The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Faking your own death is surprisingly satisfying,” said the toothless man.

  “And liberating,” Ard added. “I tried it once. Really gives you a chance to start fresh.”

  The entire exchange made Quarrah feel like a fool. Costumes! She should have seen through them!

  “Still trying to wrap your head around it?” Elbrig asked. “The trick to a good disguise isn’t in hiding your face. It’s in drawing attention to something else. Something memorable.” He leaned forward. “What’s the first thing that pops into your mind when you think of the carriage driver?”

  “He was obese,” Quarrah answered without hesitation.

  “What did his face look like?” asked Elbrig.

  Quarrah opened her mouth to answer, but realized she had nothing to say. She felt shallow, but the driver’s face hadn’t made an impression when compared to his overwhelming girth.

  “What about the man in the alleyway?” Elbrig said.

  “He had a pointed black beard,” answered Quarrah.

  “When we see people,” Elbrig stroked his bare chin, “our minds lock on to specific details. A good disguise enhances the details you want remembered, and drowns out the things we can’t change.”

  “The old hag,” said Quarrah. “I remember her voice. Her hair. Her nose.”

  “As planned,” said Cinza, tapping her own nose, which now looked very different. Must have been some sort of putty. A sculpted nose, and Quarrah hadn’t noticed?

  “Her makeup,” Quarrah said about the alley woman. “The red dress and blond hair in ringlets.”

  Quarrah suddenly understood the raw appearance of the couple before her. It was much easier to change teeth and hairstyles when you didn’t have any to start with. This was a whole new level of dedication to craft.

  “Now let’s see what we can make of you,” Cinza said, causing Quarrah to shift uncomfortably. “You have nice features, but they’re underutilized.”

  So much attention. Half the reason Quarrah had become a thief was to skirt attention. Cinza leaned across the carriage, touching Quarrah’s face. “Cheeks could use more color. Your hair is entirely too flat and shapeless. And your ears are a bit on the large side.”

  Quarrah scoffed, folding her arms defensively. “If I’m so imperfect, why did you agree to meet me at all?”

  “I said you have potential,” explained Cinza. “If a chef turned down all her ingredients, what would she use to cook a masterpiece? You have nice elbows.”

  “Elbows?” Quarrah straightened her arms self-consciously.

  Cinza reached out and poked Quarrah softly in the breast. “Hmmm …”

  Quarrah gasped, swatting away the strange woman’s hands. “What do you mean, ‘hmmm’?”

  “She could do with a bit more bosom,” Cinza said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ardy?”

  Ard looked down at the carriage floor, and for once Quarrah thought the blushing might have befallen him. “Whatever you say, Cinza.”

  “What about Ard?” Quarrah asked. She wasn’t going to endure this scrutinizing alone. “What about his features?”

  “Ardy?” Cinza cried. “He has a nearly perfect face!”

  Quarrah rolled her eyes. She would have enjoyed seeing Ard brought down a little.

  “It’s true,” replied Elbrig. “And while I hate to have him cover it up, I must insist that he start growing a beard at once.”

  “You have someone in mind for us?” Ard asked.

  “A few good options,” answered Elbrig. “You need to work your way into the social circles of the rich and royal folk to access the palace, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Ard said. “But don’t make us royalty.”

  “Blegh.” Cinza pretended to throw up. “Royalty is a mess. We don’t build those profiles anymore. Bloodlines are too blazing tight on these islands. Royalty’s a bunch of Moonsick inbreds.”

  “We’ll work you in from another angle,” assured Elbrig. He turned to Quarrah. “Do you have any particular skills that might help us select your identity?”

  “I can pick locks,” she answered. “And pockets.”

  “You can bottle those skills for a while,” said Cinza. “Any skills useful for a lady of high class?”

  Quarrah considered it. She’d surveyed a lot of manors and estates, watched a lot of rich folk go about their frivolous daily activities. They always seemed so foreign. So proper. Did she have anything in common with the people she stole from?

  “I can drink tea,” answered Quarrah.

  “She can drink tea!” Cinza cried merrily, slapping her knee. Elbrig nearly burst the buttons on his long underwear. It was meant to be a joke. They knew that, right?

  “Well, that doesn’t give us much to work with,” said Elbrig. “We may have to charge extra for the amount of tutoring this one will require.”

  Ard nodded. “We’d like to get started right away.”

  “Of course,” answered Cinza. “Tonight’s the Moon Passing. Fifth Cycle starts tomorrow. We’ll begin the day after that.”

  “Should give us time to get our documentation and wardrobe together,” added Elbrig. “Half payment will be due upon signing. The other half will be paid out through the course of the tutoring sessions.” Elbrig glanced at Quarrah. “Additional fees may apply.”

  “That’s more than acceptable,” answered Ard.

  Cinza reached across the carriage and pinched his cheek affectionately. “Oh, Ardy. That’s why we love doing business with you. You’re just so blazing agreeable.” She turned to Quarrah. “I meant what I said by the alley. This man’s the catch of a lifetime. You better treat him right.”

  Quarrah rubbed her hands across her face, trying not to let herself get too flustered. They wanted a reaction out of her, but she’d remain composed. “We’re not …” She sighed. “We are not a couple, spark it all!” So much for composed.

  “No,” Cinza said. “But you will be, starting day after tomorrow.”

  Elbrig threw open the carriage door and stepped out to the street, a startling sight with his toothless mouth, shaved head, and long underwear. Cinza slid out after him, blowing Ard a kiss. “See you at the bakery! Midday. Two days’ time!”

  The door shut, and Quarrah sat in stunned silence. Of all the strange folk she’d encountered in her life … the crazies. Raek was right.

  “I suppose I should drive us back to the Char,” Ard said.

  “Don’t do that again,” Quarrah said as he moved for the door.

  “Do what?”

  “Play me like that.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “I’m not here to be rused, Ardor Benn. I’m not here for your personal entertainment. You asked me to join you for a job, and I intend to do it.” She took a deep breath. “But if you trick me like that again, then I might be tempted to try out my particular skill set on you.”

  Ard stared at her for a moment before nodding. “I’m sorry about today. It wasn’t my idea. Elbrig and Cinza needed to screen you. We’re all on the same page now. It won’t happen again.” He popped open the door. “I promise, dear.”

  “Dear?” Quarrah repeated, as he stepped down to the street.

  Ard smiled at her. “Just getting into character. You heard what Cinza said. And while I’m at it, how many kids do you think we should have? Is seven too many? I hope they have your eyes.”

  Quarrah blushed one more time as the carriage door shut.

  The twilight plays tricks on my eyes. I mistook a rock for a bear. A vine for a snake. Perhaps my own insecurities cause me to see things the wrong way.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Ard and Quarrah waited by the racks of baked goods near the bakery’s shopfront entrance. Mearet bustled in and out, hauling sacks of flour from a wagon on the street to the storage room in the back. The driver of the delivery wagon was also a Trothian, and Ard heard the two of them conversing in their native tongue.

  Ard wondered what the older generations thought about the inclusion of Trothians into
the Greater Chain. There had always been an undercurrent of mistrust and fear between the two races, dating clear back to speculative history—before any consistent documentation.

  Supposedly, the Landers had sailed from the Homeland, arriving to find a chain of uninhabited islands. The Trothians came later, arriving in “ships that the eye could not behold.” Ard remembered that phrase from school, though he didn’t have a blazing idea what it meant.

  Over the space of a few generations, Trothians slew hundreds of thousands of Landers before the tides turned. Some speculate that the Landers were able to summon the first Paladin Visitant. Others say that the Trothians willingly withdrew. Whatever the case, the Trothians took up residence on their small islets, and the races had been kept separate ever since.

  Language, rituals, and the fact that Landers and Trothians could not interbreed all created natural divides. But King Pethredote had taken great steps to overcoming centuries of estrangement.

  Brave pioneers like Mearet and the wagon driver were changing history, one cinnamon scone at a time.

  “Breakfast?” He offered Quarrah a sticky glazed fritter.

  “Lunch,” she answered, pushing it away. “They’re late.”

  Not by Ard’s standards. It was only a few minutes past noon. Elbrig and Cinza operated on a similar clock. Besides, the waiting had given Ard plenty of time to watch Quarrah fidget while he ate his fill of pastries.

  Quarrah was agitated today. Ard could tell by the way she shifted her weight, her hands clenched into fists. She was wearing all black, as though she might have to sneak into a dark place in broad daylight. Never mind that. Cinza would have her out of those drab clothes soon enough.

  Ard rubbed a hand across his stubbly chin. It had been years since he’d grown a beard. Since Pekal. Tanalin used to say it increased his looks tenfold. Now he was afraid it would only make him look old.

  Ard finished off his scone and started on something that looked like a strudel. The pastries were paid for as a necessary part of the ruse. Ard had been to the Mooring to see Isle Halavend just yesterday. Lyndel hadn’t been present, and the meeting was as brief as ever. Ard gave the old Isle another list of his expenditures, as well as an estimate for the disguise managers’ services.

  Ard had pressed Halavend for his motives with the Visitant Grit, but the old man still refused to entertain the topic. He dismissed Ard, who received his reimbursement at a predetermined drop site in the Char, a safe box concealed behind vines that covered the crumbled wall of a historic edifice.

  A bell chimed, causing Ard to look up from where he’d been tracing his finger through a flour-dusted tabletop.

  “Elbrig!” Ard clapped his hands in warm welcome. The man didn’t look at all like his natural self—the version they’d met inside the carriage two days ago.

  In place of his bald head was a wavy blond hairpiece, looking extremely realistic. In place of his toothless gums was a mouthful of straight, white teeth. And in place of his long underwear, he wore dark trousers and a gray shirt with modest sleeves. Over one shoulder, Elbrig carried a sack so large it nearly dragged on the threshold.

  Cinza appeared behind him with a similar bag. She wore a simple brown skirt and sensible leather shoes. Like Elbrig, Cinza looked a shade paler than she had in the carriage. She had a straight row of teeth, and a blond wig that reached past her shoulders, plain and uninspiring.

  This couple standing in the bakery was the closest thing to Elbrig Taut and Cinza Ortemion that anyone got to see with regularity. Unaltered faces, simple hairstyles, and plain clothes. If they weren’t playing a role, they didn’t want to stand out. In their current apparel they were the kind of people who were looked at halfheartedly and instantly forgotten.

  “Thank the Homeland I’ve come,” Cinza said, eyeing Quarrah. “Your wardrobe is in distress.”

  Quarrah glanced down and began to justify the usefulness of black for someone in her line of work. Elbrig cut her off.

  “I like the new digs.” He shifted his sack and snatched a doughnut off the display rack.

  “Even His Majesty had great things to say about this place.” Ard pointed to a frame on the wall. It displayed King Pethredote’s signature, scribed in charcoal across a scrap of parchment.

  Cinza peered at it. “Forgery,” she muttered.

  Ard shook his head. “Mearet swears to the Homeland that it’s real. Said King Pethredote visited this establishment when she first opened some five years back.”

  “The Trothian can’t even see what’s on the paper.” Cinza waved her hand, still unconvinced.

  “Oh, I’m a believer!” Elbrig declared through a mouthful. “This is delectable.”

  “Mearet’s the best,” Ard said as the stout woman ducked into the back room with the final sack of flour over her shoulder. “Sometimes I think she’s just fattening me up for the slaughter.”

  Ard led them to the false brick oven. It took some assistance, but Elbrig was able to finagle his large bundled sack up the ladder and into the secret meeting room.

  “Where’s Raekon?” Cinza asked, scanning the room’s chalkboard, table, and chairs.

  “He’s off to Strind. Investigating something,” answered Ard. “Probably be gone for some time, so you don’t have to worry about seeing him.”

  “I’d be more worried about hearing him,” said Elbrig. “Big oaf, lumbering about like a dragon with a stubbed toe.”

  “What is it you don’t like about Raek?” Quarrah asked.

  “We like him fine,” said Elbrig. “He’s just so … undisguisable. Mountain of a man, with his head as round and shiny as the Moon. Can’t trust someone like that, who always walks around looking exactly how they’re supposed to look.”

  “You’ll be proud to know that Raek has recently been successful in disguising himself as a Reggie,” Ard pointed out. “On two separate occasions.”

  “Wonder what kind of Moonsick fool he was able to trick,” Elbrig muttered.

  Ard glanced at Quarrah, but decided not to say anything about it. Telling them that Raek’s disguise had fooled her would not start them on the right foot. Quarrah needed all the good favor she could muster.

  Cinza kicked a chair so that it slid to a stop in the center of the room. Then, grabbing Quarrah by the elbow, Cinza plopped her down rather forcefully.

  “You could always ask me to sit, you know,” Quarrah protested. Ard flinched as something appeared from the pocket of Cinza’s simple outfit.

  Scissors.

  Cinza made two complete snips before Quarrah realized what was happening. She leapt from the chair, whirling on Cinza, who stood with scissors in one hand and two long locks of Quarrah’s blondish hair in the other.

  “What are you …?” Quarrah gasped, running her fingers along the back of her head. Her face was twisted in shock.

  Cinza held up the scissors impatiently. “Well, I’m not done.”

  “You’re not touching my hair,” Quarrah whispered.

  The disguise manager held up the locks she’d already claimed. “Might as well let me finish now.” She shrugged. “Can’t get any worse at this point.”

  Ard watched Quarrah take a few steadying breaths. “Cinza wouldn’t cut it unless there was good reason,” he tried to explain.

  “Ardy’s right,” said Cinza. “Dirty blond hair of your length will hardly leave a lasting impression. We need to fix you up with something to make a mark. Something to draw attention away from that face.”

  Ard sighed. Cinza could be so tactless.

  “What’s wrong with my face?” Quarrah asked.

  “Absolutely nothing,” Ard said. And he meant it. There was an unrefined beauty to Quarrah’s appearance. The juxtaposition of that light hair against her dark eyes. But Cinza was never satisfied with anyone’s base appearance.

  “The fact is,” said Elbrig, “we’d rather not alter your face.”

  “At least we agree on that point,” muttered Quarrah.

  “Instead,” continued Elb
rig, “we want to draw attention away from it. Draw the eye to other, more distinguishing features.”

  “It’s a compliment, really,” Ard said. Coming from those two.

  “Is that so, Mister Perfect Face?” Quarrah’s hands were in fists at her sides, but she sat stiffly before Cinza.

  “Nothing too radical,” Cinza said. “A shorter cut makes it easier to get a wig on and off properly.” This coming from a woman with a shaved scalp.

  Elbrig moved across the room and plucked a little piece of chalk from the blackboard’s frame. Ard knew the disguise managers would appreciate the chalkboard’s dramatic flair. Elbrig turned with a grin to face his new pupils.

  “Cinza and I have carefully selected two personas that should allow you to insert yourself into high society,” he began. “Your point of access is the Royal Orchestra.”

  Elbrig flourished the piece of chalk and scrawled the word orchestra.

  “You want us to join the king’s orchestra?” Ard liked the plan already. Bold, public, with results that could get them access to many parts of the palace.

  “I feel like I shouldn’t have to point this out,” said Quarrah, holding her head still as Cinza kept snipping, “but I don’t actually play an instrument.”

  Ard wasn’t surprised. He didn’t know much about music, either. Learning an instrument was an indication of class. No one was forbidden from the study, but lessons and opportunities were made much more available to certain bloodlines, or families with enough Ashings to earn them clout among royalty.

  “Pooey!” Elbrig scoffed. “I didn’t say you needed to play an instrument. I said you were going to join the orchestra.”

  Quarrah tried to look at Ard, but Cinza tugged her head another direction. “Am I missing something?”

  “Let me introduce you to the people you are about to become.” Elbrig turned back to write some more. Now that Ard was sitting at the table, he wondered if the chalkboard came across so tedious when he used it.

  “Ardor will take the role of Dale Hizror.” Elbrig underlined the name, and scrawled a few more details as he explained them. “Raised in the rural leeward side of Strind, a township called Nint, Dale grew to young adulthood on a family-owned hog farm.”