The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Did you see anything unusual when you emerged?”

  “A few Regulators rushed past me,” she answered honestly.

  “Were any of them wearing the crimson coat of a palace Regulator chief?”

  “Not that I noticed,” said Quarrah. “You suspect a chief was involved in this?”

  “Chief Aufald entered the throne room with Dale Hizror and His Majesty,” the Inspector explained. “He was later found locked in the alcove where the regalia is normally kept, deprived of his helmet and coat. Both items were then discovered in the room across from your service closet.”

  Quarrah would have liked to have dumped them farther away, but it was risky enough crossing the hall with the chief’s coat and helmet while dressed as Azania once again. As for Ard’s hairpiece and adhesive facial hair, Quarrah had repeated a good trick and tucked them in her bloomers to smuggle them out of the palace. But this time, she burned them the moment she was alone in the Avedon apartment.

  “Do you know what item Dale Hizror was attempting to take from the throne room?”

  “How can you be sure he was trying to steal anything?” Quarrah retorted. Was Ard really going to get all the credit here? Seriously. At least the Inspector could give some credit to the anonymous thief. The king had clearly glimpsed her before the Memory Grit detonation.

  Quarrah had decided that was what had happened. She’d never experienced Memory Grit before, but she’d read a lot about it. It was the only way she could account for the confusion she’d felt in suddenly finding herself wearing a disguise on the other side of the throne room. She’d had a lapse in memory, and there was no telling what might have occurred during those few minutes. Quarrah had seen the king wearing his regalia, so clearly, they had failed to steal it. She only hoped that Ard had somehow managed to get Tarnath’s forgery out of the throne room.

  The Reggie Inspector shuffled his papers and cleared his throat. “Have you left this apartment since returning here after the arrest of Dale Hizror two days ago?”

  “No.” She’d wanted to, desperately. But slipping away from the apartment wasn’t really an option. The king had sent her home with a handful of Regulators who had stood constant guard outside 448B. Pethredote insisted that it was for Azania’s safety. Quarrah couldn’t help but think that it was also his way of keeping an eye on someone he suspected to be Dale Hizror’s accomplice.

  “Has anyone come to visit you in the last two days?”

  “No.” Also an honest answer, and one that made Quarrah increasingly nervous. She understood why no one from the team could stop in and say hello, with Reggies posted all around. But couldn’t they have sent her a note? A message? Something?

  Quarrah typically enjoyed her time alone, but this was something torturous. With the Regulators at the windows, she hadn’t even dared to take off her wig. The blazing thing looked like a rat’s nest now, and it itched so badly, Quarrah wanted to scream.

  “Did you ever suspect that Dale Hizror was not the man he said he was?” the Inspector asked.

  “Of course not,” Quarrah replied.

  “Did his appearance ever seem altered? Perhaps due to a disguise?”

  “Surely, I would have noticed something like that,” she answered.

  The Inspector narrowed his eyes, leaning across the table. “See, that’s what I think, too. How could you be engaged to marry a man, and not know that his mustache was fake? What about when the two of you were being intimate?”

  Well, there was a new question! Quarrah raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise, her cheeks flushing.

  “It is suspected that the man had an artificial forehead,” continued the Inspector. “For Homeland’s sake, how could you miss something like that?”

  “I find your question wildly inappropriate,” Quarrah said, fanning her face with her hand. “Dale and I enjoyed a refined courtship of the classic Dronodanian style. Physical intimacy was to be reserved until after the wedding.”

  The Inspector sighed, leaning back on his chair. “Did you love him?”

  “No,” answered Quarrah. She enjoyed the shocked look on the Inspector’s face as he sat forward again.

  It was an answer she had come around to during the first interrogation. That Inspector had commented on her apparent lack of emotion surrounding Dale’s arrest. Quarrah couldn’t fake it. She couldn’t turn on the tears, the way she’d seen Cinza do. So she had to justify her lack of heartbreak. Her story had made the rest of the interrogations so much smoother.

  “You did not love the man you were going to marry?” asked the Inspector.

  “It’s not so uncommon among the rich and royal,” replied Quarrah. “I was a nobody when I met Dale Hizror. He had money—not a lot, just enough to get me interested. But he also had connections to high society.”

  “So you were simply using him to advance?”

  Quarrah studied her manicured fingernails. “Is that a crime?”

  “Interesting.” The Inspector made a note with his scribing charcoal. “Does the name Ardor Benn mean anything to you?”

  “He was that madman who held me hostage after my performance of the Unified Aria,” said Quarrah.

  “It is suspected that Ardor Benn and your Dale Hizror are, in fact, the same man.”

  “Impossible,” whispered Quarrah, hoping she got the tone right. All this acting was exhausting.

  “Ardor Benn,” the Inspector said again. “He is a ruse artist of some renown throughout the Greater Chain.” Oh, Ard would be thrilled to hear that. “With his reputation, it seems highly unlikely that he was engaged to you for love. We suspect he saw your vocal talent and wanted to exploit it in an effort to move himself into the social circles of high society.”

  “Are you saying that Dale was using me?” Quarrah tried to sound hurt, aware of the hypocrisy in her statement.

  “Seems you were quite the pair,” said the Inspector. “What did he promise you?”

  Two hundred thousand Ashings, and an opportunity to steal the king’s regalia, Quarrah thought, biting her tongue. “A future together,” she answered. “Full of wealth and opportunity.” There, that was a better way to say it.

  “Did Dale speak to you about any plans for your future? What sort of things did he have in mind?”

  A future with Ardor Benn. What if their engagement had been real? What if they were committed to each other beyond the partnership of this joint ruse? For years, Quarrah had only pictured a future where she was alone. But maybe this was something worth considering …

  With Halavend’s final payment, they’d have enough Ashings to leave the life of crime forever. They could buy a country home. Quarrah had always liked the dry, leeward side of Dronodan. Maybe they’d have a kid or two. Someone for Ard to keep talking to when she wanted a little time on her own to walk the shoreline cliffs.

  Quarrah almost burst out laughing at the thought. Ard could no sooner stop rusing than she could stop thieving. More likely, their future together would be one of close calls and big victories. They’d hone their skills as a partnership until no one in the Greater Chain felt safe.

  Either of those options would be better than parading around receptions in fine clothing and masquerading as lovers—although that seemed like an accurate picture of high society. Maybe she was fooling herself, but it seemed like she and Ard had something more real than that.

  Sitting side by side on the couch in the bakery’s hidden room, conversing in the carriage on the way to a reception, or frantically devising a plan in the performers’ lounge at the Royal Concert Hall. Those were the moments Quarrah felt something. A future where she could be herself and Ardor Benn would find her perfectly interesting.

  The apartment door suddenly opened, a red coat Reggie stepping over the threshold. So much for privacy! What happened to knocking? See, this was why Quarrah couldn’t even take off her wig.

  “If you’ll excuse us!” cried the Inspector. “I have a few more questions to ask.”

  “His Majesty, K
ing Pethredote, is here to see Lady Azania,” replied the Reggie at the door.

  Quarrah stiffened in her seat. The king was here? Now? She hadn’t spoken with Pethredote since Ard’s arrest. Sparks, she’d certainly never spoken to him alone. Quarrah knew the king’s big secret, and that made her feel awkwardly leery around him. Ard had been a much-relied-on element in previous conversations with the king. Ard was the spark that kept everything going. Without him, Quarrah was afraid she’d come across like a dud detonation.

  The Inspector stood, collecting his papers. “We shall resume this later.” He was halfway across the spacious room when King Pethredote stepped through the doorway. He was dressed in the finest of clothes, but unadorned with the regalia. The Inspector bowed, reminding Quarrah that she should do the same from her chair. When she finally lifted her eyes, the door had closed, leaving Quarrah completely alone with the king.

  “Did you know this is my second personal call to 448B Avedon Street?” the king asked, standing behind the chair where the Inspector had been. “Last time, I shared a bottle of scotch with Dale Hizror at this very table.”

  Yeah. That scotch was long gone. Along with every other drop of liquor in the apartment that might calm her nerves and help the time pass.

  “But I hear you’re more of the red wine persuasion.” He set a bottle on the table. Had he been holding that the whole time? The king stepped over to the rack and selected one stemmed glass.

  “I will admit,” he said, returning to the table and taking a seat across from her, “the place is much tidier than it was on my first visit.”

  Ard could be something of a slob, but Quarrah couldn’t stand clutter. She liked to be able to take in a room at a glance. Clutter could hide important things. Besides, what else was there to do but straighten up, while she’d been stuck in Ard’s wretched apartment?

  King Pethredote uncorked the bottle and poured some of the burgundy liquid into the glass. Then, reaching across the table, he presented the drink to her.

  “Lady Azania. Please.” He gestured.

  Quarrah hadn’t made a sound since the king had come in. Now she was downright frozen. The man who had poisoned the bull dragons was inviting her to drink from a bottle he had brought.

  She cleared her throat, but couldn’t bring herself to touch the glass. “Won’t you join me?” Quarrah asked. “It seems mighty impolite to drink in front of His Majesty.”

  “This particular vintage doesn’t agree with me.” King Pethredote waved his hand. “But you go ahead. Feel no reservations.”

  Oh, sparks! Quarrah could almost feel her throat closing off from the poison already. How was she supposed to get out of this?

  “What’s the year?” She finally managed to lift the glass, and passed it under her nose cautiously. Smelled fine.

  “1208,” said the king. “The final year of the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.”

  Quarrah’s breath caught. He knew. King Pethredote must have realized that Quarrah knew his secret. Taking a drink of this wine would be the end. Quarrah would be another body on that long list of poor souls who once knew the king’s dark deed.

  Spill it? That would buy her a few more heartbeats, but the king would probably just pour another from the bottle on the table. She’d have to spill them both. But tactfully. How could she make it look like an accident?

  She set down the glass.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the king.

  “I just …” Quarrah stammered. “The glass is not … Dale wipes them out so poorly. I’ll just get a different glass, if you don’t mind.”

  She stood, intentionally slamming her knee into the underside of the table as hard as she could. It did the trick, toppling both glass and bottle. The dark red liquid ran across the wooden tabletop, filling the grain and pouring off the edge like a river that had swelled its banks in a flood. The king pushed his chair back, leaping up instinctively, and Quarrah made some attempt at an apology.

  Reaching out, King Pethredote caught the bottle just before it rolled off the edge of the table. He righted it, and Quarrah felt sick to see that there was still a considerable amount that hadn’t spilled.

  The king set the bottle on the table and Quarrah saw his hand stained red. Dripping, as it were, with the blood of all those he had silenced.

  “When I was a young boy, my mother took me to the amacea festival on Helizon’s University Hill,” said the king. He just stood there, hand outstretched over the mess on the table. Quarrah moved swiftly to grab a cloth from beside the washbasin. “Have you seen those flowers?”

  “No,” answered Quarrah, offering him the cloth. She hoped her answer aligned with Azania Fyse’s profile. She couldn’t remember all the details.

  “Extraordinary colors,” continued the king, wiping his hand. “Petals as large as my hand. But the amacea flowers last only a week. We arrived on the sixth day, and had to shoulder our way through the crowds to get a glimpse. While we were gazing in awe at their beauty, the gardener came through and began cutting down the flowers so he could harvest next year’s seeds. The crowds were outraged, and rightfully so. We’d come from afar and had an expectation that the flowerbeds would be there in full color.”

  Was he trying to make a point? If so, Quarrah wasn’t getting it. Oh, she got the point with the wine, all right. But what was the king saying now?

  “Are you quite ready for tomorrow night’s festival concert, Azania, dear?” asked the king. He had finished cleaning his hand, and he draped the stained cloth over the back of the chair.

  “I …” She stammered. “I will do my best.”

  “I don’t think there has ever been more excitement for the Grotenisk Festival,” King Pethredote said. “Are you aware that thousands of citizens have learned your name in anticipation of the concert?”

  “I am flattered.” Terrified would have been a more accurate description of her feelings.

  “The gardener made a mistake that disappointed the people,” King Pethredote said. “If I were the gardener, I would have waited until the amacea festival was over. Then I could cut down all the flowers and no one would even care.”

  Quarrah felt a chill pass through her. She understood now. The only reason Quarrah wasn’t dead or imprisoned was because of tomorrow night’s concert. So what would happen when she sang her final note?

  “It’s hard to be king,” said Pethredote, his voice soft. “Harder still to be the crusader monarch. Dale Hizror crossed me, Azania. He thinks he knows things about me, but he knows nothing. I am a good man. A worthy man.” His voice was escalating, becoming unhinged in an unnerving manner. “Everything I did, I did … for … my … people!” With every one of those final words, he slammed his open palm against the wine-soaked tabletop.

  The spastic action caused Quarrah to let out a little cry of alarm, recoiling as droplets splattered under his hand. When the king was finished, his face was speckled, his shirt and shoulder cape stained.

  Now he was calm again. Frighteningly calm.

  King Pethredote slowly lifted the cloth from the back of the chair and wiped his face. The wine shimmered darkly in his gray beard. He sighed heavily, and lifted the bottle of wine from the table. Tipping it back, he swallowed a long draft.

  The king set the bottle back on the table and crossed the room to the door. “I am very much looking forward to tomorrow night’s cantata,” he said, tossing the cloth to the floor. “Which reminds me … Lorstan Grale is waiting in the street outside. He’ll be conducting the piece now that Dale Hizror is out of the picture. Grale has a few questions for you. I’ll send him in.”

  Quarrah stood beside the table, petrified, staring at the red droplet stains on her dress. The king pulled open the door and stepped out into the street. A moment later, Lorstan Grale entered alone, shutting the door softly behind him.

  “I’m resting my voice,” Quarrah said, holding up a hand as though he had already requested it. If Lorstan Grale asked her to sing anything, it would quickly become apparent tha
t Quarrah’s voice was not the one he was used to hearing.

  “Not for long,” the man spoke, crossing to the table. “We’ll be heading to the Char this evening so you can try out the newly built stage before tomorrow night’s concert.”

  “I’m not feeling up to it,” Quarrah replied.

  “You will be, once I tell you what I’m going to tell you.” He ran his finger through the spilled wine, and then sucked it clean. “You might want to sit down for this.”

  The mountain’s threats are constantly present. Although sometimes they are veiled in scenic grandiloquence or hidden in inky shadows.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Ard sat in his solitary cell, absently twirling the Grit-filled brooch between his fingers. From the line of light beneath the door, he could tell it must be nearing sunset now.

  Shadow Grit. That was all Elbrig had given him for the escape. How could Ard make the most of Shadow Grit?

  Ard knew its function, of course. The detonation created a cloud of darkness so dense that nothing inside could be seen from without. People in the Shadow cloud, however, could see outward. It made sense. A person sitting in a dark room with an open door could easily see outside, although it would be difficult for people outside to see in.

  Shadow Grit was processed from digested oak wood. Other types of wood were processed into Light Grit, and Ard found it ironic that oak reacted differently, yielding darkness rather than light.

  Ard imagined that Quarrah would be a fan of Shadow Grit, what with her interest in sneaking around. Using it required some subtlety. Detonating a blast in broad daylight would be rather obvious. It would appear as a spherical cloud of blackness, effectively concealing everything within, but drawing a fair amount of attention to the black cloud itself.

  For stealthy purposes, Shadow Grit worked best in dimly lit areas. Places where the impenetrable blackness would seamlessly blend into the natural shadows. Places like Ard’s underground solitary cell.