There was a knock at the door. Everyone froze, and Ard’s hand slipped off Quarrah’s knee. Nobody knocked at the bakery’s hidden door. Mearet, the baker, knew better than to bother them, and as far as Quarrah knew, no one else was aware that the upper room even existed.
The door flew open. Ard leapt to his feet, a Roller appearing in his hand. A tall, broad figure squeezed through the small doorway, winter coat unbuttoned and bald head exposed.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much did everybody miss me?”
“Raek, you old scoundrel!” Ard holstered his Roller. “I nearly put a ball in you. Give us a little warning next time.”
“I gave the secret knock.” Raek shut the door behind him.
“I didn’t know we had a secret knock,” said Ard. Quarrah was relieved to know that she wasn’t the only one.
“Well, it wouldn’t be very secret if everyone knew it.” Raek dropped his coat on the floor as he crossed eagerly to the plate of pastries.
“Hello, Raekon.” Elbrig’s greeting was rather flat. “How unpleasant to see you here.”
Raek paused to stare at Cinza and Elbrig, as if attempting to see past their faces. “Trying to decide if you look as ugly as the last time I saw you two.” He picked up an apple tart and fit the entire thing into his mouth.
“How was your trip?” Ard asked. “Useful, I imagine. You were gone long enough.”
“These things take time,” Raek answered through the mouthful.
The big man had been gone for three full cycles. Quarrah felt like she’d become an entirely different person in that amount of time. In a way, wasn’t that exactly what the disguise managers had been hired to do?
“I’ve got our Grit factory,” announced Raek. “Mordell and Sons. It’s on the southern coast of Strind, about an hour outside Hothrow. Small, but not too small. Quick access to and from the water. Private security. I stashed the things we’ll need to move the Slagstone in and get it processed.”
“Good work.” Ard helped himself to a pastry as though he’d accomplished something, too.
That was it? Good work? Quarrah doubted that Raek was as thorough as she would have been. Surveilling a building was her specialty. She manipulated locks and doors like Ard manipulated people.
How many access points? Doors, grates, vents? What kind of locks, and how many hinges on the doors? How many security guards, and at what times did the shifts change?
Quarrah was surprised at how comfortable it felt to drop back into her favorite thoughts. She’d spent so much time being Azania lately: posing, curtsying, memorizing lyrics. She had almost forgotten what it was to be a thief.
“Looks like you’re all in the middle of something,” said Raek. “Just wanted to pop in before I chase down another lead.”
Ard nodded. “Quarrah and I have an event tomorrow. Our first foray into royal society. I’ll fill you in on everything later tonight. Where are you off to now?”
Raek retrieved his fallen coat. “I think I’ve selected a forger to make the replica of the Royal Regalia,” he said. “Thought I’d set up a meeting so you can decide if he’s the one we should use.”
“Sounds great,” answered Ard. “Glad to have you back.” The bald man nodded and slipped out the door.
“What an unpleasant interruption,” Cinza remarked. “Let’s get back to business. What do you say if someone asks your thoughts on Crementi’s Symphony in F Major?”
“I enjoyed the exposition,” Quarrah said, “but I found the development a bit drawn out.”
Sparks, what was she even saying? It was easy to recite the phrases Cinza had taught her, but Quarrah didn’t really know what they meant. It was one thing to say them here, in the comfort of the bakery, where everyone knew she was an imposter. But to declare such statements in public, and attempt to pass them off as her own?
What had she gotten herself into? Oh, flames. Quarrah Khai was in over her head.
I am learning so much. The island is a ruthless tutor, but I find its lessons fascinating.
CHAPTER
10
Remember,” Ard whispered, popping open the carriage door, “you look dazzling.”
He meant what he said. Cinza had really put the final touches on Quarrah. If Ard didn’t know better, he certainly wouldn’t suspect that beneath those thick-rimmed spectacles and that cascade of red hair was Quarrah Khai.
It wasn’t just her looks, Ard realized. Quarrah carried herself differently when she was Azania. She stood to her full height without a hint of apology, though her heels and hair actually made her look slightly taller than Ard. She seemed confident but approachable. If Ard weren’t Dale Hizror, he would have been jealous of the man.
But beneath it all, Ard knew Quarrah was shaking. He could feel the slight tremble in her fingers as she placed her palm against his in the traditional style of escorting one’s betrothed.
“Just breathe,” Ard whispered. “You look perfectly natural. Like you’ve done this a hundred times.”
This compliment was slightly exaggerated, but that was Ard’s specialty. Like a carpenter’s tools, his words served important functions, and he treated them carefully. A public ruse like this did not come naturally to Quarrah, which was all the more reason to tell her she was doing great.
Cinza’s methods were too hard on Quarrah. She learned the skills, but Ard knew the lessons left her discouraged. Ard’s crafted words needed to repair any damage the disguise manager inflicted and make Quarrah feel like she could do this.
Ard always said that forty percent of any successful ruse was planning. The remaining sixty percent was confidence. If Quarrah believed she could be a talented soprano, others would buy into it, regardless of her actual skill.
Detonations of Light Grit hung in the night air like giant, stagnant fireflies, illuminating the steps as Ard and Quarrah approached the palace. That kind of illumination was an expensive effect, since the Light Grit blasts above didn’t appear to be diluted with cheaper Prolonging Grit. Their blaze was bright, but each blast would last only ten minutes or so.
Overhead, Ard saw the young servant responsible. The boy was igniting fuses and gently tossing Light Grit teabags from a balcony. They fell only a few feet before detonating midair, resulting in more hanging clouds of bright light.
Quarrah’s dress, the color of ripe strawberries, shimmered in the glow, her fox-fur coat pulled close about her slender neck. Last night’s Moon Passing had marked the official onset of winter, and the chill air nipped at Ard’s freshly shaven chin. He missed the beard already.
They reached the top of the stairs and paused on a wide landing before the palace doors. There was a wooden podium with a finely dressed man checking invitations against the guest list.
Several palace Regulators were standing at attention, Rollers holstered, sashes of Grit bolts across their chests, with crossbows in hand. Their uniforms were cut in the same style and pattern as the blue Reggies of the streets. But red was the color of the palace guards.
Quarrah was growing visibly more nervous as they waited in line. Ard needed to get some wine in her quickly.
“This building is incredible, isn’t it?” Ard drew Quarrah’s attention to the fine stonework around the entrance. “More than two hundred years old, and still in perfect condition.”
“The mortar on the right of the keystone has been weakened from settling,” said Quarrah. “A well-placed detonation of Void Grit …”
Ard wrapped his fingers around her hand and squeezed uncomfortably hard. Sparks! That was definitely Quarrah speaking. She needed to get into character before they went inside.
Quarrah cleared her throat, straightened her back a little, and said, “Lovely. It’s absolutely lovely,” in a tone that was quite unlike her.
Ard and Quarrah finally stepped up to the podium. “Good evening,” said the attendant. Quarrah curtsied like Cinza had taught her.
“Dale Hizror,” Ard said, slightly changing the timbre of his voice to match the coachi
ng Elbrig had given him. “This is my fiancée, Azania Fyse.” He handed two invitations to the man, who briefly checked them against a list of names on his podium.
The attendant looked up and nodded. “Enjoy the evening, sir and madam.”
Ard heard Quarrah exhale sharply, an unintentional sigh of relief as he whisked her along, passing through the grand palace entrance.
Once inside, a cordon of velvety ropes created a pathway, funneling all the guests through the open foyer.
Ard watched Quarrah’s head turning like an owl hunting prey. She’s mapping the place, he realized with a slight smile. There was a reason he had picked Quarrah Khai to join his ruse. Her unique perspective and attention to detail made her a valuable part of the team. Especially when it came to directions. Ard usually had a hard time even remembering which door he’d entered through. He was always more concerned about what happened in the room.
They rounded a corner and ascended some stairs, never out of sight from a red-uniformed Regulator. At last, they passed through open double doors to the room where the reception was being held.
Ardor Benn had finagled his way into plenty of fancy, important places, but the reception at the king’s palace was unlike anything he’d seen before.
There was a hearth on every wall, each burning with a large cloud of Heat Grit. Ard had never seen so much of the stuff in one place. Heat Grit was clean, smokeless, and convenient to ignite, but it was usually only used by the wealthy as a supplement to regular fire. This was unrivaled extravagance.
Several serving tables were arrayed with such fine food that Raek would have lost all dignity right there. Taller tables with high stools were positioned around the room. Ard immediately identified those as the focal points of conversation.
On each table was a vase of flowers. Flowers? It was winter! They must have been transported from the very southern tip of Espar. That alone would have cost more than most citizens earned in a year.
In the center of the room was an ornamental tree, its roots housed in a giant pot, framed by a low bench. High overhead, Ard noticed a handful of hanging Light Grit chandeliers, of a fashion he had seen only a few times, in the richest manors of the Greater Chain.
A servant stood beside the wall-mounted Slagstone ignitor switch, ready to operate it with a sharp tug of a cord. Housed within the stone wall would be a small chamber full of Prolonged Light Grit. When detonated from the switch, the blast would be forced upward through a network of thin pipes embedded in the walls. The glowing Light cloud would ultimately emerge through openings in the chandelier, forming luminescent orbs that hung where candles would normally be.
When the illumination began to fade, the servant would signal a worker in the room below, who would give a few pumps on a bellows, forcing fresh Light Grit into the chamber, ready for detonation.
It was a brilliant piece of engineering, although an inefficient use of Light Grit, essentially hiding half of the glowing detonation in the pipes concealed within the walls. But it was convenient. And impressive. Ard had learned that those qualities always trumped frugality when it came to the rich and royal.
There were more people in the room than Ard expected. That would make it easier to avoid the ones Elbrig had warned them about, but harder to find the ones they were supposed to connect with.
The patrons stood around, sipping wine, nibbling cheese. There was a buzz of conversation that was almost stifling.
At least there wasn’t any dancing at these preconcert receptions. Dancing required music. Music required musicians. And all the best musicians would be in attendance to enjoy a night off.
Ard had learned from past experience that dancing led to trouble. How could it not, when two dancers found themselves locked together for the duration of an entire musical selection? Dancing was just an excuse to bleed each other for valuable information.
“Shall we get something to drink, my love?” Ard didn’t wait for Quarrah to answer, leading her across the expansive room.
They had just passed the centerpiece tree, when a woman, boisterous laughter on her lips, stepped back from her tall table.
“Excuse me,” Ard apologized, unavoidably bumping into her.
“Not at all.” She smiled broadly. “Care to join us?”
“Actually,” Quarrah cut in, her voice somewhat annoyed, “we were getting a drink.”
“Come now, Azania.” Ard glanced sharply at her. “There will be plenty of time for drinks. Let’s meet these good people.”
Ard didn’t mean to antagonize his fiancée, but the woman who had bumped into him had made an invitation, and Ard wasn’t going to pass that up. Besides, their whole purpose in coming to the reception was to spread their names around this social circle.
Quarrah maintained an unamused face as they stepped over to the tall table. There was little Ard could do to ease Quarrah’s discomfort. She was supposed to be going for lovely and soft-spoken, but more and more, Azania seemed to be shaping up into a blunt and tense personality. If she didn’t turn it around soon, people would start to scatter when they saw her coming.
They made their introductions around the table. Fortunately, none of the folks Elbrig had cautioned them about were among the group. But this was a talkative bunch, and a nice mix. Four of them were of noble standing. One was a wealthy property owner, and the other two were musicians.
“And what is it you do, Mr. Hizror?” asked a nobleman.
“Oh, a little of everything,” Ard answered humbly. “I’ve spent much of my life traveling.”
“Really?” chimed the property owner. “Where’s the most interesting place you’ve been?”
Ard stroked his mustache. “I once took a tour of lower Pekal. It’s one thing to see the mountains from the InterIsland Waters, but to stand at the base of them …” He whistled softly. “As far as the Greater Chain, I love the old cities along the coast of Talumon. In fact, I spent the summers of ’29 and ’30 in Octowyn. Beautiful place.”
“There’s a music conservatory there,” said one of the musicians, a woman with a low-cut dress.
“That’s right,” Ard answered. “Marvelous campus.”
“Ever been to Strind?” asked the property baron. “I own a lot of land there.”
“Of course,” Ard replied. “I was actually raised on Strind, believe it or not.”
“What part?” asked the man.
“Little township.” Ard waved his hand. “I’d be surprised if you’ve heard of it.”
“What’s the name?”
“Nint,” answered Ard.
The landowner nodded his head. “I know Nint. Just outside of Billis.”
Ard laughed, slapping his hand gently against the table. “You’re kidding! That’s fantastic! I miss that rural air sometimes.”
There was a slight lull in the conversation. But Ard wanted the hints he’d just dropped to percolate in the minds of his current company. He was doing rather well already. The conversation seemed quite natural.
“These flowers are not irises!” Quarrah abruptly reached across the table and seized the centerpiece. “Dale proposed to me with a bouquet of blue irises. That’s the flower of his family’s crest.”
Sparks, Quarrah! What was she doing? Ard knew that thieving required great subtlety. Could she not employ that same skill to conversation? He blamed it on nerves. Nerves made people do strange things.
Ard covered the awkward moment with a laugh, taking the vase from Quarrah’s hand and placing it back on the table. “My Azania,” he said. “She loves all things bright, blue, and beautiful. Something of a delicate flower herself, really.” He put his arm around her waist, the fine fabric of her dress smooth against his palm.
“So, a country man of Strind with a flair for romance,” asked the flirtatious noblewoman who had bumped into Ard. “What brought you to Beripent?”
“The music,” he answered. “I wish I could say I was an instrumentalist, but it’s been years since I’ve dusted off the violin. Now I’m s
omething of an aspiring composer.”
Impressed nods went around the table. “Then you must meet Noet Farasse,” said the woman musician. “He’s here tonight, of course. We’re performing his Unified Aria at the concert next week.”
“That would be wonderful!” Ard exclaimed. “Would you mind pointing him out to us, so we can remain on the lookout for an opportunity to approach?”
The other musician, a tall, slender man, took a brief step away from the table before returning to point through the crowd. “He’s at that far table with Lorstan Grale.” Ard squinted in that direction, feeling Quarrah do the same. There were two men seated on stools, an air of unapproachability isolating them from everyone else in the room.
“Farasse’s the broad one with the green shoulder cape,” said the musician.
“Thank you,” said Ard. How convenient that the conductor was at the same table as the composer. “And I know my fiancée was quite looking forward to meeting next week’s soloist.”
“Ah, Kercha Gant,” said one of the noblemen. “She’s over there.” He pointed to the opposite side of the room. “She’s looking tempting in that blue gown tonight, wouldn’t you say?”
Ard cleared his throat. “I’m sure I wouldn’t notice such things,” he said coyly, offering his hand to Quarrah. “Come, my dear. Now would be a great time for that drink you spoke of earlier.” He bowed to the people at the table and gently guided Quarrah away.
“That was good, working in Octowyn,” Quarrah whispered when they were out of earshot. “And did you notice what I did with the flowers?”
“Yeah,” Ard muttered. “I noticed.”
They reached the serving tables, and Ard filled a small plate to share with Quarrah. A few half slices of artisan bread, cheese, and some sort of bite-sized vegetable with bacon wrapped around it. Raek would like those. Of course, he’d like them even better without the vegetable.
“What would you like to drink?” asked an aproned bartender. An assortment of bottles and glassware were spread across the draped bar. A far cry from taverns like the Staggering Bull. Ard would have liked a simple ale, but Dale wouldn’t be likely to drink such a common beverage. Especially at an event like this.
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 17
