts at winning her over.

“I’m just saying, if we are going to be working together again,” said Ard, gesticulating more than normal with his hands, “then maybe we should talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” She supposed it was fun to watch him squirm a little.

“Why you left that night,” he said. “After Gloristar fell from the lighthouse. You could have been pardoned. You know Abeth would have done it. Sparks, I almost got her to do it while you weren’t even there.” His breath caught, like he didn’t know which words to spend it on next. “Why didn’t you come back?”

Quarrah wasn’t sure how to respond. The answer to that question wasn’t cut and dry. It was as complex and confusing as her feelings toward him.

“What good is the queen’s pardon for people like us?” she finally settled on saying. Us. Her answer tied the two of them together in a way that visibly pleased Ard. But the look on his face quickly faded into an air of puzzlement.

“It was good for me,” he said. “My entire life has changed.”

“But for how long?” she interrupted. “Living outside the law is in my blood, Ard. And I know it’s in yours, too. The queen’s pardon would have only set me up for a bigger failure in the future.”

Better to keep on with the life I’ve always known, she thought. At least I know I’m good at that.

The door burst open, causing both of them to whirl in surprise. Raek ducked inside, waving his hand through the air and making a sour face at the atmosphere in the Be’Igoth.

“Hedge Marsool!” he cried.

“Yeah,” Ard said, clearly perturbed by the interruption. “We know.”

“He knew right where I was,” Raek continued.

“And let me guess,” said Ard, “he caught you eating a huckleberry turnover.”

Raek wiped self-consciously at the corners of his mouth, as if lingering crumbs had betrayed his appetite.

“Oh, hey, Quarrah,” he finally greeted her.

“Raek.”

It had been only two weeks since she’d seen him. Raekon Dorrel was a supplier unlike any other. Quarrah was completely capable of Mixing her own powdered Grit, but when it came to the new liquid solutions, Raek was her man. Their meetings were always brief, mostly out of fear that Ard would stumble across her like he’d done that day in the Char. Raek had done an excellent job pretending like he hadn’t seen her in a year, but acting was harder for Quarrah.

“We’re dealing with a fun case of extortion, Raek,” said Ard. “Hedge has always been threatening, but he’s upped his game. He knows the formula for Metamorphosis Grit. If we don’t do what he wants, he’ll transform his goons.”

“What?” Raek cried. “He’s bluffing.”

Quarrah shook her head. “He told us the formula.”

“But how did he—”

“Same way he knew everything else, I guess,” said Ard. “He claims he can see the—” He interrupted himself with a snap of his fingers. “Memory Grit! That’s how I would have done it.”

“Done what?” Raek asked.

“Seen the future,” Ard said. “The steam in the room would have made it impossible to notice the cloud. He must have tricked me into doing things so he’d know the outcome.”

Quarrah tilted her head skeptically. Ard was obviously disturbed by Hedge’s claims, but this was grasping at straws. “I was in the room the whole time,” she reminded. “I would have noticed if you’d repeated yourself unknowingly.”

“Not if you were in the Memory cloud, too,” he tried, head bowed, eyes squinted shut as if trying to make sense of it.

“And Memory Grit wouldn’t help him predict the outcome of an Ashing toss,” said Quarrah. “Or the shots you fired.”

“Maybe there was Illusion Grit in the mix,” said Ard. “Maybe the coin in my hand wasn’t what I was actually seeing.”

“You know that’s not how Illusion Grit works,” Quarrah said. It was unlike Ard to ramble so inanely. She imagined it was always like that in his head, but he was usually more careful about screening the words that came out.

“Did either of you detonate liquid Grit in here?” Raek asked, crossing the room and taking a knee.

“No,” Quarrah and Ard replied. She had needed nothing but a pot of Drift Grit to get over the soakhouse’s outer fence and her lock-picking tools to get into the Be’Igoth.

“Then how do you explain this?” Raek pinched something tiny off the floor and held it up for their inspection. In the dwindling glow of the Prolonged Light Grit, Quarrah had no hope of seeing what he held. And she certainly wasn’t going to don her wire spectacles in front of Ard.

“Slagstone chip,” Raek answered his own question. He stood, brushing his boot across the floor with a grating sound. “Shards of glass and a little cork. All the evidence of a liquid Grit detonation.”

Ard was nodding. “That’s exactly where Hedge was standing when he predicted the Ashing toss and the shots.” He took an anxious step forward. “What kind of Grit was it?”

“There’s no way to tell,” Raek said, peering down at the detonation site beside his boot.

“What color is the liquid?” Ard pressed, taking a knee to make his own inspection.

“The floor’s damp, but probably just from the steam in here,” said Raek. “Jonzan’s Second Truth still applies to the liquid stuff—all ignited Grit is consumed upon detonation. No trace left behind.”

“But what type would have been useful?” Ard asked.

In her mind, Quarrah ran through the list of new Grit types that Portsend Wal had discovered before his death. Ignition, Null, Containment, Stasis, Weight, Gather, and of course, Metamorphosis.

“Ignition makes the most sense,” she answered. “It’s becoming standard across the Greater Chain, and he could have used it to trigger other Grit types like Ard mentioned.”

“Or…” Ard whispered. “Or this is something different.”

“New new Grit?” Raek’s voice was skeptical. “You’re giving a lot of credit to a guy whose mother named him after a trimmed bush.”

“Portsend developed seven types based on information that Prime Isless Gloristar had given him from the Anchored Tome,” Ard said. “But Gloristar told me herself that she’d lost the book. And she hadn’t been able to read the entire thing before Termain took it.”

“You’re saying that there might have been other source materials that Portsend never knew about?” Raek said.

Ard shrugged. “I wouldn’t have considered it before our time with the professor, but it seems possible. Likely, even.”

Quarrah gave it some thought. “And you think that Hedge Marsool discovered the formula to a new type of liquid Grit that does… what? Shows him the future?”

“It’s not a stretch to imagine it,” said Ard. “Illusion Grit replays an image across time. Visitant Grit has the power to physically transport someone through time. What if Hedge has the next step?”

“Time Grit,” Raek said.

“Future Grit,” suggested Ard.

Raek shook his head. “I like Time Grit better.”

“We don’t know if it really shows him the future, or moves him through time,” reminded Quarrah. “Sparks, we don’t even know if some new type of Grit really exists.”

“True,” said Ard, standing. “But it’s certainly given me good incentive to do Hedge’s job.”

“Out of fear that he’ll use an unknown Grit on you?” she asked.

Ard shook his head. “Out of curiosity in finding it for myself.”

Quarrah drew in a misty breath. Ardor Benn was notorious for digging too deep into his employers. But this time, she was actually onboard with him. They needed to prevent Hedge from turning his thugs into Glassminds, as he’d called them. And if there was a new Grit as powerful as Hedge was claiming, Quarrah needed to know more about it.

“All right,” Quarrah said. “So we need to steal a dragon.”

“And where do you plan to store a beast that size?” Raek asked.

“Hedge gave us a lead on that,” answered Ard. “Someone named Lavfa, a Talumonian baroness. You ever heard of her?”

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” replied Raek. “I’ll look into her and see what I can dig up.”

“Once we find her, we’ll need to win her trust before we can even ask about space to store a dragon,” Ard said.

“Why?” Quarrah asked. “If we pay her enough, isn’t it a fair deal?”

“Except our side of the deal is highly illegal,” Ard reminded her.

“So I’ve met plenty of barons and nobles who were more than a little crooked,” said Quarrah. “We can hope this Lavfa is one of them. I’ll scout her properties and make certain she’s not a straight arrow. Then Raek can set up a meet.”

Ard held up his hands in a gesture that obviously dismissed what Quarrah had just said. Why was this man incapable of listening to anyone but himself? Even Raek’s ideas had to pass through Ard’s filter before they were acceptable.

“You’re probably right,” Ard said to her surprise. “I’m guessing the baroness is crooked. Which is even more reason to gain her trust. If she finds out who I am, then Lavfa might stand to gain more by turning me in. One little crime is all it’ll take to get the queen’s pardon revoked. Trable would have to throw me out of the Islehood and I’d lose everything I’ve been working for.”

What was he working for? Quarrah thought he would probably answer her truthfully if she asked, but that would only show him that she was interested. If they continued working together, Ard’s motives would certainly become apparent. And Quarrah had no trouble waiting.

“We have to approach this carefully so we don’t spook her,” Ard continued. “When we tell her that we have a very large, very dangerous, illegal item to store on her property, I want her to rub her hands together with excitement, not summon the local authorities.”

Ard always did things the hard way. “And how do you plan to gain Lavfa’s trust?” Quarrah asked.

“We need to get her away from the Regulation so she really has time to ponder our proposal before she reports us,” Ard mused.

“Want me to abduct her?” Raek asked bluntly.

“That’ll gain her trust,” muttered Quarrah.

“Let’s try something less aggressive,” said Ard. “I’m talking about a little ruse.”

Quarrah let out a slow breath. When was he not?

It’s impossible to know what comes next. I’ve survived this long by wearing out the toes of my boots.