The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  One guard was slumped against the large door to the throne room, unconscious. The other lay facedown on the stone floor.

  “Sparks, Ard,” she whispered. “What was that?”

  “Smooth talking,” he answered, stepping up to the second drum. “What?” He shrugged. “It’s common knowledge that Dale Hizror has a bit of a temper.”

  “That’s not a temper,” Quarrah pointed out. “That’s downright assault.”

  “Dale only has to last the night,” Ard answered, unclasping the latches on the second drum and lifting the rim. “Come tomorrow, he’ll be an enigma once more.”

  Ard reached into the drum and hoisted out a large bag with leather straps for handles. It was the replica regalia, supposedly an indistinguishable match to the original in weight, size, color, and texture.

  Ard deposited the large bundle on the floor beside Quarrah. “I need some Barrier Grit,” he answered, closing the lids on both drums.

  “For what?”

  He gestured to the two unconscious guards. “They’re going to have a lot to say when they wake up. I want to make sure they’re contained. At least until you have a chance to get out with the real regalia.”

  Quarrah undid one of her Grit belts and offered it to Ard, who studied it with a surprised expression.

  “Raek labeled the Grit pots for you?” There was a hint of dramatic hurt in his voice.

  Quarrah rolled her eyes and dropped onto one knee to examine the lock on the throne room door. It was as simple as she’d anticipated, and her tools were out in a flash.

  “Why doesn’t Raek label my Grit pots?” Ard carried on, unbuttoning his vest and lifting his shirt to fasten the belt around his bare middle. “He’s always telling me I have to memorize the color code. That Moonsick cheater, playing favorites like that …”

  Quarrah paid no attention to Ard as he dragged the first man down the hallway to the nearest unlocked door. She had her eyes closed, and her ear pressed against the door just above the mortise lock.

  It wasn’t challenging, but it required significant focus. Like jumping from stone to stone across a pond. With the slender instruments pinched between her fingers, Quarrah felt a bit of her lost vigor returning. She felt in control again. Confident. The opposite of how she felt when she played the role of Azania Fyse.

  A final snick sounded in her ear, and Quarrah felt the throne room door unlock. She rose to her feet, glancing down the hallway. There was no sign of Ard or the unconscious guards. It must have taken her longer than she’d thought to pick the lock. All the time she’d spent memorizing lyrics, and practicing poses, Quarrah had never suspected that her true talents might grow rusty.

  She pulled open the heavy door just enough to slip through. Stooping, she grasped the leather straps of the bag that held the replica regalia and moved into the throne room, closing the door behind her.

  In the palace, Quarrah had grown accustomed to the steady, consistent glow of Light Grit detonations. But here, the only light came from the bonfire that raged within the frightening skull of Grotenisk the Destroyer. The throne seat was cloaked in shadow, and the flicker of the fire made the whole room seem shifty and mysterious.

  Quarrah needed to act quickly. Ard’s disposal of the Reggie guards was like a burning fuse. They no longer had the luxury of lingering casually at the reception. She needed to swap the regalia and get out of the palace before news of Dale’s assault reached the Regulators. Or worse, the king.

  On silent thief’s feet, Quarrah Khai passed the skull of Grotenisk. The fire popped loudly, causing her to jump. Fire was a wild creature, moving and cracking of its own accord. She felt its heat and smelled its smoke, two more characteristics which distinguished it from the tameness of Light Grit detonations. She liked the flicker of firelight better. It almost made her feel as though she were out in the common neighborhoods of Beripent.

  Quarrah passed the small gated habitat where Millguin was housed. The Karvan lizard was so still, Quarrah would have thought her sleeping if it weren’t for the wide, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “Creepy pet,” she muttered. “Don’t watch me.”

  At last, Quarrah drew quietly up to the alcove where she had seen the regalia on display. But what was this? The iron gate and standard pin lock had been replaced! Now there was a heavy wooden door, cut to the specifications of the alcove’s opening, blocking her view of the regalia within.

  The lock was unlike anything Quarrah had seen before. She stooped to inspect the mechanism. At its center was a pin lock, which should have led to a sigh of relief. But the device around it looked like a deadly game trap. Two jagged metal plates were held open like jaws, and the trap’s trigger seemed fused to the lock.

  Quarrah snapped her fingers, the fragment of Slagstone on her middle finger striking the pocket of Light Grit in the palm of her glove. It ignited, a small cloud of steady light hovering just inches in front of the trap.

  She could see it clearly now. The device was a clever piece of engineering designed to slam shut the moment the lock opened. Whatever key had been forged for this particular lock must have had a long shank, allowing the jaws of the trap to spring around the shaft without closing on the person’s hand. Quarrah, obviously, had no such key. And her tools required her hands to be close against the lock. Flames. The trap would snap around her wrists!

  Well, wasn’t this why Ardor Benn had hired her? Quarrah thought back to her “audition” more than six cycles back when Ard had tested her adaptive skills against that supposed Lemnow painting. Quarrah would do now what she’d done then.

  Improvise.

  What were her options? A detonation of Blast Grit would tear the mechanism to shreds, and Raek’s generosity with the Silence Grit could cover up such a detonation. But this wasn’t the kind of job to go leaving evidence.

  There wasn’t much point in replacing the Royal Regalia with a replica if she left the lock blasted off and the door dangling. Quarrah didn’t know if Tarnath’s counterfeit pieces would hold up under that kind of scrutiny.

  No, the trap lock had to be removed intact. Not only that, but Quarrah would have to find a way to reset it after she exchanged the regalia.

  She needed something to jam the metal jaws, stop them from clamping shut. A tiny bit of Barrier Grit would do the trick. But then she wouldn’t be able to reach past the detonation cloud to access the lock.

  Perhaps Void Grit? Its repelling properties might be strong enough to push back the toothed jaws of the trap. Of course, that same power would repel her hands, pushing everything outward. That wouldn’t work. Unless …

  Reaching down to her belt, Quarrah removed a clay pot of Void Grit. Raek had labeled this one, mixed with Compounding Grit to magnify the potency of the Void Grit’s outward push.

  Using the tip of her boot knife, Quarrah picked away at the wax plug that Raek had applied over the filling hole. Upending the pot, she poured the tiniest bit of the white Grit into the palm of her hand. She wasn’t too worried about the Slagstone sparking inside. Detonation pots were made with an anti-ignition agent mixed into the clay.

  Quarrah brushed the loose Grit to the side of her palm and into the mesh pocket at the base of her thumb. The Light Grit that had been in there before would have burned away with her latest detonation.

  Her lock-picking tools in hand, Quarrah reached past the dangerous jaws of the trap. She worked quickly and easily to bypass the first internal pin, knowing that the trap wouldn’t spring until she touched the second.

  In a moment, she was in position, holding perfectly still. Though she couldn’t see the inner workings of the lock, Quarrah knew her pointed tool was hovering a hairbreadth below the pin. Carefully, she transitioned both tools into her left hand.

  Turning her right palm upward, Quarrah snapped. Her middle finger came down, Slagstone fragment sparking against the mesh pocket at the base of her thumb. The Compounded Void Grit ignited instantly, throwing its effect faster than she could blink.

  Three things hap
pened nearly simultaneously. The Void Grit pushed the pointed tool upward, thrusting it into the final pin and forcing the lock open. As a result, the trap’s metal jaws snapped shut. But they had only closed halfway when they encountered the expanding cloud of Void Grit. The jaws wobbled, half-closed, the mechanism’s powerful springs fighting against the repelling strength of the Compounded Void Grit.

  At the same time, Quarrah’s hands were thrown downward. The force jammed her fingers, and her wrist barely caught the teeth of the trap as it exited the Void Grit cloud. Quarrah cupped the stinging injury with one hand as a line of blood appeared through the torn cuff of her black shirt.

  At least it had worked! The Compounded Void Grit had pushed the open lock upward, rattling against the latch but unable to fall back into the detonation cloud. Quarrah grasped the edge of the lock and maneuvered it loose. As soon as it was free, the powerful Void Grit expelled the lock with full force, tearing it from Quarrah’s grasp and sending it clattering across the floor.

  The orb of Light Grit suddenly winked out. Quarrah hadn’t added any Prolonging Grit, so it didn’t fade or give her any warning. The throne room was once more a flicker of shifting shadows from the fire in Grotenisk’s skull.

  Quarrah seized the edge of the wooden door and tugged it back, grateful that her potent detonation of Void Grit hung just out of the door’s path.

  There was a sound. A soft pop. Different from the crackling of the bonfire throne behind her. Quarrah didn’t even have time to glance up. Something struck her in the chest with such force that her breath was knocked away.

  She hit the stone floor, sliding backward and striking something solid. Grunting, she tried to focus as she pushed herself up. The air around her was discolored. Hazy.

  Sparks! She was inside a cloud of Barrier Grit!

  The dome had sealed all around, a radius of maybe fifteen feet. Standard Regulation Grit bolt. She found the shattered fragments of the clay bolt littering the floor around her. Peering through the haze, Quarrah saw the open alcove where the Royal Regalia was supposed to have been.

  A naked wooden mannequin stood in the display space. Rigged over the right shoulder was a Regulation crossbow, the trigger wired to a peg on the wooden door.

  Quarrah slumped down again, her chest aching and her wrist bleeding. The actual regalia was nowhere in sight, and the replica rested in its bag, just out of reach beyond the border of her temporary Barrier prison.

  This whole night had been a setup.

  It’s worrisome to think that after all this effort, I could still fail.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Ardor Benn dabbed his bleeding lip with a handkerchief, took a deep breath, and stepped through the doorway to rejoin the throng of guests still enjoying the reception. He had to put in at least a few minutes of face time before excusing himself to check on Azania.

  Quarrah was fast, as he’d seen the night they’d met in the dungeon of Lord Wilt’s manor. She was probably nearly finished by the time he had properly secured the two guards.

  As long as no one found them, the guards wouldn’t pose a threat. They were in a small room, bound, gagged, and secure inside a detonation cloud of Prolonged Barrier Grit.

  Prolonging Grit had a strange effect on Barrier clouds. Over time, the impenetrable wall would soften. Eventually, the Barrier would decay enough that the guards would be able to press through and escape. Of course, that would take more than a half hour. By that time, he and Quarrah would be making their public exit from the palace.

  “Ah, there you are!” called Jat Eygar. He was a trombonist in the orchestra. Ard knew all of the musicians by name now. It was a personal touch that might offset any doubts they had about his musical abilities.

  “Yes,” Ard answered. “I had to get my beautiful fiancée situated comfortably, you know.”

  “By the Homeland!” Jat exclaimed. “What happened to your lip?”

  “Never argue with a soprano whose nerves are on edge.” Ard dabbed self-consciously at the split. “It’s really nothing.”

  “His Majesty will be glad to see you’ve returned.” Jat dropped the issue before it became more awkward. “He was asking after you.”

  “King Pethredote?” Ard asked. “He’s here at the reception?”

  “Arrived only seconds after you left with Azania,” answered the trombonist. “He’s over by the drinks. Was talking to Lorstan Grale.” Jat pointed across the busy reception hall, but Ard couldn’t see through the crowd. He nodded to the musician and excused himself.

  Pethredote didn’t normally make an appearance at these receptions, but Ard took it as a sign of good fortune. It was risky to run a ruse like this when the most powerful man in the building was unaccounted for. Pethredote’s presence here actually put Ard’s mind at ease. He could engage the king, which would keep him from wandering down to the throne room. It would also solidify Dale’s alibi should anything go wrong.

  Ard pushed through the crowd, stepping around a group of chatting women, and finally caught a glimpse of King Pethredote. That was when everything started to spiral out of control.

  Oh, flames. The king was wearing the regalia!

  Pethredote was adorned the same way he’d been when Ard had met him for the public presentation. The fragments of amber shell shimmered in the glow of the Light Grit chandeliers, his fractal coat hanging just past his knees. The crown was on his head, tufts of his graying hair visible beneath the elaborate headpiece.

  Ard clenched his teeth to steady himself. If the regalia was draped around the King, then what was Quarrah going to steal from the throne room? This was the unpredictable variable that presented itself in every ruse. The musicians had said he rarely came to the receptions, and when he did, Pethredote certainly never wore the Royal Regalia!

  Ard crossed to the king, pasting a smile on his split lips. “Your Highness! You’re looking rather spectacular this evening! I suddenly feel rather underdressed.”

  Pethredote turned away from Lorstan Grale, taking Ard in a comfortable embrace and chuckling at his comment. “You look fine yourself, Dale Hizror. I decided the regalia would become me at this evening’s reception. The Grotenisk Festival comes but once a year. What better way to honor the festivities than to wear the shell of the beast whose death we celebrate?”

  “Absolutely,” Ard said, though his mind was spinning madly at this terrible setback. Quarrah would find the alcove empty. She’d return to the drums with the replica, and they’d have to try again at a later date. The prospect of maintaining Dale Hizror’s character was discouraging, especially since he had just openly assaulted two guards. Ard would have to think up a good story for that one. And, sparks, maybe he would end up conducting that cantata after all!

  “Where is the beautiful Azania Fyse?” asked Pethredote.

  “I’m afraid she isn’t feeling herself,” Ard answered. “Though I hope she will rejoin us shortly.”

  The statement was true. Azania was ill—resting in that dim service room. Quarrah, on the other hand, was probably feeling more herself than she had in cycles.

  Ard’s attention shifted to the reception hall’s entrance. A pair of red-uniformed Regulators was cutting through the crowd. The palace was always crawling with Reggies on reception evenings, but Ard could immediately tell that these two had a purpose of some urgency.

  Ard took a respectful step backward as the two Regulators reached the decorated king. The first positioned himself before Pethredote, his stature and mannerisms creating an instant buffer, while the second Reggie leaned close to the old king’s ear.

  Whispered words were exchanged, and in the din of the reception hall, Ard had no hope of hearing them. He watched the king’s mouth, but reading his lips through that trim gray beard was not a skill Ard had developed. Still, the expression spoke volumes.

  The king went rigid, crystal blue eyes burning with a sudden intensity. Ard’s breath caught in his throat. His wig suddenly felt very warm, and sweat began beading benea
th his artificial forehead.

  The Regulators stepped away and the king made to follow them, his brow creased beneath the amber shards of dragon shell that adorned his head.

  “Your Majesty,” Ard said, stepping forward. “I have a concern that demands your attention.”

  Pethredote turned back, raising his hand in an apologetic gesture. “An urgent matter beckons. We’ll have to discuss your concern later.”

  Neither Pethredote nor the Regulators hesitated, and Ard quickly fell into pace behind the old king, benefiting from the path that the Reggies cleared through the curious reception guests.

  “It’s rather urgent,” Ard persisted, following the king into the hallway. “Cantibel Tren has expressed some concerns about the upcoming performance.”

  “From what I understand, she can be difficult,” the king responded. The reply was automatic, and Ard could tell his attention was elsewhere.

  “Yes, but she has taken the liberty to rewrite several notes in her part. The result has put her out of line with the chordal harmony of the composition.” It wasn’t true, of course. Ard was bad-mouthing one of the most talented musicians in the Greater Chain. If this gossip led back to Cantibel, there would be fallout. But dealing with an angry violinist seemed little bother compared to what might happen if Pethredote caught Quarrah in the act of thievery.

  “Talk to Lorstan Grale about it. Or deal with Cantibel as you see fit,” answered the king. “I insist that you return to the reception at once.”

  “Of course,” answered Ard, desperate to draw out the conversation and stay by the king’s side. “But it isn’t that simple. You see, several members of the Royal Orchestra are faithful to Cantibel Tren. Replacing her could unravel the entire group. We would be left scrambling to find a dozen new musicians with only three days until performance. I was wondering if perhaps you could speak with her …”