“Meanwhile, I’ll be in two places at once,” said Ard.
“And with the Illusion Grit, so will Quarrah,” added Raek.
It really was brilliant, playing this same trick two different ways.
“How is she?” Ard asked.
“Very nervous, I imagine,” answered Raek. “Haven’t had a chance to speak with her.”
“Last night’s Illusion Grit worked all right?”
“Perfectly,” he replied. “Let’s get moving. The cantata starts in less than an hour. Once Lorstan Grale starts the piece, we’ll have just shy of an hour until Quarrah has to be back onstage for the applause.”
“I know exactly how much time we’ll have,” Ard answered, turning his horse down the darkened road. “Nobody knows that piece better than me. I wrote it, remember?”
“You didn’t actually write it,” Raek said. “I feel like I need to point that out.”
Ard looked over at Tarnath Aimes. “Thanks for the likeness.”
The forger nodded, jewelry twinkling in the distant Light Grit detonation. “I’ve worked on uglier folks.”
“You coming back with us?” Ard asked.
“I’ll ride with you to the Panes junction,” he replied. “Don’t know exactly what you nuts are up to tonight, and quite frankly, I don’t want any part in it.” He held up a bag, and Ard heard Ashings clink. “The Short Fuse paid me right, and my work here is done.”
“Fun’s just getting started,” said Raek.
“Right,” replied Ard. “Breaking me out of the Stockade was just our warm-up.”
Ard led them off, galloping down the road toward the smoky glow of Beripent’s outskirts.
Sometimes I feel like I’m doing this alone. But then I remember that others solemnly cheer me on. They are counting on me to succeed.
CHAPTER
23
Quarrah could hear the crowd from inside the tent. The common citizens made a different sound than the noble audience at the Royal Concert Hall. She had been nervous then, to perform Farasse’s Unified Aria, but the memory was nothing compared to the nerves she felt now.
Setting aside her anxieties about going onstage, Quarrah was actually quite excited. Soon, she’d be a thief again, sliding through the night like a shadow. And if Raek’s rescue had been successful, she and Ard would be meeting up within the hour.
Quarrah looked at herself in the tent’s tall mirror, a cloud of Light Grit burning above her head. She looked good, there was no disputing that. Part of her preferred Azania’s appearance, with the thick hair, ornate gowns, expensive jewelry.
Strip away the pearl necklace, the stylish thick-rimmed spectacles, and the ringlets, and by comparison, Quarrah Khai looked rather plain. Her black thief’s garb, which wouldn’t fit beneath her shimmery silver gown, was already in place beneath the temporary stage, and she couldn’t wait to slip into it. Quarrah Khai was indisputably the more interesting character, but she thought perhaps Azania was more pleasing to look upon.
Quarrah spun around as the tent flap rustled. Lorstan Grale entered, his green shoulder cape a splash of color against the rest of his dark attire.
“You look radiant,” he said, as the canvas flap settled behind him. “A picture of fire and ash.” He gestured from her vibrant red hair to her fitted silver gown.
Quarrah didn’t expect Lorstan Grale to break character. The fact that he was actually Elbrig Taut made Quarrah’s head spin. Even after learning his true identity, Quarrah found it impossible to see him as anything but the conductor.
No one else knew his secret identity. Not even Raek. But Lorstan Grale had been the only person permitted to visit Azania at the Avedon apartment. He’d revealed himself as Elbrig and laid out the most insane plan for the cantata. So insane that Quarrah knew it had Ard’s fingers all over it. She’d been whisked away to the outdoor stage to sing through the piece last night, getting everything set up just right.
“I came to inform you that we will begin in moments,” Lorstan Grale said. “As I’m sure you know, King Pethredote is in attendance tonight.”
That was actually good news. For one thing, it meant Pethredote had not yet received word of Ard’s escape from the Stockade. It also meant he wasn’t suspicious of a second raid on the throne room, as long as he had Azania Fyse in his sights. That was the whole purpose of this elaborate trickery.
“His Majesty will be viewing from a private box with increased security, but he wouldn’t miss the Grotenisk Festival’s opening concert,” said Lorstan. “Homeland knows he’s dressed for the occasion.”
“The regalia?”
Lorstan Grale nodded.
The question nagged. Was the king wearing the actual Royal Regalia? Or had she and Ard had been successful on their first attempt, leaving Pethredote wearing Tarnath’s forgery tonight?
What had really occurred within Ard’s clever detonation of Memory Grit? One version of the regalia was definitely hidden somewhere in that throne room. She and Ard would have a limited amount of time to find it, and Quarrah hoped to the Homeland that it would be the real one.
“I wish you the best of luck,” said Lorstan Grale. “I know there is a lot riding on the next hour.”
Quarrah caught the double meaning. It was Lorstan Grale’s way of speaking to her as Elbrig, without breaking character.
“My reputation is on the line, too, you know,” he continued. “I need to make myself very clear about something. Should you make a mistake tonight, I won’t be able to trust you in the future.”
“I don’t think you have to worry,” Quarrah said. “I’m considering retirement if this all pays off.”
“That’s not exactly what I mean.” His expression seemed rather merciless for the topic at hand. “If you are caught making a mistake tonight, you will not sing again. That is the price you pay for playing under my baton.”
Lorstan Grale turned abruptly, pushing through the tent flaps. The waiting crowd began to cheer as he appeared on the raised stage.
Quarrah stood stiffly, breathing in the calming manner that Cinza had taught her. It had taken a stern look from Lorstan Grale, but Quarrah now understood exactly what he was implying.
If you are caught making a mistake tonight, you will not sing again. That is the price you pay for playing under my baton.
Sparks! Elbrig was threatening to kill her if she was caught! It seemed brutal after working side by side for so many cycles. But then, Quarrah was sure that Elbrig Taut hadn’t become the king’s favorite conductor by worrying about what his friends knew.
Quarrah and Ard had learned of the conductor’s true identity through dire necessity. But Elbrig actually liked Ardor. He trusted Ard not to divulge his secret, even while detained in a Reggie Stockade with potential for torture. Such trust clearly did not extend to Quarrah. Elbrig would put a lead ball in her without thinking twice.
Well, what did she expect? No honor among thieves. Or disguise managers, as it were.
Elbrig wouldn’t be her only problem if she were caught tonight. But even if she succeeded, Quarrah had a feeling of dread whenever she thought about the final applause. She was still rattled from the king’s veiled threats during his personal visit. Quarrah perfectly understood that her performance of the cantata was a shield. What would happen when that shield came down?
No choice but to go ahead with the plan now. She’d have to deal with that problem if she got that far.
Sparks, how had she gotten herself here? This ruse had pushed her in every conceivable way. Would she have joined Ardor Benn if she’d known all the uncomfortable things that would be required of her?
But there were undeniable benefits, too. For the first time, Quarrah felt like she had partners who cared about her. She had Raek’s concern for her physical safety, mixing only the finest Grit with the best equipment, so there wouldn’t be any accidents. She had Ard’s concern for her emotional well-being. His thoughtfulness, care, and, dare she say love? Whatever it was, she trusted it. And that was ne
w for Quarrah Khai.
Quarrah parted the tent flaps just enough to peer onto the stage. The temporary structure had been erected in Oriar’s Square, the very heart of the Char, putting Quarrah less than a ten-minute run from the palace. The stage itself was raised a good five feet, with steps ascending on the side. The orchestra musicians were all seated, and Cantibel Tren was setting the tuning pitch for the other instrumentalists.
An acoustic shell had been built across the back of the stage near where Sem Braison tuned his newly acquired timpani. The wooden shell clearly indicated a front to the stage, which would be very beneficial to Quarrah’s planned departure. The Old Palace Steps helped, too. The tall ruins, where Oriar was said to have detonated his failed blast of Visitant Grit, rose beside the stage, further boxing in the musicians.
As a result of the wooden shell and Old Palace Steps, the massive crowd of citizens had gathered where they could easily view the stage. The majority certainly wouldn’t be able to make out the lyrics of the cantata, and many near the back wouldn’t be able to hear anything but the highest notes from the brass.
There would be a few stragglers behind the stage, those less interested in gossip and more interested in feeling the power of the orchestra. There would also be a few Reggies—at least a handful operating the aerial Grit effects. But Quarrah was confident that she could slip out from under the stage without drawing too much attention.
Lorstan Grale had demanded smoke as a theatrical nod to the subject matter of the cantata. And there was certainly smoke. Instead of a railing at the front of the stage, a long trough had been installed, designed to hold a slow burning oil which vented significant dark smoke. And if that wasn’t enough, torches sat in braziers against the acoustic shell, and flickering fires burned in metal barrels on both sides of the stage.
Cantibel Tren had been very upset by all the smoke and fire, but Lorstan Grale had insisted. To provide a steadier light for the musicians to read their music in the dark spring night, small Light Grit detonations glowed above every other music stand.
In truth, the smoky atmosphere was necessary to convince the audience that the image of Azania was indeed live. The cloud of Illusion Grit would have a hazy quality just like any other type of detonation. And the radius needed to be large enough to encompass Quarrah’s entire body, but small enough not to capture anyone else.
Mixing the Grit to the proper ratios wasn’t her concern. Raek had proven his skill many times over, and Quarrah was confident that the fused chain of Grit pots would work flawlessly tonight.
“The Grotenisk Cantata,” Lorstan Grale announced to an anxious audience. “Music by Dale Hizror, classic text by Isless Vesta. Tonight’s soloist—Azania Fyse.” He gestured toward the tent, and Quarrah took a deep breath.
Strangely, now she wasn’t as terrified as she had been the night she performed Farasse’s aria. Perhaps it was the demographic of the audience, common citizens who would be far less critical than the average nobleman. Or perhaps it was because all she really had to do was walk out to a mark on the stage and then make a secret departure.
Quarrah quickly ascended the stage steps in her outrageous heeled shoes. Thousands of hands thundered together enthusiastically, like the roar of a hundred waves crashing at once.
Sparks, they haven’t even heard the music yet! What kind of applause would there be when she finished? Quarrah needed to make sure she was back in time to find out.
Quarrah’s footsteps resonated over the hollow stage as she searched for the mark. She needed to stand in a very precise location for two reasons.
First, the spot they had marked doubled as the trapdoor through which she would drop to make her escape. And second, the mark was where Quarrah had stood last night when singing the cantata unaccompanied under the initial cloud of Illusion Grit. If she wasn’t in the exact same spot tonight, the real Quarrah wouldn’t line up with the illusion image.
Quarrah found the mark and struck the performance pose that Cinza had taught her. At this point in their past experiences, Quarrah would expect to feel Cinza’s head coming up between her legs, concealed in the heavy folds of her dress. This time, however, the trick needed to play out a little differently.
Once the Illusion Grit was detonated a second time, Quarrah’s image would be completely incorporeal. Cinza would pass right through it if she attempted to take her usual singing position. Instead, Cinza would sing from beneath the stage. They had installed a grate at the front, with a conical tube designed to project Cinza’s voice out to the massive audience.
Lorstan Grale took the podium, baton in hand. The audience was so silent that Quarrah might have thought everyone had vanished if she weren’t staring at them. This next bit needed to happen in perfect synchronization. Starting high overhead.
Aerial Light Grit displays had made their debut at the Grotenisk Festival some fifteen years ago. Tonight, they would kick off the cantata, at Lorstan Grale’s request. The distraction would hopefully allow real Quarrah to transition to illusion Quarrah without anyone noticing an unavoidable glitch.
A cue was relayed to the Regulators behind the stage. Quarrah imagined them steadying their huge specialized crossbows, lighting the fuses on the Grit pots. She heard the slap of the bowstrings, and in the night sky, Quarrah saw the sparking tail of the fuses as the pots hurtled to tremendous heights.
She tried not to look up. She tried to steady herself for the drop. Lorstan Grale was watching, however, his baton ready to give the downbeat the moment the aerial detonations ignited.
Flames, Quarrah was suddenly very nervous. More nervous than her first performance.
There it was. A series of Compounded Light Grit detonations, punctuated with the bang and fire of a little Blast Grit. They lit up the dark sky over the Char like half a dozen miniature suns.
The audience gasped in collective amazement. Every head turned skyward. Lorstan Grale’s baton came down in a resounding instrumental chord. A Grit pot shattered at her feet. Quarrah wasn’t even sure where it had come from, but a hazy cloud instantly enveloped her.
For the briefest of moments, she was standing in the same place she had been the night before. This second blast of Illusion Grit linked the location through time, and a previous image of Quarrah appeared in the same spot. She was wearing the same dress, red wig done in an identical manner.
Then the trapdoor in the stage opened, and Quarrah, the real, tangible Quarrah, dropped out of sight.
“About blazing time,” Quarrah muttered, landing in a crouch on the ground next to Cinza. The strange bald woman was pushing the trapdoor closed, hopefully quick enough that no one above noticed Quarrah’s illusion image seeming to stand in midair.
Cinza paid absolutely no attention to Quarrah, her expression extremely focused. Counting rests, Quarrah realized, to come in at the right time.
Good thing Cinza’s attention hadn’t flagged. In the next few seconds, Quarrah’s silent Illusion Grit image would open her mouth to sing and it would be up to Cinza to provide the expected voice.
Quarrah decided that she, too, ought to be keeping track of the music in her head. It was the only way she’d know how much time she had before she needed to be back on that stage.
It was fairly dark beneath the stage, but Cinza had a Light Grit detonation the size of a candle flame, burning just behind them. Staying low, Quarrah turned to find her thieving attire carefully laid out beneath the dim light.
Well, that was awfully nice of Cinza to lay her clothes out. It almost made Quarrah feel like royalty. Except, instead of a silken gown displayed upon a featherbed, it was thief’s garb lying in the dirt. The silken gown was what Quarrah needed to shed. And quickly. Every moment wasted meant less time to search the throne room for any clues they might have left for themselves.
In a moment, Quarrah had made the transformation, her costume change accompanied by Cinza’s crystal voice echoing through the grate under the stage. The best part was trading those wretched heels for Quarrah’s bl
ack leather boots. High heels were ridiculously impractical. Whose idea was it to make her taller, anyway? A tall thief was far more likely to bump her head while crawling out from beneath a stage.
No one noticed the lithe thief emerge from the rear of the stage like an extra shadow in the darkness. The acoustic shell rose like a Stockade wall as Quarrah slipped past the aerial-shooting Regulators and a cluster of citizens who wanted to be close to the music.
In a moment, Quarrah Khai was on an open trail leading directly out of the Char. She moved at a run. Not a sprint, as she didn’t want to arrive completely winded. Creeping past guards required careful regulation of breath. Exhaustion could get a thief caught, and Quarrah wasn’t going to make that mistake.
With every footstep she sang through the music in her head, humming the instrumental bits to keep herself on track.
The palace came into view, its pinnacle turret always illuminated by a blast of Prolonged Light Grit like a lighthouse. Quarrah cut around the outer wall that fenced the manicured grounds until she reached the southeast corner.
She saw the horses first, tired heads drooped, standing beside a dim pathway that skirted the Char. Without her spectacles, Quarrah’s vision wasn’t sharp enough to see the two men until she was a stone’s throw away.
“Quarrah.” Ard stepped out of the shadows as she drew to a stop. Sweat dampened her hairline, and her face was flushed. All helpful things to mask the reaction she had to seeing Ardor Benn again. Quarrah hadn’t anticipated the way her chest would tighten at hearing him say her name. Had Ard missed her the same way?
And it wasn’t just her emotions. Instantly, Quarrah felt the ruse settle once more. They had been a snake without a head for a while. Knowing that Ard was at the helm again gave her unspeakable peace.
“Fire and death,” she muttered. “The bodies torn in a rain of blood.”
“Okay.” Ard smiled. “So good to see you, too.” He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be singing some dreadful cantata right now?”
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 37
