The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Good.” Elbrig winked one eye as he replaced the set of teeth that had fallen into his hand.

  “So you’ve been …” Ard stammered. “The whole time … you were …”

  Lorstan Grale nodded. “My disguises come with a customer satisfaction guarantee. I wouldn’t have promised that I could get you into the high social circles of Beripent’s musical scene unless I knew I could deliver.”

  “You were already in place as Lorstan Grale to make sure everything played out the way we planned.” Ard suddenly felt like the second-best ruse artist in the Greater Chain. “You knew I could sell Dale Hizror as the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony …”

  “Because Dale Hizror is the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony,” answered Lorstan Grale. “And it helped that I was there to speed along the convincing. The ring was legitimate, as were all the other clues I coached you to plant. People were catching on by the time I announced you at Farasse’s concert.”

  “I was afraid they were going to catch on to more than that,” Ard admitted, remembering their risky escape out the skylight. “I was just waiting for that Reggie chief to peel off my forehead.”

  “And he likely would have,” agreed Elbrig, “if I hadn’t distracted him by firing that Singler.”

  “That was you?” Ard threw his hands up in astonishment. “But I talked to you about that at the bakery. You said you knew nothing about it!”

  “And I answered truthfully,” he replied. “Elbrig Taut knew nothing about that gunshot. The Singler was fired by Lorstan Grale.”

  “Sparks, Elbrig,” Ard muttered. “You’re incredibly gifted.”

  Lorstan Grale grinned an Elbrig grin. “I have help from a lot of imaginary friends.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Ard asked, hope welling inside him. “Where do we stand with the ruse? Did Quarrah get the regalia out of the throne room?”

  “She doesn’t have it,” said Elbrig. “At least, she didn’t leave the palace with it. I was there to see her off. Quarrah was empty-handed.”

  “She hides things in her bloomers,” Ard remarked.

  “The regalia is far too large and heavy,” answered Elbrig. “She would have been clunking around like a cow with its hind legs in a trap.”

  “Maybe she got it out of the throne room and hid it somewhere good in the palace,” Ard mused.

  “Whatever is the case, dear Quarrah won’t be getting back to it in her current state,” said Elbrig. “I’m afraid she is quite locked down at the moment. Azania is basically a prisoner in the Avedon apartment, and we haven’t been able to reach her. I’ve persuaded the king to let me speak with her about the cantata, but not until tomorrow.”

  “You’ll let her know your secret?” Ard didn’t see any other way for Elbrig to get to her without revealing himself as Lorstan Grale.

  “I’m loath to do it,” he replied. “But, needs a must.”

  “Thanks, Elbrig.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “What happened in the throne room, Ardy?”

  “Memory Grit,” Ard answered. “Don’t remember much of it.”

  Ard considered a few possibilities. The king had been wearing the regalia when the Memory cloud burned out. Whether it was the real one or Tarnath’s replica was impossible to know. Regardless, one version of that coat and crown was missing.

  “You didn’t happen to find a large black bag lying around the palace, did you?” Ard asked. “It would have the regalia inside. Could be real. Could be fake.”

  Elbrig shook his disguised head. “There has been no sign of it. And Sem Braison’s kettledrums were both empty after the debacle.”

  “Who told you about the kettledrums?” asked Ard. Details of the actual theft were supposed to have stayed among the original three.

  “Raekon,” answered Elbrig. “Honestly, there’s very little he hasn’t told us at this point.”

  “We must have hidden the extra regalia in the throne room,” Ard muttered. “Unless Quarrah got it to another part of the palace. Either way, she has to go back and steal it.”

  “It won’t be possible,” Elbrig said. “She’d be away for too long. They’re barging into the apartment at random to check on her, Ardy.”

  “Then she’s got to do it when no one will have eyes on her,” Ard mused. “When they’re all distracted by something else.” He snapped his fingers. “The Grotenisk Festival!”

  “That’s when everyone will have their eyes on her,” Elbrig said. “Have you forgotten that Quarrah is singing the cantata?”

  “But she’s not,” Ard replied. “Cinza is. Quarrah’s just standing there mouthing the words.”

  “And that’s why everyone will have their eyes on her.”

  “Maybe we could disguise someone else,” Ard theorized. “We hire someone to go out on the stage so everyone thinks they’re looking at Azania. Meanwhile, Quarrah sneaks away to make a sweep of the throne room.”

  “Excellent idea,” huffed Elbrig. “I nominate Raekon. I’d love to see him in that silver gown with red ringlets.” He shook his head. “Even if we could find someone with a similar look, they wouldn’t have the training. It would be a disaster. Plus, at such close proximity, the orchestra would know it wasn’t her.”

  “Okay, then what if we hid her somehow?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Elbrig. “Let’s put the soloist behind a wall, so no one can see her.”

  Ard rolled his eyes. “I’m just brainstorming, here. I don’t hear you adding any ideas.”

  “Because nothing will work,” Elbrig said. “We’ve been coaching Quarrah Khai for six cycles. It has to be her up there, which means she won’t be available to loot the throne room. Unless you know how to make someone be in two places at the same time.”

  A grin spread across Ard’s face. “Illusion Grit.”

  “Ahem,” sputtered Elbrig. “Have you used that before?”

  “Well … not successfully.”

  Illusion Grit was unique in many regards. It was the only known Grit that was geographically specific. The use was quite simple, though it had taken centuries for the island’s inhabitants to understand how it worked.

  Whenever Illusion Grit was detonated, it recorded anything seen within the blast cloud. If a second pot was detonated in the same location as the first, it would conjure a very lifelike image of whatever had occurred in the first blast.

  Illusion Grit, by its nature, operated in a pair of detonations. The first recorded the image, and the second reproduced it, if ignited on the same spot of land. The blast clouds were linked across time to the specific location where the detonations took place.

  That second detonation would effectively reset the area. If a third blast of Illusion Grit were detonated on the same site, it would no longer produce the first recorded image. Rather, that third blast would be considered like the first, recording whatever occurred within the cloud.

  Ard had used the stuff only once, purchasing two extremely expensive pots to use in a ruse against an unhappy mobster. He and Raek needed a distraction, so Ard had danced on a table at the Smokey Husk Pub on Talumon. The dancing was tasteless and had been done earlier in the day, inside a cloud of Illusion Grit without an audience.

  Later that night, when the mobsters filed in, Raek had ignited a second detonation of Illusion Grit on the same table. While Ard’s recorded image performed the dance once again, the real Ard attempted to sneak behind the bar and smuggle out a barrel of hidden Ashings. The illusion worked great until somebody threw a glass bottle at Ard’s head. It passed right through, and his image just kept on dancing.

  “I don’t know …” Elbrig said. “The cantata is roughly an hour long. We’d need at least a quarter panweight. You have any idea how much that stuff costs? It’s only a human jawbone. I don’t see why those are so scarce. I thought the Nameless Remains Initiative was supposed to change that.”

  The price was high for all human-derived Grit, even after Pethredote’s initiative. Basically, any dead body that remained
unclaimed for three days was shipped off to Pekal to become dragon fodder. This turned out to be mostly beggars and vagabonds, as well as many criminal corpses from the Stockades.

  Before the initiative, human Grit was even rarer, since Harvesting crews only received bodies willingly donated by family. And no good Wayfarist would donate a body to Pekal. That was an unholy island, and a corpse that spent time there might never find its way back to the Homeland.

  “We should go back to the good times with the kings of old. Back when you could make decent money turning in dead bodies for the Harvesting crews,” said Elbrig.

  Ard shuddered. “That’s just a recipe for serial killers. Regardless,” he continued, “price is not an issue for us. I think we can get enough Illusion Grit to make it work. Talk to Raek about the detonation. He can rig a series of fuse pots that go off one after another. If they’re timed right, there shouldn’t be any visual glitches. The secondary image doesn’t re-create any of the original sound, but that’s all right. Quarrah doesn’t produce any sound, either.”

  “It’s a bold plan, Ardy,” said Elbrig. “But you’re winning me over. We’ll have to detonate the first chain of fuse pots tomorrow night. It’s an outdoor stage, so it’ll need to be done at the precise time that the actual concert will be happening. If the natural evening light doesn’t match, it might be noticeable.”

  “Do you think Quarrah can slip away for that?”

  “She doesn’t need to,” said Elbrig. “I’ll just explain that I need to take her to the Char so she can practice singing on the new stage. Even if her Reggie escorts stand nearby and watch, they won’t realize that we’re recording the image with Illusion Grit.”

  “Won’t they see the haziness of the detonation cloud?” Ard asked.

  “I’ll make up something to tell the Reggies,” answered Elbrig. “But that could create a problem for the performance.”

  “What about a smoke screen?” Ard asked. “Light some real fires at the edge of the stage and mask the discoloration of the detonation with some torches on the stage.” He’d done that very thing to disguise his cloud of Health Grit on the night Halavend came looking for him.

  “Ooh, I like it!” exclaimed Elbrig. “And it sets the mood nicely for the Grotenisk Cantata. We can rig up the stage something fancy. Cinza will be in her usual place, singing from below. We’ll have to record the image without the orchestra, of course, but as long as Quarrah counts her rests properly, I should be able to keep the orchestra on track with her image, while Cinza provides the voice that everyone is expecting.”

  “How will Quarrah’s image get onstage?” Ard asked. “The Illusion cloud can’t move. And we shouldn’t make the detonation big enough to cover the whole stage.”

  “True,” said Elbrig. “The larger the Illusion cloud, the more likely we’ll end up recording the image of something we don’t want repeated. Blazing flock of birds are already trying to roost on the acoustic shell, and they just erected the stage two days ago.”

  “Birds would be bad,” Ard agreed. He could imagine them suddenly appearing, flying through the detonation cloud and magically vanishing as they passed out the other side.

  “We can only risk making the Illusion cloud big enough to barely cover Quarrah once she’s in position on the stage,” said Elbrig.

  “But she’s still got to walk from the wing of the stage to her mark,” Ard pointed out. “How?”

  “On her real two feet,” answered Elbrig. “I can’t see another way. Quarrah will actually have to walk onstage. Once she hits her position, she’ll drop through the hatch where Cinza is waiting. At the same time, we will ignite the second chain of fuse pots, and Quarrah’s image will appear so it looks like she never left. The cantata gives her an hour, but she’ll need to be back to take her bows in person by the time the Illusion Grit burns out.”

  “No pressure,” Ard muttered. If she didn’t make the deadline, the Illusion cloud would burn out and Azania Fyse would simply vanish into thin air. “That won’t leave her much time to actually search the palace.”

  “It would be better if you were with her, Ardy,” said Elbrig. “You might actually have a chance of finding the regalia if you put your heads together and see if you can’t figure out what happened under that Memory cloud in the throne room.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Ard gestured around the dim cell. “Any helpful advice regarding my current situation?”

  Elbrig removed a brooch from his shoulder cape. He beckoned for Ard and dropped it into his hand. “The gemstone is merely painted clay. Your friend, Raekon, has taken the liberty of filling it with Shadow Grit and a fragment ignitor. It should work like a regular Grit pot. There isn’t much inside, however. Just enough to conceal you while crouching low.”

  “Shadow Grit?” Ard said. “You could bring me anything, and you chose Shadow Grit?”

  “What would you have preferred?” Elbrig asked.

  Ard shrugged. “At the very least, a good blast of Compounded Void Grit could have bent these bars enough to allow me through.”

  “And then what?” asked Elbrig. “You punch your way past every Reggie in the Stockade Yard? That doesn’t sound like my Ardy.”

  “Thanks.” Ard closed his fingers around the false brooch, still unsure what he’d do with it.

  “All you have to do is cross the Stockade Yard without being seen,” explained Elbrig. “Your friends will take care of the rest.”

  “So there is a rescue plan?” Ard couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “Your friends are working on something,” replied Elbrig.

  “How will I know when it’s time to move?”

  “Tonight’s the Moon Passing, so just sit tight.”

  “Tomorrow night, then?”

  “Patience, Ardy,” said Elbrig. “They’re not going to spring you out until the last possible moment. We need the king distracted so it takes him longer to catch wind of your escape.”

  “The Grotenisk Cantata?” Ard sighed, resigning himself to two more nights in this pit.

  “The music is riveting,” answered Elbrig. “Watch for some sort of signal from Raekon around dusk. That should still give you time to reach the palace and meet with Quarrah while everyone is focused on the concert happening in the Char.”

  Elbrig squared his shoulders, squinted his eyes, and subtly transformed back into Lorstan Grale. “You said the exposition should be conducted in three, correct?”

  Ard nodded.

  “Well, I’m glad my little visit wasn’t completely useless.”

  Lorstan Grale turned and strode up the stairs as the faded Light Grit orb burned out.

  I have discovered a clever little bird that can disguise itself as a flowering branch. Things here are sometimes more than what they seem.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Quarrah stared across the table at the Regulator Inspector. The Avedon apartment felt like it was getting smaller with every passing hour. Quarrah was tired. Not just desperate for sleep, but tired. The ruse had gone completely off the rails, and Quarrah Khai felt like she was single-handedly holding it together.

  “Can you tell me where you were at the exact time that Dale Hizror was found assaulting the king in the throne room?” asked the Inspector.

  “No, I cannot,” answered Quarrah. “It would be impossible for me to answer, since I do not know the exact moment that Dale Hizror was discovered.”

  “Many people have confirmed that you were absent from the reception hall for a lengthy period. The period in question, in fact,” said the Inspector. “Can you tell me where you were?”

  “Yes,” answered Quarrah. “I can tell you the exact same thing I told the last four Inspectors. I was in a darkened service closet near the reception hall, recuperating from a moment of crippling anxiety.”

  “What brought on the anxiety attack?”

  “Any number of triggers can set me off,” she answered. “Perhaps it was the noise of the busy reception. So many faces, I felt like
I was constantly on display. Perhaps my dress was too tight. Or maybe it was just the smell of a strong cheese.”

  She hoped her reasons would be considered legitimate for Azania Fyse. Quarrah had simply named a few things that triggered a genuine sense of anxiety in her. Except for the bit about the cheese. Quarrah wasn’t sure why she said that.

  “And you were in that service closet the entire time?”

  “Yes.” It was getting so much easier to lie convincingly. She’d been trembling in front of the first Inspector, but she’d answered these same questions over and over. Quarrah thought Ard would be very proud of her. To her knowledge, she hadn’t contradicted herself yet. And she hadn’t even blurted aloud any incriminating thoughts. Quarrah had come a long way from that first reception when she’d poisoned the soprano, Kercha Gant.

  “Can you describe the contents of that service closet for me?” asked the Inspector.

  “It was dark. I was huddled in a corner with my eyes closed.”

  “Try,” said the Inspector. This guy was a bit less sympathetic than the last four.

  “There were linens, barrels, buckets,” listed Quarrah. “Maybe some serving ware.”

  “Did you notice any musical instruments in the closet?”

  “There were two kettledrums,” answered Quarrah. “But the sight of them put me off. I asked Dale to wheel them away.”

  “Are you aware that those kettledrums were found just outside the door to the throne room?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” said Quarrah. The drums were empty when she left them. No evidence against her there.

  “At what point did you return to the reception?” asked the Inspector.

  “Once my head stopped reeling and my heart rate slowed,” she answered.

  “Did you speak with Regulator Dunbury?”

  “Who?”

  “The Regulator who volunteered to keep watch over the service closet while you recovered.”

  “No,” answered Quarrah. “He was no longer there when I came out.” Good thing, too. The action at the throne room must have drawn that young Reggie away, allowing Quarrah to slip into the closet and transform back into Azania.