Chapter 1

Ardor Benn was running late. Or was he? Ard preferred to think that everyone else in the Greater Chain was consistently early—with unreasonable expectations for him to be the same.

Regardless, this time it was all right to keep his appointment waiting. It was a stew tactic. And stew tasted better the longer it cooked.

Ard skipped up the final stairs and onto the third floor. Remaught Azel clearly wasn’t the big fish he purported. Rickety wooden tri-story in the slums of Marow? Ard found the whole thing rather distasteful. Especially after Lord Yunis. Now, that was something! Proper stone mansion with a Heat Grit hearth in every room. Servants. Cooks. Light Grit lanterns that ignited with the pull of a chain. Ard half suspected that Lord Yunis wiped his backside with lace.

Different island. Different ruse. Today was about Remaught Azel, no matter how unaccommodating his hideout appeared.

Ard shifted the Grit keg from one arm to the other as he reached the closed door at the end of the hallway. The creaking floorboards would have already notified Remaught that someone was coming. Interesting, Ard thought. Maybe there is something useful about holing up in a joint like this. Floorboard sentries.

The door swung open, but before Ard could step through, a hairy, blue-skinned arm pressed into his chest, barring entrance.

“Take it easy,” Ard said to the Trothian man. This would be Remaught’s bodyguard. His dark, vibrating eyes glared at Ard. Classic. This guy seemed like a tough son of a gun, although he was obviously past due for one of those Agrodite saltwater soaks. The skin on his arm looked like it might start flaking off.

“I’m a legitimate businessman,” Ard continued, “here to do . . . legitimate businessy things.”

He glanced past the large bodyguard to the table where Remaught sat, bathed in sunlight from the western window. The mobster wore a maroon velvet vest, a tricornered hat, and a shoulder cape, currently fashionable among the rich folk. Remaught seemed tense, watching his bodyguard detain Ard at the doorway.

“Search him.”

“Really?” Ard protested, holding the Grit keg above his head so the bodyguard could pat his sides. “I left my belt and guns at home,” he said. “And if I hadn’t, I could easily shoot you from where I’m standing, so I find this whole pat down a little unnecessary, and frankly uncomfortable.”

The bodyguard paused, one hand on Ard’s hip pocket. “What’s this?” he asked, his voice marked by a thick Trothian accent.

“Rocks,” Ard answered.

“Rocks?” Like the bodyguard had never heard of such things. “Take them out—slow.”

Ard reached casually into his pocket and scooped out a handful of small stones that he’d collected on the roadside before entering the building. “I’ll need these for the transaction.”

In response, the Trothian bodyguard swatted Ard’s hand, sending the dusty pebbles scattering across the room.

“Now, that was quite uncalled-for,” Ard said to the mobster at the table. “I find your man to be unnecessarily rough.”

“Suno?” replied Remaught. “Three cycles ago, he would have fed you those rocks—through your nose. Going soft, I fear. Fatherhood has a tendency to do that.”

Ard wondered what kind of father a mobster’s bodyguard would be. Some fathers made a living at the market or the factories. This guy made a living by stringing people up by their toes at the whim of his boss.

The Trothian moved down, feeling around Ard’s thighs with both hands.

“At the very least, you should consider hiring a good-looking woman for this step,” Ard continued. “Wouldn’t hurt business, you know.”

The bodyguard stepped back and nodded to Remaught, who gestured for Ard to enter the room.

“Were you followed?” Remaught asked.

Ard laughed as he set the Grit keg gently on the table, stirring a bit of dust that danced in the sun rays. “I am never followed.” He adjusted the gaudy ring on his index finger and sat down across from the mobster. “Except occasionally by a bevy of beautiful maidens.”

Ard smiled, but Remaught Azel did not return the gesture. Instead, the mobster reached out for the Grit keg. Ard was faster, whisking the keg away before Remaught could touch it.

Ard clicked his tongue. “How about we see some payment before I go handing over the Grit in a room where I’m unarmed and outnumbered?”

Remaught pushed backward in his chair, the wooden legs buzzing against the floor. The mobster crossed the room and retrieved a locked safe box from the window seat. It was no longer than his forearm, with convenient metal handles fastened on both sides. The Regulation seal was clearly displayed on the front beside the keyhole.

“That looks mighty official,” Ard said as Remaught placed it on the table. “Regulation issue, isn’t it?”

“I recently came by the box,” replied Remaught, dusting his hands. “I like to keep my transactions secure. There are crooked folk in these parts.”

“So I hear,” answered Ard. “And how do I know the safe box isn’t full of sand?”

“How do I know that Grit keg isn’t empty?”

Ard shrugged, a smirk on his face. They had reached the part of the exchange that Ard called the Final Distrust. One last chance to back out. For both of them.

Remaught broke the tension by reaching into his velvet vest and producing a key. He slipped it into the lock, turned it sharply, and lifted the lid.

Ard squinted at the coinlike items. They looked real enough in this lighting. Most were stamped with seven small indentations, identifying them as seven-mark Ashings, the highest denomination of currency.

“May I?” Ard plucked out a coin before Remaught granted permission. Ard lifted the Ashing to his mouth and bit down on the edge of it.

“Taste real enough for you?” Remaught asked. Ard’s relaxed nature seemed to be driving the man continuously more tense. Ard studied the spot where his teeth had pressed against the coin, angling it in the sunlight to check for any kind of indentation. He preferred to gouge suspicious coins with a knifepoint, but, well, Remaught had made it pretty clear that weapons were not allowed
at this meeting.

The Ashing seemed genuine. And if Remaught wasn’t planning to slight him, there would be 493 more in that safe box.

“You ever been to the Coinery on Talumon?” Ard flicked the coin back into the open box. “I was there a few years back. On legitimate business, of course.”

Remaught closed the lid and turned the key.

“Coining,” Ard went on. “Sparks, that’s an elaborate process. Just the effort it takes to grind those raw scales into perfect circles . . . And you know they follow up with a series of chemical washes. They say it’s for curing and hardening. I hardly think a dragon scale needs hardening . . .”

Across the table, Remaught was fidgeting. Ard suppressed a grin. “Is something wrong, Rem? Can I call you Rem?” Ard pressed. “I thought this information would be of particular interest to a man in your line of work.”

“Perhaps you can save the details for some other time,” Remaught said. “You’re not my only appointment today.”

Ard leaned back in his chair, pretending that the mobster’s words had really put him out.

“I’d prefer if we just get along with the transaction.” Remaught gestured to the Grit keg. “What do you have for me there?”

“One full panweight of Void Grit,” said Ard. “My source says the batch is top quality. Came from a good-sized block of indigestible granite. Passed through the dragon in less than five days. Properly fired, and processed to the finest of powder.” He unlatched the cap on the Grit keg and tilted it toward Remaught. “The amount we agreed upon. And at an unbeatable price. I’m a man of my word.”

“It would seem that you are,” answered the mobster. “But of course you understand that I’ll need a demonstration of the product.”

Ard nodded slowly. Not all Grit could be demonstrated, especially indoors. But he had been expecting such a demand for this transaction.

Ard turned to the Trothian bodyguard, who leaned in the doorway like he was holding up the frame. “I’ll be needing those rocks now.”

Remaught grunted, then snapped at his bodyguard. “Suno! Pick up the blazing stones.”

Wordlessly, the man hunted across the floor for the stones he had slapped away. As he searched, Ard quickly picked up the safe box, causing Remaught to jump.

“Relax,” Ard said, crossing the room and carefully setting the valuable box on the wooden window seat. “I’ll need the table cleared for the demonstration.”

A moment later, Suno handed the rocks to Ard and lumbered back to the doorway, folding his dry, cracking arms.

There were nine little rocks, and Ard spread them into a loose ring on the tabletop. He unclasped the Grit keg and was about to reach inside, when Remaught grabbed his arm.

“I pick the Grit,” the mobster demanded. “No tricks.”

Ard shrugged, offering the container to Remaught. The man slipped his hand inside and withdrew a pinch of grayish powder. Ard pointed to the center of the stone ring and Remaught deposited the Grit in a tiny mound.

“That enough?” Remaught asked, as Ard brushed the pinch of powder into a tidier pile.

“More than enough,” Ard said. “You trying to clear the whole room?” He clasped the lid on the Grit keg and set it on the floor behind him. “I assume you have a Slagstone ignitor?”

From his vest, Remaught produced the device Ard had asked for. It was a small steel rod, slightly flattened at one end. Affixed at the center point along the rod was a spring, and attached to the end of the spring was a small piece of Slagstone.

Remaught handed the ignitor to Ard, the tiny fragment of Slagstone wobbling on its spring. “With the amount of Void Grit you’ve laid down, I’d expect the blast radius to be about two feet.” Ard said it as a warning. Remaught caught the hint and took a large step backward.

Ard also positioned himself as far from the table as he could, while still able to reach the tiny pile of gray Grit. He took aim and knocked the flat end of the steel rod against the table. The impact brought the spring down and the small piece of attached Slagstone struck the metal rod.

A respectable spark leapt off the Slagstone. It flashed across the wooden table and vanished instantly, with no effect.

“Ha!” Remaught shouted, as though he’d been waiting to make an accusation. “I should have known no one would sell a panweight of Void Grit at that price.”

Ard looked up. “The Grit is legitimate, I assure you. This Slagstone ignitor, on the other hand . . .” He held up the device, gently shaking the spring as though it were a child’s toy. “Honestly, I didn’t even know they sold something this cheap. I couldn’t ignite a mountain of Grit with this thing, let alone convince the spark to fall on that pinhead target. Allow me to throw a few more sparks before you let Suno rip my ears off.”

The truth was, the tiny pile of powdered granite hadn’t lit for two reasons. First, Remaught’s Slagstone ignitor really was terribly inaccurate. And second, the Void Grit was definitely fake.

Ard leaned closer to the table, pretending to give the ignitor a close inspection. With his right hand hovering just above the pile of gray powder, he wriggled his fingers, spinning his heavy ring around so he could slip his thumbnail into a small groove and slide the face of the ring aside.

The gesture was subtle, and Ard was drawing Remaught’s attention to the ignitor. He was sure the mobster hadn’t noticed the fresh deposit of genuine Void Grit from the ring’s secret cavity.

“Let’s see if this does the trick.” Ard repositioned himself, bringing the ignitor down, Slagstone sparking on impact.

The genuine Void Grit detonated instantly, the powder from Ard’s ring creating a blast radius just over a foot. It wasn’t at all like a deadly Blast Grit explosion of fire and sparks. This was Specialty Grit, and the particular demonstrated effect was far less dangerous.

A rush of energy emanated from the pinch of Void Grit, like a tremendous wind blasting outward in every direction from the center.

It happened much faster than Ard could withdraw his hand. Caught in the detonation, his arm was shoved backward, the Slagstone ignitor flying from his grasp. The stones on the table flew in every direction, the Grit pushing them to the perimeter of the blast, their momentum sending them bouncing across the floor.

The Void Grit was spent, but hovering around the table where the detonation occurred was a dome of discolored air. It would have been a spherical cloud if it had detonated midair, but the tabletop had been strong enough to contain the underside of the blast.

Remaught stumbled a step closer. “How did you do that?”

Ard wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean? It’s Void Grit. Digested granite. That’s what it does.” He bent down and retrieved a fallen pebble. “It voids a space within the blast radius. Clears everything out to the perimeter. The effect should last about ten minutes before the blast cloud burns out.”

To prove his point, Ard tossed the pebble into the dome of discolored air. The little stone barely touched the perimeter before the effect of the Grit pushed it forcefully away.

Remaught nodded absently, his hand drifting to his vest pocket. For a brief moment, Ard thought the mobster might pull a Singler, but he relaxed when Remaught withdrew the key to the safe box. Remaught stepped forward and set the key on the edge of the table, just outside the hazy Void cloud.

“I’m ready to close the deal,” he said, producing a few papers for Ard’s inspection. Detonation licenses—or at least forgeries—which would allow him to purchase Grit.

But Ard wasn’t interested in the legalities of the transaction. He dismissed the paperwork, picking up the keg of false Void Grit and holding it out to Remaught.

“Of course, I’ll need a receipt,” said the mobster, tucking his licenses back into his vest.

“A receipt?” That sounded frightfully legitimate to Ardor Benn.

“For my records,” said Remaught. In a moment, the man had produced a small square of paper, and a charcoal scribing stick. “Go ahead and notate the details of the transaction. And sign your name at the bottom.”

Ard handed the Grit keg to Remaught and accepted the paper and charcoal. Remaught stepped away, and it took only moments for Ard to write what was needed, autographing the bottom as requested.

“I hope we can do business again in the future,” Ard said, looking up from his scrawling. But Remaught Azel didn’t seem to share his sentiment.

“I’m afraid that will not be the case.” The mobster was standing near the open doorway, his Trothian bodyguard off to one side. Remaught had removed the cap from the Grit keg and was holding the cheap Slagstone ignitor.

“Whoa!” Ard shouted. “What are you—”

Remaught brought the ignitor down. A cluster of sparks danced from the impact, showering onto the gray powder housed in the open keg.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize an entire keg of counterfeit Grit?” Remaught asked.

Ard crumpled the receipt and dropped it to the floor, lunging for the key on the edge of the table. He scooped it up, but before Ard could reach the safe box, the Trothian bodyguard was upon him. In the blink of an eye, Ard found himself in a headlock, forced to his knees before a smug Remaught.

“I believe I mentioned that I had another appointment today?” Remaught said. “What I didn’t tell you was that the appointment is happening now. With an officer of the Regulation.”

A man appeared in the doorway behind Remaught. Not just a man—a veritable mountain. He had dark skin, and his nose was somewhat flat, the side of his face marked with a thin scar. The Regulator ducked his shiny, bald head under the door frame as he entered the room.

He wore the standard long wool coat of the Regulation, a crossbow slung over one shoulder and a sash of bolts across his broad chest. Beneath the coat, Ard thought he could see the bulge of a holstered gun.

“Delivered as promised,” Remaught said, his tension at an all-newhigh. The Regulator seized Ard’s upper arm with an iron grip,  prompting Remaught’s bodyguard to release the headlock.

“What is this, Remaught?” Ard asked between gasps for air. “You’re selling me out? Don’t you know who I am?”

“That’s just it,” said Remaught. “I know exactly who you are. Ardor Benn, ruse artist.”

“Extraordinaire,” said Ard.

“Excuse me?” Remaught asked.

“Ardor Benn, ruse artist extraordinaire,” Ard corrected.

The giant Regulator yanked Ard to his feet. Prying Ard’s fingers open, the man easily removed the key to the safe box before slapping a pair of shackles around Ard’s wrists.

“Now wait a minute, big fella,” Ard stalled. “You can arrest me, an amicable ruse artist trying to eke out a humble living. Or you can take in Remaught Azel. Think it through. Remaught Azel. He’s the mobster.”

The bald Regulator didn’t even falter. He stepped forward and handed the key to Remaught with a curt nod.

“The Regulator and I have an understanding,” answered Remaught. “He came to me three weeks ago. Said there was a ruse artist in town selling counterfeit Grit. Said that if I came across anyone trying to hock large quantities of Specialty Grit, that I should set up a meet and reach out to him.”

“Flames, Remaught! You’ve gone clean?” Ard asked. “A mobster of your standing, working with a Reggie like him? You disgust me.”

“Clean? No,” Remaught replied. “And neither is my Regulator friend.”

Ard craned his neck to shoot an incredulous stare at the Regulator holding him. “Unbelievable! A dirty Reggie and a petty mobster make a deal—and I’m the victim!”

Remaught addressed the big official. “We’re good, then?”

The large man nodded. “We’re good. I was never here.”

The Regulator pushed Ard past Remaught, through the doorway, and into the creaky hallway, pausing to say one last thing to the mobster. “You got him to sign a receipt like I told you?”

Remaught scanned the room and gestured to the crumpled piece of paper on the floor. “You need it for evidence?”

“Nah,” said the Regulator. “This lowlife’s wanted on every island in the Greater Chain. The receipt was for your own protection. Proves you had every intention of making a legal transaction. Buying Grit isn’t a crime, providing you have the proper licensure.” He gave Ard a shove in the back, causing him to stumble across the rickety floorboards. “Give me plenty of time to distance myself before you leave this building,” the Regulator instructed. “Understood?”

Ard glanced back in time to see Remaught nodding as the door swung shut. Ard and the Regulator descended the stairs in silence, the huge man never removing his iron grip from Ard’s shoulder. It wasn’t until they stepped outside into the warm afternoon that Ard spoke.

“Lowlife?” he said. “Really, Raek? That seemed a bit much. Like you were enjoying it.”

“Don’t lecture me on ‘a bit much,’ ” answered the Regulator. “What was that whole ‘ruse artist extraordinaire’ slag?”

“You know I like that line. I saw an opportunity and I took it,” Ard answered.

Raek grunted, tugging at the collar of his uniform. “This coat itches. No wonder we can always outrun the blazing Reggies. They’re practically choking themselves on the job.”

“You almost look convincing,” Ard said. “But where’s the Reggie helmet?”

“I couldn’t find one that fit,” answered Raek. “And besides, I figure I’m tall enough no one can see the top of my head. Maybe I’m wearing a tiny Reggie helmet. No one would know.”

“Sound logic,” Ard said as they turned the corner to the west side of Remaught’s building. “You swapped the key?”

“Child’s play,” Raek answered. “You leave the note?”

“I even drew a little smiling face after my name.”

Raek led them to a sturdy hay wagon hitched to a waiting horse.

“Straw this time?” Ard asked, finding it difficult to climb onto the bench with his hands still shackled.

“Should pad the landing,” Raek replied.

“Look at you! Good idea.”

“You’re not the only person who can have one, you know.” Raek pulled himself onto the bench beside Ard and stooped to grab the reins. “You’re getting bored, Ard.”

“Hmm?” He glanced at his friend.

“This little stunt.” Raek gestured up to the third-story window directly above them. “It’s showy, even for you.”

Ard dismissed the comment. Was there a simpler way to steal the safe box? Probably. But surely there wasn’t a more clever way.

Remaught had to be feeling pretty smug. In his mind, the exchange had gone off without a hitch. The mobster had been gifted a Regulation-issue safe box, partnered with a crooked Reggie, and taken some competition off the streets by having the ruse artist arrested.

By now, Remaught was probably reading Ard’s note on the receipt—a simple message thanking the mobster for the Ashings and informing him that the Reggie was as fake as the Grit. This would undoubtedly send Remaught scurrying to the safe box to check its valuable contents. All he needed to do was thrust Raek’s replacement key into the lock, and . . . boom.

Any moment now.

The idle horse stamped its hooves, awaiting Raek’s directions.

“We’re sparked if he moves the safe box,” Raek muttered after a moment’s silence.

“He won’t,” Ard reassured. “Remaught’s lazy.”

“He could have the bodyguard do it.”

“Suno was going soft,” Ard repeated what he’d heard from Remaught. “Something about fatherhood. I’m more worried that the window won’t break . . .”

Three stories above, the glass window shattered. The safe box came hurtling out on a perfect trajectory, landing in the back of the hay-stuffed wagon with a thud.

Remaught Azel was blazing predictable. Classic mobster. Maybe Ard was getting bored.

“I’m actually surprised that worked,” Ard admitted, as Raek snapped the reins and sent the horse galloping down the street.

“That doesn’t give me much confidence. Tampering with the safe box was your idea.”

“I knew that would work,” Ard said. They’d tipped the replacement key with a tiny fragment of Slagstone and filled the inside of the lock with Void Grit. The detonation would have cleared everything within the blast radius, undoubtedly throwing Remaught backward. The box of Ashings, still latched shut, was hurtled outward by the force of the Grit, smashing through the glass panes and falling three stories to the hay wagon waiting on the street below.

“I had full trust in the Grit.” Ard gestured behind him. “I’m just surprised the box actually landed where it was supposed to!”

“Physics,” Raek said. “You trust the Grit, but you don’t trust physics?”

“Not if I’m doing the math.”

“Oh, come on,” said the large man. “Two and a half granules of Void Grit detonated against a safe box weighing twenty-eight pan-weights falling from a third-story window . . .”

Ard held up his still-shackled hands. “It physically hurts me to hear you talk like that. Actual pain in my actual brain.”

Behind them, from the shattered window of Remaught’s hideout, three gunshots pealed out, breaking the lazy silence of the afternoon.

“Remaught? He’s shooting at us?” Raek asked.

“He can’t hope to hit us at this distance,” answered Ard. “Even with a Fielder, that shot is hopeless.”

Another gunshot resounded, and this time a lead ball struck the side of the wagon with a violent crack. Ard flinched and Raek cursed. The shot had not come from Remaught’s distant window. This gunman was closer, but Ard couldn’t tell from what direction he was firing.

“Remaught’s shots were a signal,” Ard assumed. “He must have had his goons in position in case things went wrong with his new Reggie soulmate.”

“We’re not soulmates,” Raek muttered.

A man on horseback emerged from an alleyway behind them, his dark cloak flapping, hood up. The mob goon stretched out one hand and Ard saw the glint of a gun. He barely had time to shout a warning to Raek, both men ducking before the goon fired.

The ball went high. Ard heard it whizzing overhead. It was a Singler. Ard recognized the timbre of the shot. As its name implied, the small gun could shoot only one ball before needing to be reloaded. The six-shot Rollers used by the Regulators were far more deadly. Not to mention ridiculously expensive and illegal for use by the common citizen.

The goon had wasted his single ball, too eager to fire on the escaping ruse artists. He could reload, of course, but the process was nearly impossible on the back of a galloping horse. Instead, the goon holstered his Singler and drew a thin-bladed rapier.

“Give me the key,” Ard said as another horseman appeared behind the first.

“What key?” replied Raek. “The one I swapped from Remaught?”

“Not that one.” Ard held up his chained wrists and jangled them next to Raek’s ear. “The key to the shackles.”

“Oh.” Raek spit off the side of the wagon. “I don’t have it.”

“You lost the key?” Ard shouted.

“I didn’t lose it,” answered Raek. “Never had it. I stole the shackles from a Reggie outpost. I didn’t really have time to hunt around for keys.”

Ard threw his chained hands in the air. “You locked me up without a way to get me out?”

Raek shrugged. “Figured we’d deal with that problem later.”

A cloaked figure on foot suddenly ducked out of a shanty, the butt of a long-barreled Fielder tucked against his shoulder.

Raek transferred the reins to his left hand, reached into his Regulator coat, and drew a Roller. He pointed the gun at the goon with the Fielder, used his thumb to pull back the Slagstone hammer, and pulled the trigger.

The Slagstone snapped down, throwing a spark into the first chamber to ignite a pinch of powdered Blast Grit in a paper cartridge. It detonated with a deafening crack, the metal gun chamber containing the explosion and throwing a lead ball out the barrel.

The ball splintered through the wall of the shanty behind the goon. Before he could take proper aim at the passing wagon, Raek pulled back the Slagstone hammer and fired again.

Another miss, but it was enough to put the goon behind them. Raek handed the smoking Roller to Ard. “Here,” the big man said. “I stole this for you.”

“Wow.” Ard awkwardly accepted the gun with both wrists chained. “It looks just like the one I left holstered in my gun belt at the boat.”

“Oh, this gun belt?” Raek brushed aside the wool Reggie coat to reveal a second holstered gun. “You shouldn’t leave valuable things lying around.”

“It was in a locked compartment,” Ard said, sighting down his Roller. “I gave you the key.”

“That was your mistake.”

Behind them, the Fielder goon finally got his shot off. The resounding pop of the big gun was deep and powerful. Straw exploded in the back of the wagon, and one of the side boards snapped clean off as the Fielder ball clawed its way through.

“Why don’t you try to make something of that Reggie crossbow?” Ard said. “I’ll handle the respectable firearms.”

“There’s nothing disrespectful about a crossbow,” Raek answered. “It’s a gentleman’s weapon.”

Ard glanced over his shoulder to find the swordsman riding dangerously close. He used his thumb to set the Slagstone hammer, the action spinning the chambers and moving a fresh cartridge and ball into position. But with both hands shackled together, he found it incredibly awkward to aim over his shoulder.

“Flames,” Ard muttered. He’d have to reposition himself if he had any hope of making a decent shot. Pushing off the footboard, Ard cleared the low backboard and tumbled headfirst into the hay.

“I hope you did that on purpose!” Raek shouted, giving the reins another flick.

Ard rolled onto his knees as the mounted goon brought his sword down in a deadly arc. Ard reacted instinctively, catching the thin blade against the chains of his shackles.

For a brief moment, Ard knelt, keeping the sword above his head. Then he twisted his right hand around, aimed the barrel of his Roller, and pulled the trigger. In a puff of Blast smoke, the lead ball tore through the goon, instantly throwing him from the saddle.

Ard shook his head, pieces of loosely clinging straw falling from his short dark hair. He turned his attention to the street behind, where more than half a dozen of Remaught’s men were riding to catch up. The nearest one fired, a Singler whose ball might have taken him if Raek hadn’t turned a corner so sharply.

The wagon wheels drifted across the compact dirt, and Ard heard a few of the wooden spokes snapping under the strain. They were almost out of the slums, but still a fair distance from the docks. Raek’s stolen hay wagon was not going to see them to their journey’s end. Unless the journey ended with a gut full of lead.

Ard gripped the Roller in both hands. Not his preferred way of aiming, but his best alternative since his wrists were hooked together. Squinting one eye, he tried to steady his aim, waiting for the first goon to round the corner.

The rider appeared, hunched low on his horse. Ard fired once. The man dropped from the saddle, but six more appeared right behind him. And Ard’s Roller only packed two more shots.

“We need something heavier to stop these goons!” Ard shouted. “You got any Grit bolts on that sash?”

Raek glanced down at the ammunition sash across his chest. “Looks like an assortment. Anything specific you’re after?”

“I don’t know . . . I was hoping for some Visitant Grit,” Ard joked as he reached over and pulled the crossbow off Raek’s shoulder.

Raek chuckled. “Like you’d be worthy to summon a Paladin Visitant.”

“Hey, I can be downright righteous if I need to be,” he answered.

Ard didn’t favor the crossbow. He preferred the jarring recoil of a Roller, the heat from the flames that licked out the end of the barrel. The lingering smell of smoke.

“Barrier Grit.” Raek carefully reached back to hand Ard a bolt from his sash. The projectile was like a stout arrow, black fletchings fixed to the shaft. The Grit bolt had a clay ball serving as an arrowhead, the tip dyed bright blue.

The bolt was an expensive shot, even though Barrier Grit was one of the five common Grit types. Inside the clay arrowhead, a chip of Slagstone was nestled into a measurement of glittering dust: digested shards of metal that had been dragon-fired and processed to powder.

Ard slipped the bolt into the groove on the crossbow, fitting the nock against the string he had already pulled into place—a difficult task with chained wrists. The goons were gaining fast now. Definitely within range.

“What’s the blast radius on this bolt?” Ard pulled the crossbow to his shoulder and sighted down the length.

“The bolts were already on the sash when I stole it,” answered Raek. “I’m guessing it’ll be standard issue. Fifteen feet or so. You’d know these things if you bothered to keep up your Grit licenses.”

Ard sighted down the crossbow. “Seriously? We’re riding in a stolen wagon, you’re impersonating a Reggie, we’re hauling five hundred Ashings we just swindled from a mobster . . . and you’re lecturing me about licensure?”

“I’m a fan of the Grit licenses,” Raek said. “If anyone could purchase Grit whenever and wherever they wanted, the islands would be a mess of anarchy.”

“I’m not just anybody,” Ard replied. “I’m Ardor Benn . . .”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it,” Raek cut him off. “Ruse artist extraordinaire. Just shoot the blazing bolt already.”

Ard barely had to aim, the goons were riding so close now. He leveled the crossbow and pulled the trigger. The bolt released with a twang, finding its mark at the foot of the leading horse. The clay ball shattered on impact, and the Slagstone chip sparked, igniting the powdered metallic Grit.

The blast was nearly large enough to span the road. The discolored cloud made an instant dome, a hardened shell trapping two of the horsemen inside it. Their momentum carried them forward, striking the inside perimeter of the Barrier cloud.

The two horses went down, throwing their riders and crumpling as though they had galloped directly into a brick wall. A third rider also collided with the outside of the barrier dome, unable to stop his horse in time to avoid the obstacle suddenly blocking the road.

The two men within the Barrier cloud wouldn’t be going anywhere until the Grit’s effect burned out. They were trapped, as though a giant overturned bowl had suddenly enclosed them. Although the Barrier cloud seemed like it had a tangible shell, it couldn’t be moved. And this dirt road was compact, so they wouldn’t have a prayer at burrowing under the edge of the dome.

Ard grinned at the successful shot. “Haha! That’ll buy us some time to reach the docks. Teach those goons not to mess with Ardor Benn and the Short Fuse.”

“Come on, Ard,” Raek muttered. “You know how I feel about that name.”

“It’s a solid name for a criminal Mixer like you.” Ard understood why Raek thought it was unfitting. Raekon Dorrel was neither short nor impatient. Several years ago, during a particularly sticky ruse, Ard had referred to his partner as the Short Fuse. It was meant as little more than a joke, but somehow, the Regulation ended up circulating it through the streets until it stuck.

“Still don’t think that’s a respectable weapon?” Raek changed the subject, pushing the exhausted horse as they moved out of the slums.

“I’ll leave the Grit shots to you.” Ard handed the crossbow back to the driver. “I’ll stick with lead and smoke.”

Here, the road opened to a few grassy knolls that led right up to the cliff-like shoreline. The steep path down to the harbor was just ahead, where the Double Take was moored and waiting. Ard could see flags waving atop several ship masts, but with the high shoreline, it was impossible to see the harbor clearly.

“Clear ride to the docks today,” Raek said. Now that he mentioned it, Ard thought the thoroughfare, usually bustling with pedestrians and the occasional cart or carriage, seemed abnormally still for a summer’s afternoon.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Ard muttered.

“Now, that’s what you get for eating oysters for breakfast.”

“I think we should stop,” Ard whispered.

“Definitely,” Raek replied. “We wouldn’t want to outdistance those goons . . .” Raek was cut off as the wagon wheels hit a shallow trench across the dirt road.

Ard saw the sparks as the wheels struck a buried piece of Slagstone. He didn’t even have time to grip the side of the wagon as the mine detonated.

Drift Grit.

A lot of it.

The blast radius must have been at least twenty yards, the center of the detonation occurring directly beneath the wagon. The discolored air hung in a hazy dome as the Grit took effect.

Ard felt his stomach churn as a bizarre weightlessness overtook him. The jolt from hitting the mine sent the wagon floating lazily upward, straw drifting in every direction. The horse’s hooves left the road, and the poor animal bucked and whinnied, legs continuing to gallop in the sudden weightless environment.

“What was that?” Raek shouted. He still held the horse’s reins, though his body had drifted off the wagon bench, his long wool coattails floating around his huge form.

“We hit a mine!” Ard answered. And the fact that it was Drift Grit didn’t give him much hope. Barrier Grit would have been an inescapable trap, but at least they would have been safe inside the detonation. Adrift as they were now, he and Raek would be easy targets to anyone with a firearm. “They were waiting for us.”

“Remaught?” Raek asked. “Sparks, we didn’t give that guy enough credit!”

They were probably ten feet off the ground, Ard’s legs pumping as though trying to swim through the air. He’d forgotten how disorienting and frustrating it was to hang suspended without any hint of gravity.

Now upside down, facing west toward the harbor, Ard saw more than a dozen mounted figures cresting the steep trail and riding out to meet them. He didn’t need to see them upright to recognize the wool uniforms and helmets.

“Remaught didn’t plant the mine,” Ard shouted to Raek. “The Regulators did it. They knew we were coming.”

“Flames!” Raek twisted in the air to see the horsemen Ard had just announced.

A gunshot pealed, and Ard saw the ball enter the Drift cloud. The shot went wide, exiting the detonated area just above their heads.

“We’re sitting ducks!” Raek called, sun beating down on his bald head, dark skin glistening. “We’ve got to get our feet back on the ground.”

Even if they could, exiting the Drift cloud now would put them face‑to‑face with an armed Regulation patrol. Perhaps they could flee back into the slums. Nope. From his spot hovering above the road, Ard saw four of Remaught’s goons riding toward them.

“I thought you said this ruse was going to be low risk,” Raek said, also noticing the two groups closing on their position.

“Did I? You’re putting words in my mouth,” Ard said. “How long until this detonation burns out?” He knew there was no way to know exactly. A standard Drift Grit blast could last up to ten minutes, depending on the quality of the bones that the dragon had digested. Raek would make a more educated guess than him. Raek sniffed the discolored air. “There was Prolonging Grit mixed in with that detonation,” he said. “We could be adrift for a while.”

There was another gunshot, this one passing below their feet.

Ard didn’t know which side had fired.

“What else have you got on that sash?” Ard asked.

“More Barrier Grit.” Raek studied his chest to take stock. “And a couple of bolts of Drift Grit.” He chuckled. Probably at the irony of being armed with the very type of detonation they were trying to escape.

More gunhots. One of the lead balls grazed the side of the bucking horse. Blood sprayed from the wound, the red liquid forming into spherical droplets as it drifted away from the panicking animal.

Raek drew a dagger from his belt. Using the reins to draw himself closer, he slashed through the leather straps that yoked the animal to the wagon. Placing one heavy boot against the horse’s backside, he kicked. The action sent the horse drifting one direction, and Raek the other. The horse bucked hysterically, hooves contacting the wagon and sending it careening into Raek.

Ard caught Raek’s foot as he spiraled past, but it barely slowed the big man, tugging Ard along instead.

Their trajectory was going to put them out of the cloud’s perimeter about thirty feet aboveground. They would plummet to the road, a crippling landing even if they didn’t manage to get shot.

“Any thoughts on how to get out of here?” Ard shouted.

“I think momentum is going to do that for us in a second or two!”

They were spinning quite rapidly and the view was making Ard sick. Road. Sky. Road. Sky. He looked at Raek’s ammunition sash and made an impulsive decision. Reaching out, Ard seized one of the bolts whose clay head bore the blue marking of Barrier Grit. Ripping the bolt free, he gripped the shaft and brought the stout projectile against Raek’s chest like a stabbing knife.

The clay arrowhead shattered, Slagstone sparking against Raek’s broad torso. The Barrier Grit detonated, throwing a new cloud around them midflight.

The bolt contained far less Grit than the road mine, resulting in a cloud that was only a fraction of the size. Detonated midair, it formed a perfect sphere. It enveloped Ard, Raek, and the wagon, just as all three slammed against the hard Barrier perimeter. The impenetrable wall stopped their momentum, though they still floated weightlessly, pressed against the stationary Barrier.

“You detonated on my chest?” Raek cried.

“I needed a solid surface. You were available.”

“What about the wagon? It was available!”

A lead ball pinged against the invisible Barrier. Without the protective Grit cloud, the shot would have taken Ard in the neck. But nothing could pass through the perimeter of a Barrier cloud.

“Would you look at that?” Raek muttered, glancing down.

The Regulators had momentarily turned their attention on Remaught’s goons. Apparently, the Reggies had decided that an enemy of their enemy was not their friend.

“We’ve got about ten minutes before our Barrier cloud closes,” Raek said.

Ard pushed off the invisible perimeter and drifted across the protected sphere. Since Prolonging Grit had been mixed into the mine detonation, their smaller Barrier cloud would fail before the Drift cloud.

“How do we survive this?” Raek pressed.

“Maybe the Reggies and goons will shoot each other and we’ll have a free walk to the docks.”

“We both know that’s not happening,” Raek said. “So we’ve got to be prepared to escape once these two clouds burn out on us.”

“I plan to deliver you as a sacrifice,” Ard announced. “Maybe I’ll go clean. Become a Holy Isle.”

“Right,” Raek scoffed. “But they won’t be able to call themselves ‘holy’ anymore.”

“Just so we’re clear, this isn’t my fault,” said Ard. “Nobody could have predicted that Suno would sell out his boss.”

“Suno?” Raek asked. “Who the blazes is Suno?”

“Remaught’s bodyguard,” he answered. “The Trothian in need of a soak.”

“How does he figure into this?”

Ard had worked the entire thing out as they drifted aimlessly in the cloud. That was his thing. Raek figured weights, trajectories, detonations. Ard figured people.

“Remaught wouldn’t have double-crossed us like this,” Ard began. “It would put too many of his goons in danger, sending them head‑to‑head with an armed Regulation patrol. Our ruse was solid. Remaught thought he got exactly what he wanted out of the transaction—a dirty Reggie in his pocket.

“Suno, on the other hand, wasn’t getting what he wanted. The bodyguard recently had a kid. Must have decided to go clean—looking for a way to get off Dronodan and get his new child back to the Trothian islets. So Suno sold out Remaught for safe passage. He must have told the real Reggies that one of their own was meeting with his mob boss. Only, the Regulators checked their staffing, saw that everyone was accounted for, and determined . . .”

“That I was a fake.” Raek finished the sentence.

Ard nodded. “And if you weren’t an actual Reggie, then you wouldn’t be heading back to the outpost. You’d be headed off the island as quickly as possible. Hence . . .” Ard motioned toward the patrol of Regulators just outside the Drift cloud.

“Flames, Ard,” Raek muttered. “I wanted to wring somebody’s neck for this setup. Now you tell me it’s a brand-new dad? You know I’ve got a soft spot for babies. Can’t be leaving fatherless children scattered throughout the Greater Chain. Guess I’ll have to wring your neck instead.”

“You already killed me once, Raek,” Ard said. “Look how that turned out.” He gestured at himself.

Ard knew Raek didn’t really blame him for their current predicament. No more than Ard blamed Raek when one of his detonations misfired.

Every ruse presented a series of variables. It was Ard’s job to control as many as possible, but sometimes things fell into the mix that Ard had no way of foreseeing. Ard couldn’t have known that Suno would be the bodyguard present at the transaction. And even if he had known, he couldn’t have predicted that Suno would turn against his boss.

Maybe it was time to close shop if they survived the day. Maybe seven years of successful rusing was more than he could ask for.

“There’s no way we’re walking out of this one, Ard,” said Raek.

“Oh, come on,” Ard answered. “We’ve been in worse situations before. Remember the Garin ruse, two years back? Nobody thought we could stay underwater that long.”

“If I remember correctly, that wasn’t really our choice. Someone was holding us underwater. Anyway, I said we aren’t walking out of this one.” Raek emphasized the word, gesturing down below. Their Drift cloud was surrounded. Goons on one side, Reggies on the other. But Raek had a conniving look on his face. “Take off your belt.”

Ard tilted his head in question. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, on account of us being in a Drift cloud and all. Unless your plan is to give the boys below a Moon Passing. You see, this belt happens to be the only thing currently holding up my trousers. Take it off, and my pants might just drift right off my hips. You know I’ve lost weight over this job, Raek.”

“Oh really?” Raek scoffed. “And how much do you think you weigh?”

Ard scratched behind his ear. “Not a panweight over one sixty-five.”

“Ha!” Raek replied. “Maybe back on Pekal. When you were with Tanalin.”

“Do you have to bring her up right now?” Ard said. “These might be my final moments, Raek.”

“Would you rather think about me in your final moments?” Raek asked.

“Ah! Homeland, no!” cried Ard. “I’d rather think about cream-filled pastries.”

“Like the ones you used to eat whenever we came ashore from Pekal . . . with Tanalin.”

“Raek!”

The big man chuckled. “Well, Ard, you’re not usually the type to let go of things.” He let out a fake cough, saying Tanalin’s name at the same time. “But I have to say, you’ve really let yourself go. You’re a hundred and seventy-eight panweights. Pushing closer to one eighty with every raspberry tart.”

Raek had a gift for that. The man could size up a person, or heft an object and tell you exactly how much it weighed. Useful skill for a detonation Mixer.

“Still less than you,” Ard muttered.

“Actually, given our current gravity-free surrounding, we both weigh exactly the same—nothing.”

Ard rolled his eyes. “And you wonder why you don’t have any friends.”

“Don’t mock the science,” said Raek. “It’s about to save our skins. Now give me your blazing belt!”

Ard had no idea what the man was planning, but nearly two decades of friendship had taught him that this was one of those moments when he should shut up and do whatever Raekon Dorrel said.

In a few moments, Ard’s belt was off, a surprisingly awkward task to perform while floating with both hands shackled. A gentle toss sent the belt floating to where Raek caught it. He held the thin strap of leather between his teeth while digging inside his Reggie coat for the gun belt.

“How many balls do you have?” Raek asked.

Ard made a face. “I’d think someone so good at mathematics wouldn’t have to ask that question.”

Raek sighed heavily, his developing plan obviously stifling his sense of humor. “Lead firing balls. In your Roller.”

“Oh, right.” Ard checked the chambers. “Coincidentally, I have two.”

“Reload.” Raek sent four cartridges drifting over to Ard, who caught them one at a time. The cartridges housed a premeasured amount of explosive Blast Grit in a thin papery material. At the top of the cartridge was the lead ball, held to the cylindrical cartridge with an adhesive.

Ard set the first cartridge, ball downward, into an open chamber. Twisting the Roller, he used a hinged ramrod on the underside of the barrel to tamp the ball and cartridge tightly into place.

It took him only a moment to reload, a practiced skill that couldn’t even be hindered by his shackles. When he looked up, Raek was floating sideways next to the wagon, holding Ard’s other Roller and making use of the belt he’d borrowed.

“What kind of arts and crafts are you up to?” Ard asked, seeing his friend’s handiwork.

Raek had taken every spare cartridge from Ard’s gun belt, a total of more than sixty rounds, and used the belt to lash them into a tight bundle. The barrel of the Roller was also tied down so the Slagstone hammer would make contact with the bundle of cartridges. The whole thing looked ridiculous. Not to mention incredibly dangerous.

“Our Barrier cloud is going to close any second,” Raek said. “I’ll get everything in position.” He shut his eyes the way he often did when required to do complicated mathematics under stressful circumstances. “You should probably get the safe box.”

Ard felt a sudden jolt of panic, remembering the whole purpose of the ruse. Glancing down, he was relieved to see that their stolen prize was still floating within the confines of their Barrier cloud, not adrift and unprotected like the poor horse.

Ard judged the distance, reaching out to feel the Barrier wall; solid and impenetrable. He shoved off, a little harder than intended, his body spinning and coming in at the wrong angle.

Ard’s forehead struck the safe box. A painful way to be reunited, but it gave Ard the chance to reach out and grab it. For a moment he expected the box to feel heavy in his arms, but weight didn’t exist in a Drift cloud.

Ard was just bracing himself to hit the bottom of the Barrier cloud when it burned out. He passed the spot where the invisible perimeter should have stopped him, momentum carrying him downward through the weightlessness of the lingering Drift cloud.

Ard slammed into the road, a clod of dirt floating up from his impact. A gunshot cracked and a lead ball zipped past. Normally, Ard enjoyed having his feet on solid ground. But with the goons and Reggies standing off on the road, he suddenly found himself directly in the line of fire.

“Ardor!” Raek shouted from above. “Get back up here!”

Lying on his back on the road at the bottom of the Drift cloud, Ard saw Raek and the wagon sinking almost imperceptibly toward him. The full strength of the Drift cloud had expired. Prolonging Grit kept it from collapsing entirely, but the effect of pure weightlessness would continue to diminish until both types of Grit fizzled out.

Gripping the safe box against his chest, Ard kicked off the road and sprang upward, the Drift cloud allowing him to float effortlessly upward.

“Gotcha!” Raek grabbed Ard’s sleeve, pulling him against the flat bed of the empty wagon.

Raek carefully reached out, taking hold of a thin string. It looked strange, lying flat in the air like a stiff wire. “What we’re about to do is among the more experimental methods of escaping.”

“You mean, you don’t know if it’s going to work?” Ard said.

“I did the math in my head. Twice. It should . . .” He dwindled off. “I have no idea.”

“Do I want to know what’s tied to the other end of that string?” Ard asked.

“Remember how I lashed your other Roller onto that bundle of Blast Grit cartridges?”

Ard’s eyes went wide. “Flames, Raek! That’s going to blow us both to . . .”

Raek pulled the string. Ard heard the click of the gun’s trigger on the other side of the wagon. The Slagstone hammer threw sparks, instantly accompanied by one of the loudest explosions Ard had ever heard.

The two men slammed against the wagon as it grew hot, fire belching around them on all sides. The energy from the explosion hurtled the broken wagon on an upward angle, a trajectory Ard hoped was in line with whatever blazing plan Raek had just committed them to.

They exited the top of the Drift cloud, and Ard felt gravity return around him. It didn’t seem to matter much, however, since both men were sailing through the air at breakneck velocity. The burning wagon started to fall away behind them, like a comet soaring over the heads of the Reggies.

Raek reached out, grasping Ard’s coat at the neck to keep the two of them from separating in the air. Ard had a lot of questions for his big friend. Namely, How the blazing sparks are we going to get down? But Ard couldn’t breathe, let alone speak.

They were at the apex of their flight, any moment to begin the death-sentence descent, when Raek reached up with his free hand and ripped something off his ammunition sash. It was a Grit bolt, but the clay arrowhead was a different color from the Barrier bolts Ard had used earlier.

Raek gripped the shaft in one hand. Reaching back, he smashed the clay tip against Ard’s left shoulder. The Grit detonated, throwing a fresh Drift cloud around them.

Ard felt the weightlessness return, along with a throb on his shoulder from where Raek had detonated the bolt. Guess he had that coming.

In this smaller, new Drift cloud, high over the road, the two men were no longer falling. They were shooting straight through the air, their velocity and trajectory maintained in the weightless environment.

In a flash, they had passed out the other side of the cloud. But before gravity could begin pulling them down, Raek detonated a second Drift bolt, this time shattering the clay tip on Ard’s other shoulder.

They were flying. Sparks! Actually flying! High over the heads of their enemies, leaving both Regulators and goons behind. A few lead balls were fired in their direction, but there was little chance of getting hit, moving at the rate they were, spinning dizzying circles through the air.

One after another, Raek detonated the Drift bolts, the discolored clouds slightly overlapping as the two men shot horizontally through the air.

The concept of propelling an object over long distances through a series of detonated Drift clouds was not unheard‑of. It was the basis for moving heavy materials used in the construction of tall buildings. But for a person to fly like this, unsheltered, the only calculations done impromptu and under gunfire. This was madness and genius, mixed and detonated on the spot.

The two flying men cleared the cliff shoreline, and Ard saw the harbor and docks just below. They exited the latest Drift cloud, the eighth, as Ard was made painfully aware from the welts on his back, and finally began to descend. Gravity ruled over them once more, and Ard judged that they’d slam down right against the first wooden dock.

“Two more!” Raek shouted. He crushed another Drift bolt on Ard’s back, maintaining the angle of their fall and buying them a little more distance. As soon as they exited, Raek detonated the last bolt. They soared downward, past the docks and moored ships. Ard saw the Double Take below, docked in the farthest spot, a tactical location to speed their getaway.

They exited the final cloud and Ard watched the rapidly approaching water. He had hoped for a more elegant ending to their haphazard flight. Instead, he’d be hitting the bay at tremendous speeds, shackles locked around both wrists, holding a terribly heavy safe box.

Well, I’m certainly not bored, thought Ardor Benn. He took a deep breath.

* * *

It begins here. Although, for me, I suppose this is something of an ending.