CHAPTER

21

Ard quickly reread the note he’d just scribed onto the tiniest piece of thin paper. He noticed one little misspelling. Raek would chide him for that, but it was difficult to focus in here with all the cooing and flapping of wings.

Job is done. We sail from New Vantage at sunset on the 8th. Notify Hedge to meet us at Helizon property at dark on the 9th. Come with Q imediately. Bring doughnuts.

Doughnuts was just code for the explosive mantel clocks that Raek was rigging up, but Ard hoped his partner would bring both.

He turned to the blank side of the note and wrote: Deliver to: The Short Fuse—Tofar’s Salts, Upper Western Quarter.

“That’ll be ten Ashings,” said the young man behind the counter, carefully rolling Ard’s note like a Heg wrapper.

“Ten Ashings!” Ard cried. New Vantage was bleeding him dry. “I should hope at least half of that goes to the pigeon.”

“Of course,” said the lad. “The pigeons are well fed, and their travel accommodations back to Pekal are—”

“And you knit them little caps for the winter cycles, I hope,” Ard said. “Give them soup if they’re not feeling well?”

This befuddled the worker quite wonderfully. “But, sir. They’re… birds.”

Apparently, Ard was the first client in New Vantage with a sense of humor. He dug out three Ashings and a seven-mark, slapping them down on the counter.

“That goes to Beripent, see,” Ard confirmed, reading the labels over the pigeonholes behind the young man. Ha! They even had a pigeon for the little Strindian township of Duway. New Vantage was still a fledgling town, but its services were already competing with any major city on the main islands.

Ard watched the young man select a pigeon from one of the Beripent holes, sliding the scrolled note into a little tube fastened to the bird’s leg. Ard waited to leave the shop until he saw the bird go out the window, flying into the flat gray sky of a stormy midafternoon.

Flightsome Messages was an absolute ripoff, but it was definitely the quickest way to get in contact with Raek. Pigeons were fairly reliable throughout the Greater Chain, and Ard didn’t see why they’d be any less so, coming from Pekal.

He moved up the street, passing a vendor roasting sausages over an open fire. They smelled delicious, reminding Ard that he hadn’t eaten lunch yet. But there was no time for that. He was already running late for his meeting with the harbormaster.

“Mister Ardor!” called a familiar voice. Speaking of having no time…

“Hello, Ednes,” he said, not slowing his pace. How had she found him so quickly? They’d returned to New Vantage only a few hours ago, and they’d be leaving just as soon as they could get Motherwatch onto the Stern Wake. Hopefully before dark if everything went according to plan.

“How was your little hike?” she asked. “Did you see any wild animals?”

“Just you,” Ard said, pasting on a smile.

“I’d be happy to show you my wild side.” She lowered the pitch of her voice in an attempt to sound sultry. “But there’s not a room available at the Elegant Perch.”

“I noticed New Vantage is busier than when we left.” Ard pretended not to catch her implication.

“I know! Busiest it’s ever been!” Ednes was happy enough to talk through any direction the conversation might lead. “They’re saying all the inns are at capacity. I don’t know what they’re going to do when the rest of them get here. We can’t have tents on the streets!”

Ard looked at her for the first time. “When the rest of who gets here?”

“You didn’t hear?” She was noticeably excited about the nugget of gossip that was about to spill across her tongue. “They say it’s a cult.”

Ard stopped in the middle of the street. The Glassmind cult? Had Garifus Floc already returned to Pekal with his followers? Ard’s eyes darted to the myriad pedestrians traveling this way and that. Suddenly, he could trust no one.

Ednes chuckled softly. “A ship with over a hundred visitors arrived earlier today. Word is that they’re the first in a big group. Over the next week, we should expect to receive four times that number.”

Sparks! Over four hundred cultists heading to Pekal?

“Who’s their leader?” Ard kept his voice quiet as he resumed his path down the street.

“How should I know about cults, and such?” Ednes asked. “I’m a good little Wayfarist. Honest to Homeland.”

Ard was relieved by her comment. If there was a transformed Glassmind in New Vantage, Ednes Holcatch would surely be talking about it.

Perhaps Garifus and the other Glassminds were keeping a low profile on their ship in the harbor. Maybe even hiding outside the town. But Ard thought it more likely that the leader of a cult would remain in Beripent to oversee everyone’s departure. Make sure none of the human cultists got cold feet.

“Listen, Ednes,” said Ard. “I’ve got to run up ahead. But do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“If you happen to see Salafan, warn her about the cultists,” he said. Nemery would surely realize who they were on her own, but it didn’t hurt to put Ednes on it. “And tell her I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

The plump woman seemed excited by his parting words. Ard took advantage of her giddiness to slip into a mossy alley, making for the harbor.

He knew why the cultists were here. There was only one good explanation for it. They were coming to get Moonsick. Having seen Garifus Floc, they were ready to make the leap of faith—or the hike to the summit, as it were. And if they were successful, it would mean more Glassminds by the start of the next cycle. Hundreds more.

Ard slipped out of the alley, pausing for a moment to decide which direction to go. He was easily turned around in New Vantage—especially since the once-familiar harbor had been completely redesigned since New Vantage’s establishment. Steep, rickety ramps that had once been used only by rugged Harvesters now had handrails and carved grooves dusted with sand for traction.

Ard went left, passing a cart full of wooden toys where a family of four was examining the trinkets. Were they cultists, too? Would they be dragging children to Pekal’s summit to expose them to Moonsickness?

Ard reached the checkpoint, noticing a queue of departing tourists lined up to show their bags. Queen Abeth had made sure that security wouldn’t grow lax with the increased tourism. The place was crawling with harbor Regulators determined to search every outgoing person, regardless of the visitor’s rank or social standing.

Moving past, Ard saw the harbormaster’s office, a quaint little log structure that was already pocked with spots of black mold. It was situated well above the harbor, far enough from the entrance checkpoint so the harbormaster wouldn’t be bothered by the sounds of tourists coming and going.

Ard spotted Captain Dodset loitering near a tool shed, an oversized hat with a floppy brim pulled over her shaved head. A smoking reed was clutched between her lips and she gave him a lazy salute to show that she was ready and waiting for his cue.

Ardor Benn usually liked to be the closer on a job, but he didn’t mind playing the part of the opener today. This was why they had gone through so much effort to secure Dodset’s allegiance, along with that folder of papers.

Ard cracked open the office door without knocking, stepping quietly inside. It was a simple room with one hearth for Heat Grit, and another for burning wood. Neither were in use on a pleasant late summer afternoon like this. Instead, windows on opposing walls were wide open, providing a gentle cross breeze that rustled stacks of papers on a desk in the center of the room.

Behind the desk was an elderly man with wrinkled features and a prominent rosy nose. He was so thin that the shoulder pads on his uniform had slumped down with nothing to hold them up.

Ard would have expected a man of his age to be lavishly retired at New Vantage, not overseeing the entire harbor. But he supposed it was a good thing to be dealing with a veteran harbormaster. A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed new leader might not have been as susceptible to the coming threats.

“Harbormaster Pike?” Ard said. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“Not at all.” The man gestured for Ard to have a seat on one of the chairs in front of the desk. “What can I do for you, Mister…?”

“Crosser,” Ard introduced. “Elt Crosser.” He didn’t have any paperwork for the name he’d just made up, but he certainly couldn’t use his real one. Holy Isle Ardor Benn was supposed to be visiting his estranged grandmother on her deathbed in Strind.

“I’d like you to authorize a Drift repair on my ship,” Ard said.

“Well, we don’t typically do those here,” said Pike. “Not unless the damage is bad enough that you won’t make it back to the Greater Chain. How much water are you taking?”

“Who said we were taking any water?” said Ard.

“You just requested a lift.”

“Exactly,” continued Ard. “I want your Reggies to Drift my vessel to Repair Field Number Two on the south side of New Vantage.”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“Don’t worry,” Ard cut him off. “We’ll take care of the repairs ourselves. Won’t need more than a half hour. Then your Reggies can Drift our ship back down to the water, where we’ll set sail without a cargo inspection.”

“Who do you think you are to tell—”

“I’m the man with the gun.” Ard quickly drew his Roller, keeping it at hip height, conspicuously pointed in Pike’s direction. “Now, I’m sure you’ve got one, too. In a drawer, maybe in a holster at your side. That’s why I’m going to need you to place your hands on top of the desk where I can see them.”

“You listen to me, Mister Crosser,” Pike said, nevertheless doing as Ard had instructed. “Fire that Roller and you’ll have two dozen harbor Regulators on your back before you reach the first checkpoint. You’ll never get out of the harbor. Not you, nor your crew, nor your ship. Let alone whatever illegal material you’re attempting to smuggle out of here.”

“What do you say we test your theory?” Ard pulled the trigger. The shot went past Pike’s head, lodging into the mortar between two of the logs in the wall behind him.

Harbormaster Pike nearly jumped out of his skin. His hands left the desk, but Ard cocked the Slagstone hammer, readying another shot while clucking his tongue disapprovingly.

The cabin door flew open, but Ard didn’t need to turn to know that it was Captain Torgeston Dodset. He recognized the way she cleared her throat, and the draft of tobacco smoke that accompanied her wherever she went.

“It’s been a while, ole Pikey boy!” She slammed the door behind her, strutting across the room. A silver-handled knife with a wide blade rested loosely in one hand.

“Dodset,” the man muttered. “I should have known.”

“I believe my compadre already told you what we need.” Casually, she used the edge of her knife to trim one of her fingernails.

“I cannot allow it,” Pike said firmly.

Outside the cabin door, Ard heard shouts in a chain of command. The Reggies were responding as quickly as Pike had promised, and the harbormaster seemed to be holding out for their rescue.

Captain Dodset slapped a paper envelope on the desk between his splayed hands. “Hedge Marsool sends his regards.”

The door burst open again, two eager-looking young men in uniform trying to squeeze through the doorway at the same time. Ard shifted his stance to conceal the drawn gun at his side, all the while keeping it homed in on the harbormaster.

“It’s all right, lads,” Pike said weakly. “Just a faulty hammer on my Roller. Nearly put a hole in my foot.” He paused, but the Reggies looked too suspicious to dismiss themselves. “Give us the room,” he said in a tone that demanded compliance.

The Regulators pulled the door closed behind them.

Captain Dodset used the tip of her knife to flick the envelope closer to Pike. “Go ahead and give it a read,” she said. “There’s some good stuff in there. I especially like the last line.”

With trembling hands, Pike tore open the envelope. The letter inside was written on a single page, which the harbormaster read with tears of fear in his eyes.

It killed Ard not to know what Hedge Marsool had written, but this was one of the few benefits of working for the King Poacher. After all, that letter was only in play because Ard had done his part—negotiating with Baroness Lavfa, stealing the Moon Glass, surviving an attack from the Shiverswift.

Harbormaster Pike slowly lowered the page, face blanched. “I will instruct my people to do as you said. Your ship will be Drift-lifted to repair field two, where you’ll have thirty minutes—thirty minutes,” he stressed. “After that, your vessel will be returned to the harbor and you’ll be free to go.”

“Pleasure doing business.” Dodset sheathed her knife.

“Please let Marsool know that I was cooperative.” Pike’s voice was trembling.

“I’ll be seeing him tomorrow evening,” Ard said. “Happy to sing your praises.” He’d be happy to say anything to keep Hedge’s attention during their upcoming conversation—to keep him from noticing what they were really planning to do with the dragon.

A lot was riding on that meeting. But first they had to get Motherwatch into the baroness’s storage cavern. Captain Dodset had promised that she’d be just as persuasive in the Helizon harbor, so hopefully they wouldn’t run into any trouble unloading the dragon.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Harbormaster Pike dared. “Hedge Marsool isn’t your ally. He works only for himself.”

Ard put on a smile. “So do I.”

Quarrah maneuvered the handcart into the spacious warehouse. A small hunchbacked man in a tattered cloak was waiting just inside, quickly pushing the sliding door shut behind her. It was dim in here without a single window to let in the final hour of daylight. A handful of small Light Grit orbs illuminated Ard as he jogged toward her, his boots echoing on what sounded like a metal floor.

“Perfect timing, Quarrah,” Ard said. He looked like he wanted to greet her with a hug, but he didn’t go for it. “We were almost out of Stasis Grit, and Hedge Marsool won’t be here for at least another hour.” He glanced toward the door. “Where’s Raek?”

“He decided to stay in Beripent,” Quarrah said. “But he sent me with everything we need.” She pulled the canvas covering off the handcart. Two wooden boxes filled with vials of Stasis Grit, and six chainspring mantel clocks, rigged to explode twelve hours after being wound.

“Everything okay back home?” Ard asked. “Did you find Lomaya’s friend?”

Quarrah tilted her head, trying to decide how to break the news to Ard. “That’s partly why Raek stayed. We rescued San Green, but Lomaya…” Even a week later, Quarrah could clearly see the still form of the young woman lying upon the rubble of the wall.

“Sparks,” Ard whispered mournfully.

“Garifus Floc was more powerful than we expected,” Quarrah justified.

“You saw him?” Ard asked anxiously.

She nodded. “The Glassmind cult might be a bigger problem than anticipated, Ard. There are hundreds of them.”

“I know,” he replied. “The first shipload had arrived in New Vantage by the time we left.”

“And our reports tell us that Garifus and the other Glassminds are gathering more people every day. But he doesn’t have Portsend’s students anymore, so hopefully it’ll take them a while to figure out the formula for more Metamorphosis Grit.”

Ard winced. “Gloristar said they probably already know it from absorbing the cloud that transformed them.” He scratched his chin in thought. “After all this, I still can’t figure out what part Hedge is playing.”

“The part of our boss, I’d say,” Quarrah pointed out.

“I mean, he knows the formula for Metamorphosis Grit, but he’s not the one making Glassminds,” Ard continued.

“As far as we know,” said Quarrah.

“He seems unrelated to Garifus and his followers,” continued Ard. “But if the Glassminds are going to be such a problem, shouldn’t Hedge have foreseen that with his Future Grit?”

“About that…” Quarrah took a steadying breath. She wasn’t ready to tell him what she’d done, or even what she’d found out. But she needed to know if he had switched the vials back after her sleight-of-hand trickery.

“What did you do with that single shot of Future Grit you stole from Hedge?” she asked. Far too direct. He was going to know that something was off.

“Umm…” Ard raised an eyebrow. “I smashed it on the Shiverswift. Are you really trying to rub this in right now?”

“Have you ever been to my apartment in the Northern Quarter?”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Sparks, Ard! I’m trying to figure something out.” Why did he have to fluster her with that coy smile. Still, he seemed sincere enough that Quarrah found herself ruling out the option that Ard had switched the vials back. That left only one possibility of the three she and San had listed.

Hedge was carrying sugar water.

“Whatever you’re so worked up about is going to have to wait until later,” Ard said. “Right now, we’ve got to deal with Motherwatch.” He gestured over his shoulder.

“You named the dragon?” Quarrah said. Like it was some kind of pet…

“Actually, Nemery can take credit for that,” Ard said. “I’ll have time to fill you in on everything later.” He stepped over to the handcart and popped open one of the boxes that held a clock.

“But she’s down there?” Quarrah pointed to the huge metal hatch that Ard had walked over. It took up the entire floor, save a ten-foot border around the edge.

“Oh, yeah.” Ard lifted one of the clocks from its sawdust packaging to inspect it. “Sleeping like a baby. Well, in Stasis, so technically not sleeping. But she’s been quite comfortable down there since this morning.”

“How the blazes did you move a dragon through Helizon in broad daylight?” Quarrah asked.

“This is the Shipping District,” Ard said. “Close to the harbor and not exactly the nicest part of town.”

“Still…” Quarrah said. There had to be more to it. Ardor Benn would never risk parading his hard-earned dragon through any neighborhood unless he wanted people to see it. “Did you show her off?” Quarrah accused. “Does everyone in Helizon know she’s here?”

Ard drew back. “Don’t be absurd. You realize how fast the Regulators would be on us? And the queen would surely get involved for something as big as a live dragon. That would be a glaring blemish on my inscrutable new name.” He carefully set the clock back into its box.

“How’d you do it, Ard?” She hated when he did this, stringing her along so that his final reveal would seem more impressive.

“Well, Hedge’s papers and Captain Dodset’s threats to the Helizon harbormaster got the Stern Wake Drift-lifted to a repair yard above the harbor,” Ard began. “Then Gloristar manipulated a detonation of Shadow Grit, spreading it across the sky to look like a thunderhead. She kept Motherwatch in Stasis and used Drift Grit to push the dragon straight up. Half a mile in the sky, at least, hiding her in the cloud. Then we just walked down the street until we got here.”

Quarrah glanced back at the sliding door to the warehouse. It was large, but she’d seen a mature sow dragon. “And she fit?”

“Roof lifts off,” Ard said, pointing up. “Part of Baroness Lavfa’s recent renovations. We opened it up and Gloristar quickly lowered the dragon out of the cloud, through the roof, and into the cavern below.”

“So basically Gloristar did everything,” Quarrah pointed out.

“Well, it was mostly my idea,” Ard said defensively.

These days it seemed like ideas were all Ardor Benn could manage. His ability to execute them was waning like an overly Prolonged cloud of Light Grit.

“Where is Gloristar now?” asked Quarrah.

“She left with the Stern Wake once the dragon was in place,” replied Ard.

“Where did they go?”

“Back to Beripent,” he answered. “You would have passed them in the InterIsland Waters. Gloristar still has no interest in being discovered, and Captain Dodset has the unique ability to move our Glassmind friend through harbors without questions. Gloristar was going to wait for us at Tofar’s Salts. I’m guessing she’ll meet up with Raek and San before we get—”

Ard was interrupted as the heavy sliding door rolled open, spilling flat evening light into the warehouse.

“Pincher!” Ard barked at the strange little man attending the door. But he stepped back, raising his dirty hands to show that he wasn’t moving it.

Instinctively, Quarrah reached out, flicking the edge of the canvas over the handcart as a familiar misshapen silhouette appeared in the threshold.

Hedge Marsool. Woefully ahead of schedule.

The King Poacher limped forward, his spike arm tucked against his side and his other one swinging extra-wide to compensate. This evening, he was accompanied by two massively muscled Trothian men wearing Grit belts and more knives than Quarrah could count at a glance.

“Hedge!” Ard cried, his voice carrying an edge of forced merriment. “I take it my message reached you. We weren’t expecting you for another hour—”

“Now, that gives me the puzzles,” the man replied. “You weren’t expecting me, but you’re already here… Didn’t I say to give me a holler the moment the dragon was in place?”

“You did,” Ard said. “We were just giving ourselves a bit of flexibility in case something unexpected happened during transport—”

“Unexpected? Bah!” Hedge cut him off. “Nothing is unexpected to me.”

“Then why were you surprised that I was already here?” Ard dared.

“Boys,” Hedge said to his Trothian companions. “Kill him.”

Quarrah’s hand strayed to her pockets, making a quick decision about which type of Grit to throw in Ard’s defense.

“Whoa! Wait!” Ard held up his hands as the Trothians advanced. “I’ll show you the dragon!”

Hedge grunted, holding up his spike to call off his men.

“Sparks, Hedge,” Ard gasped. “You’re not supposed to go straight from banter to kill him. What happened to foreplay?”

“You waste your reeking breath in words,” said Hedge. “Show me the beast.”

Ard nodded, glancing anxiously at Quarrah before turning around and clapping his hands. “Pincher! Otella! Let’s open it up!”

The hunchbacked man left his post at the door, making his way across the warehouse toward another figure who had just appeared from the shadows. The woman was as dirty as Pincher, with ratty gray hair and a mouth that puckered in a telltale sign of toothlessness.

The two vagrants moved to a large crank mounted next to the warehouse wall. A chain led to the rafters far overhead, passing through a block and tackle and hooking into the metal floor. Quarrah noticed that the hatch was split down the middle of the warehouse, an identical crank and pulley system on the opposite side, ready to open the floor like a pair of double doors.

Pincher and Otella were teaming up on one crank, the chains tightening with audible vibrations as they pulled. The hinges groaned and squeaked as half the floor began to rise.

Hedge stepped forward and Quarrah could see his twisted, scarred face ripe with excitement, peering into the dark crack. For a moment, she thought about giving him a solid shove, sending him tumbling to the dragon below. Would he see it coming if it were unplanned—truly impulsive? Well, she’d thought about it for too long now…

“Too dark,” Hedge muttered, using the tip of his spike to pull aside his long leather cloak. Quarrah eyed his Grit belt—a single Roller with Blast cartridges wrapping around the back, four hardened leather pouches for Grit pots, and half a dozen loops holding thin glass vials with clear liquid.

More sugar water?

Ard stepped forward, a pot of Light Grit in his hand. “Allow me,” he said, pitching it through the widening hatch. Quarrah heard it shatter. She turned her attention back to the cavern, a draft of hot air wafting upward from the beast below.

A flare of Light Grit filled the space, and Quarrah couldn’t help but gasp at the sight. The cavern was larger than she’d expected, certainly much bigger than the warehouse that concealed its entrance. The walls below were rough stone of black and gray, unshaped by human tools except for one smooth stretch where a ladder descended into the depths. It was a surprisingly sturdy-looking thing, metal rungs anchored directly into the stone. Ard’s Light Grit had detonated against a protrusion in the wall on the way down. And at the bottom…

Motherwatch, as Ard had called her, was a hulking terror of scales and spines, unconscious beneath one of the Greater Chain’s most prestigious cities. It was hard for Quarrah to admire her beauty and unrivaled power when it seemed like she might spring upward at any moment.

Sure, she was shackled—one on each leg, one around her neck, one at her tail—and the heavy chains were staked directly into the cave’s stone floor. But would those restraints really hold her if she slipped out of Stasis?

That was the very thing they’d be counting on Hedge to believe. The clock explosives would knock out all six of her chains, but the King Poacher needed to think Motherwatch had burst her bonds with her own unimaginable strength. Which she very well might.

“Why isn’t she moving?” Hedge grumbled.

“Stasis Grit,” Ard explained, stepping over to the handcart and pulling the canvas partway back. “We’ve got plenty more here. Should keep her as still as the grave well into next cycle. Just like we agreed.”

Quarrah raised her eyebrows at the answer. The next cycle was nearly twenty days away. They barely had enough Stasis Grit to keep her more than a day. Luckily, the dragon would be gone by midmorning tomorrow.

Hedge Marsool began moving along the side of the hatch opening, his single eye never leaving the dragon below.

“I assure you, she’s just as big from every angle,” Ard said as Hedge stopped at the spot where the ladder dropped into the cave.

He raised his spike arm, pointing it directly at one of his Trothian associates, speaking something in his language. Quarrah readied herself for the worst, but the big thug merely moved around to join his boss.

“What’s going on?” Ard asked. Was that a hint of nervousness in his voice?

“Frush is strong as a Dronodanian buffalo,” answered Hedge. “He’s taking me down.” The Trothian positioned himself with one foot on the top rung.

“You won’t make it,” Ard said flatly.

Hedge was about to swing onto Frush’s back when he paused. “Oh? And why in the name of your mother’s corset won’t I?”

“Because you’ll get about three quarters of the way down and your head will enter the cloud of Stasis Grit surrounding the dragon,” said Ard. “You’ll fall twenty feet, at least.”

Hedge barked something in Trothian and Frush climbed up.

“I’m surprised you didn’t realize that,” Ard continued. “After all, you’re the one with the Future Grit. But then, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that I nicked one of your vials.”

Quarrah sucked in a breath and held it. What was Ard saying? Why would he tip their hand like this?

“I had my people examine the liquid solution,” Ard said.

“Ard…” Quarrah warned. He was going to make himself look stupid.

“We’re calling it Future Grit,” he continued, “based on the way it shows you a glimpse into the future.”

Across the square opening in the floor, Hedge Marsool stood perfectly still for an unnerving moment. Quarrah swallowed. If the stolen vial was as useless as Quarrah assumed, Hedge would call Ard’s bluff.

“That so?” Hedge finally rasped. The man didn’t sound particularly angry or bothered. In fact, his tone revealed an expression Quarrah hadn’t previously seen from him—surprise.

“We’re mass-producing it now,” Ard carried on, nodding. “So I suppose there was a good payout for this job after all. You got your dragon. We got Future Grit.”

“Don’t know what you think you got,” Hedge said. “But it’s not my secret to success.”

It’s not the Grit, Quarrah realized, the King Poacher’s words rattling in her head. There is no Future Grit. The vials are just a decoy.

Hedge slowly began limping around the opening in the floor. “Close the hatch,” he ordered Pincher and Otella as he strode past them. “I’m finished here.”

The hinges screeched as the chains rattled through the massive pulleys, lowering the metal door. Quarrah wanted to say something about the vials, but it didn’t seem right to call his bluff. Let Hedge think they were still blind to his tactics.

“Frush and Calo will stay here,” Hedge said. “And there’ll be a dozen more of my blue boys standing guard at the warehouse by sunup.”

“There’s no need for that,” Ard said. “I’ve already got a security detail here.” He pointed at the scrawny forms of Pincher and Otella struggling not to lose control of the crank.

“Them?” Hedge scoffed.

“They’ll be happy to stay on as long as you need them.” Ard leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Locals from the Labor District, so they know how to handle themselves if anyone gives them trouble. Plus, they’re so cheap, they’re practically free.”

“My boys stay,” said Hedge. “Posted outside. And if you’re smart, you won’t leave your jacket behind. Once you walk out of here, your ugly mugs are no longer welcome back.”

“Well, I didn’t even bring a jacket, so…” Ard trailed off as Hedge stopped dangerously close to him.

“A real joy, doing business with you,” he hissed through his deformed lips. Frush pulled open the warehouse door.

“Wish I could say the same,” Ard replied. “Now that you have your dragon, I trust we won’t be seeing you again?”

Hedge Marsool smirked. “If you’d really figured out the secret behind that Future Grit, wouldn’t you know the answer to that?”

Hedge limped away down the darkening street, his thugs taking up their new posts outside the warehouse door. With a huff of annoyance, Ard stepped over and rolled it shut.

“He’s planning to keep her over the Moon Passing,” Quarrah whispered, glancing at the closed hatch in the floor. “Do you think he knows? That dragons can get Moonsick?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ard answered. “If history has taught us anything, it’s that a raging Moonsick dragon can wreak a lot more destruction than a healthy one.”

“Because the healthy ones just want to fly home,” said Quarrah.

Across the room, one of Ard’s hired hands let out a loud yawn. The two looked to be bedding down next to the crank, probably grateful for any roof over their heads tonight.

“You really thought you could convince Hedge Marsool that those two vagrants were enough to guard her?” Quarrah asked.

“Worth a shot,” Ard replied. “The real reason I hired them was to give ourselves an easy scapegoat. Now that Hedge has seen the looks of those two, he shouldn’t have a hard time believing that they’ll forget to replenish the Stasis Grit. And that’s how the dragon gets away.”

Clever. Hedge’s own guards would be much better equipped. Maybe even stand a chance at stopping the beast, or at least slowing her, before she got away.

“So what now?” Quarrah asked.

“I think it’s time to accelerate our plans,” Ard said, moving to the handcart. “The clocks are set to detonate in twelve hours. If we move their hands before we wind them, we can make that six.”

Quarrah nodded. “Letting the dragon break free before the rest of Hedge’s guards arrive.”

“But still giving us plenty of time to get away from Talumon,” said Ard. “What ship did you bring?”

“Rented a little sloop,” she replied.

“You should head down to the harbor and get her ready,” Ard suggested, lifting the mantel clock from its box again. “I’ll change the clocks and set them in position.”

“How will you get down there with the Stasis Grit?” Quarrah asked.

Ard scoffed. “The Stasis Grit is only a small cloud around the dragon’s head. I just didn’t want Hedge going down there to see how rusty the chains are. Of course, he probably already knows if he’s detonated Future Grit—”

“It’s not real,” Quarrah blurted out. Well, she was committed to telling him now. “Hedge seems to be predicting the future, but it’s not with those vials of liquid Grit.”

Ard set down the clock he was winding. His brown eyes were intense as they turned on her. “What makes you say that?”

She spilled it all in a matter of seconds, from her swap with Ard, to San’s analysis of the liquid solution. When she was finished, the ruse artist stood in stunned silence as the clock in front of him tick-tocked auspiciously.

“Sugar water?” Ard finally said. Quarrah nodded. “Hedge just happened to be carrying the same mixture you stirred up in the counterfeit vial?”

“I know it seems unlikely—”

“That’s beyond unlikely, Quarrah. The way I see it, Hedge knew which vial I was going to steal off his belt that day. He knew you were going to swap it for sugar water, so he made a sugary mixture himself to prove that he saw it coming.”

“I considered that,” Quarrah said. “But didn’t you hear what he just said? The vials are not his secret to success.”

“Oh, great. So he has another way of seeing the future?”

She nodded with conviction, despite how crazy it seemed.

“Why bother with vials at all?” Ard said.

“A ruse for the ruse artist,” she answered. “Something to keep you guessing in the wrong direction.”

“Then what is the right direction?” Ard was losing his patience, perhaps annoyed because there was merit in her discovery but he hadn’t been the one to learn it.

“I don’t know,” Quarrah admitted. “But next time we see Hedge Marsool, I intend to find out.” She turned, running her fingers along the edge of the handcart. “I’ll go ready the sloop.”

Nemery Baggish wedged her final pouch of Blast Grit into a cleft in the rock. The stuff was barely fine enough to be considered powder. Blast Grit so coarse would never be sold in New Vantage or the Greater Chain. But Nemery had made this batch herself, grinding down a chunk of Slagstone in an anti-ignition liquid of her own making.

Satisfied with the arrangement of things, Nemery let go of the rock, dropping a few feet to land beside her partner.

“There’s no undoing this, Salafan,” Mohdek said hesitantly.

“I know,” she replied, picking up her pack and her bow. “And I’m not happy about it. But I don’t see what else we can do. There are two of us, and hundreds of them.”

“We could go back to New Vantage,” Mohdek said. “Hit their supplies again.”

“Too many have already set out for the summit,” she shot back.

“Then we set traps… Treat them like poachers.”

“Too many children with them, Moh. You saw. That’s innocent blood I won’t risk.”

“But the men and women,” he said. “They’re followers of Garifus. You heard the way they were talking back in New Vantage. It’s a dangerous mindset.”

Nemery had overheard a number of startling conversations. The Glassmind cultists considered themselves superior to anyone else. They found strength in numbers, which only fed their majority-rules mentality.

“I know,” Nemery said. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

Mohdek glanced up at the towering rock face, now dotted with pouches of Blast Grit. “Collapsing Gateway Rock isn’t going to stop them,” he said softly.

“But it’ll slow them down,” she said. “Passing through Gateway is the fastest way to the summit from New Vantage. The first group has already turned at Twin Springs Canyon, so we know they’re coming this way. A caravan that size moves slowly. By the time they get clear up here and realize that the trail through Gateway Rock is impassible, they’ll have to turn around and take Willowswitch Bypass. It’ll add days to their journey and they only have seventeen left to reach the summit. If we can keep delaying them—”

“At what cost?” Mohdek cried. “Destroying the face of Pekal? Our island? And what if we do slow them down enough to prevent them from reaching the summit this cycle? The Moon will pass again in thirty days and they’ll already be that much closer. We need a more permanent solution.”

“We’ve discussed them all,” Nemery said.

“There is one…” Mohdek paused in thought. “We’re far enough ahead of them. We could get to Red Banks and—”

“And what?” she snapped.

“Your new instrument is still there,” he encouraged. “If you had it, we could…” But he trailed off at the dark look on her face.

“You know better than to suggest that. Never again, Moh,” she whispered, striding away. “Taking down Gateway Rock is the only way.”

“You’re more like him than you want to admit,” Mohdek called after her.

Nemery stopped in the middle of the trail. “What did you say?” she hissed.

“You spent so many years talking about him.” Mohdek switched to Trothian, probably to make sure he expressed himself correctly. “Thinking you’d make him proud if he only knew what you were up to. Then he came, and it wasn’t what you… what you thought it would be.”

“I’m nothing like Ardor Benn.” She breathed deeply to calm herself. “What he did to Motherwatch and Proudflame—”

“Is the same thing you are doing now,” Mohdek cut her off. “Destroying something natural. Something beautiful. Just so you can accomplish what you think is best.”

Nemery clenched both fists at her sides. “You helped me pack the Grit pouches. You held the rope so I could place them higher up. You carved the Slagstone arrowhead… I thought we were in this together.”

“I’m in this,” he said, “because I love you.” Nemery knew that, though it was rare to hear him say it aloud. “And I owe it to you—and this place—to ask you one more time.” He swallowed hard. “Do you really think this is the right thing?”

“Making sure our place is not overrun with Glassminds,” Nemery said. “That’s the right thing.”

She struck off toward the spot she had chosen to take the shot. Her thoughts churned with every step. Was she like Ardor Benn? A week ago, she would have taken that as the highest of compliments. Now it was an insult. The Trothians had a saying that went something like: A tree only admires the work of a carpenter until it meets his axe. The Landers said it more simply: Never meet your heroes.

Nemery wished she had stopped Ardor from taking Motherwatch. At the very least, she wished she had forced him to stick around and see the distress of little Proudflame. After the crew had departed, the hatchling had returned to the draw where he’d been hunting for his mother, cooing sadly as he waited all through the night.

He’d been injured in the fight, a Roller ball having pierced his developing scales. Nemery and Mohdek had followed him long enough to make sure he’d recover. Then they’d gone back to New Vantage only to find the place overrun with cultists. And shiploads more were arriving every day.

She and Mohdek had put a desperate plan of sabotage into action—stealing, burning, or otherwise destroying as many of the cultist supplies as they could get their hands on. The plot was short lived, however. The cultists quickly began posting more guards over their supply camps just outside New Vantage. And now that the first of them had set out on their expedition to the summit, it had come to this…

Nemery scampered up a muddy slope and took a seat on a flat rock. Sliding an arrow from her quiver, she took a last look at Gateway Rock. It was a magnificent structure—a stone tower carved by centuries of wind and rain. It seemed to be hanging desperately on to the steep mountain slope beside it. In fact, the amount of Blast Grit she had stuffed into the rock was probably far more than was needed to bring it down. The structure would tumble quite easily, the loose rock choking the narrow trail that led between two impassible slopes.

She glanced down at the special arrowhead, grooves carefully chiseled into the Slagstone so it could be tied onto the shaft. The impact would make a huge spark, definitely enough to ignite the pouch of Blast Grit she had marked with a cairn of stones.

Making sure Mohdek had moved out of the way, Nemery nocked the arrow on her bowstring, heart pounding. She drew, sighting down the shaft toward her mark.

She heard Mohdek’s words in her mind. “There’s no undoing this, Salafan.”

Salafan. Salafan. Salafan.

She had heard it so many times, it was easy to forget its meaning. Then she thought of the first time Mohdek had spoken it, standing over the grave of his brother, Namsum.

“He used to call you little Salafan behind your back,” he had said.

“What does it mean?” she’d asked.

“It is the name of a bird that digs in the sand of the Trothian islets,” he had explained. “To hear one sing is a good omen. It means that your enemy can look you in the eye and you’ll feel no remorse about the way you treated them.”

Nemery screamed in frustration, loosing the arrow straight into the sky. How could she do something like this and ever hope to look Mohdek in the eye again? How could she betray the very land that had given her purpose and strength? How could she stoop to the level of Ardor Benn, so wrapped up in her own ideas that she was blind to the way they affected those around her?

There was always another way.

Nemery Baggish set down her bow. She scooted off the rock, slipping down the steep slope as Mohdek moved toward her.

“Thank you,” he said.

She lowered her head in shame, but he reached out, stroking her cheek.

“We will do what we can to stop them,” he continued. “And we will do it without sacrificing what we love.”

Nemery nodded, brushing away tears with the back of her hand. “We need to go back to New Vantage,” she said. “Find new ways to sabotage them.”

Mohdek grinned. “Let the cultists fear the mountain.”

“We need to target their Grit supply,” Nemery went on. “Without Drift Grit, they won’t be able to carry the crates.”

“And without the crates, they’ll have no gear. No rations.”

“We need to pay extra attention to any vials of liquid Grit they might be carrying,” said Nemery. “Take away their Transformation Grit, and the worst we’ll be dealing with will be a horde of Moonsick Bloodeyes.”

“If we run them ragged enough,” said Mohdek, “I’m betting more than half of them will turn back before they reach Three-Quarter Circle.”

“No,” said Nemery. “We can’t follow them that high.” Mohdek gave her a puzzled glance, so she explained herself. “Garifus Floc. If he and the other Glassminds return to Pekal, we have to be ready for them.”

Mohdek nodded in understanding. “We’ll stay within a day’s hike of New Vantage. That will give us more than enough room to make those cultists miserable as their groups set out.”

“Thank you.” Now it was Nemery’s turn to say it. “Thank you, Moh.”

She felt a freedom and a power in having done what was right. And she was proud to have earned the name Salafan.

There always comes a breaking point. I try to bend around it, but I’m splintering inside.