The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 11

  Quarrah nodded, finally recovering from her string of embarrassment. “Is everything a ruse to you?” she asked. “Life. Is it just one big ruse?”

  “I don’t think of it that way,” Ard explained. “I prefer to see it as a never-ending series of small ruses that are linked together.”

  No doubt, Ardor Benn was a fascinating man. “Have you always been this way?” Ask questions. Get to know each other. Wasn’t that what people did when they worked together? “When you and Raek were unstoppable kids. Were you swindling people?”

  “Flames, no, Quarrah. Don’t criminalize the innocence of my youth. Raek and I were honest fellows for a long time,” Ard said. “Creative. Tenacious. Hardworking. But we were straight arrows.”

  “So what made you start rusing?”

  Ard didn’t say anything for a moment. Then asked, “What made you start thieving?”

  Quarrah was aware of the way he had turned the conversation around, but decided to go along with it. After all, from what she understood, conversation was supposed to be a two-way street.

  “After my mom left, I was taken in by a family that I barely knew. Reformed Expeditionists. Do you know anything about that religion?”

  Ard shrugged. “Only a little.”

  “It’s Homelandic, of course,” said Quarrah. All religions were, aside from the Trothian Agroditism. “It’s similar to Wayfarism, except they’re governed by stricter rules. I didn’t understand the way their family functioned, and the parents were constantly pressuring me for information.”

  “You were just a kid,” Ard said. “What kind of information did they want?”

  “How was I feeling? Was I comfortable in their home? Were the other children kind to me?”

  Ard let out an abrupt laugh. “That’s not an interrogation, Quarrah. It’s common courtesy! They were trying to be nice to you.”

  “It never felt that way.” Quarrah leaned back. Was she really going to tell him this story? Ard hadn’t even respected her father’s death. Why did she think he’d treat this any differently?

  “There was a boy in the family, just a year older than me,” she continued. “He’d take Ashings from his father’s safe box. I saw him do it over and over. After a while, the missing money went noticed. The boy blamed me, and his parents never questioned it. They whipped me. And the boy watched without saying a word.”

  Quarrah drew in a deep breath. “Nothing was the same after that. I saw what they provided for their own children, and how they skimped when it came to me. After all, I wasn’t of their blood, or their faith. I was untrustworthy. A thief. So I made a choice. If I was going to get punished for something I didn’t steal, then I might as well steal it and take my chances. At least that way the punishment would be worth some Ashings in my pocket.

  “They hid the key much better, but I started practicing with locks. Listening to them, feeling them. Learning them. Then one day, when everyone was out of the house, I broke into the safe box and took every last Ashing. I ran away. And I never even felt bad about what I’d done. I had enough Ashings to stay alive for a while, and it wasn’t long before I found another safe box. And then another.”

  Sparks, saying it like that made her sound so greedy! It wasn’t that at all. There was something to the thrill of springing a lock that made her feel useful. She didn’t even care much what was inside, though Ashings helped take care of life’s annoying necessities.

  They rode in silence for several moments. Then Ard looked right at her. “Blazing misers got what they deserved. Wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall to see their reaction.”

  “Lots of yelling and crying,” Quarrah said.

  “You stuck around to watch?” He was grinning now.

  “I was only close enough to hear,” she answered.

  “Still, you were ten years old.”

  “Eleven, by then.”

  “Oh, well, that changes everything,” Ard said. “I’m not impressed anymore. I was impressed when you were ten …”

  Quarrah found herself smiling without realizing that it had crept onto her face.

  “This is it, I think.” Ard’s gaze was out the window once more. They appeared to be in a much nicer part of the city.

  No sooner had Ard spoken than the carriage began to slow, the driver pulling his team to a halt at the side of the wide road.

  Ard cracked open the door and leaned out to speak with the driver. “We have an appointment with the tenants of number seventeen. An extra three-mark Ashing if you call on them for me.”

  Three Ashings was a generous tip! That would be enough to get anyone moving. Quarrah heard the driver mumble something in reply. A moment later, the carriage shifted as the big man climbed down from the bench.

  Ard produced a coin pouch from his coat, the leather dyed green, and passed it to the driver. The man nodded, always seeming short of breath, as he tucked the payment into his vest pocket.

  Quarrah watched their driver waddle around the corner of the building, his movements heavy and belabored. “Times are hard,” Ard said, seeming to notice the surprised expression on Quarrah’s face. “An extra three Ashings can really help out.”

  “It helps that you’re not funding any of this,” answered Quarrah. “Would you have tipped the man so generously if it were coming out of your own pocket?”

  “Absolutely,” answered Ard. “Elbrig and Cinza are not to be approached casually. They’re just as likely to shoot you in the kneecap as they are to invite you in.”

  “I thought you had an appointment with them,” Quarrah said.

  “I do,” he answered. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t spook when they see the likes of you on the doorstep.”

  Quarrah grunted her disapproval and slouched on the hard bench. Ardor Benn was inconsistent, she was picking that up quickly. No, perhaps inconsistent wasn’t the right label. He just operated by a different code than most.

  His words were not spent lightly. She got the distinct impression that each one served a purpose. If it served him to admire her looks, he’d say so. If an insult better met his private agenda, then he’d say that, too.

  “What can I expect from the people we’re meeting?” Quarrah asked. When she had to interact with people, she normally liked to survey them first. Surprises, no matter what kind, were unpleasantries in her line of work.

  “It’s best to go into this meeting with no expectations whatsoever,” answered Ard. “Cinza and Elbrig are a different kind of Grit, so to speak. I don’t think they’ll like you. At least, not at the start.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Quarrah retorted.

  “It means you have to win them over.”

  “How am I supposed to do that if I don’t know anything about them?”

  “Well, it would have helped if you’d brought a cat.”

  Was he ever going to let that drop? “I still can’t tell if you’re serious …”

  Ard held up a hand to silence her. “Do you hear that?”

  Quarrah picked up the sound instantly. It was a woman’s voice, pitched high and desperate.

  Ard flung open the carriage door and leapt out in a single bound, tugging his long leather coat to conceal his Rollers.

  “There.” Quarrah pointed across the street. “Down that alley.” Ard set off without a word, Quarrah jogging a few steps to catch up. “What are you doing?”

  “Sounds like someone’s in trouble,” said Ard. “I’m going to help my fellow wanderer. Isn’t that the Wayfarist thing to do?”

  If Quarrah were alone, she never would have looked down the alley. Other people’s problems didn’t need to be hers.

  Now that they were closer, Quarrah could hear the skirmish, punctuated by the grumbling voice of a man. In stride, she stooped and drew her boot dagger. She and Ard rounded the corner together, taking quick stock of the situation in the dead-end alley.

  The woman seemed close to Quarrah’s age, her ruffled red dress slipped off one shoulder. Her hair was in ringlets,
but her feet were bare. Quarrah couldn’t figure why the woman would be dressed for an evening out, when it wasn’t yet noon. The distraught lady held a scrap of wood like a club, her knuckles bloody. A few raindrops mingled with her tears, further smearing her thick makeup.

  Before her was a middle-aged man, thin as a rail. His clothes were also fancy, though disheveled in a similar manner. His hair was nearly to the shoulders, but not pulled back in the fashion of the rich folk. He brandished a dueling sword in his left hand.

  The man turned to glare at Ard and Quarrah, lean face drawn in a sneer and his black goatee greased into a downward point. “Nothing to see here.” The man’s working-class accent betrayed the rich facade of his clothes. “Merely a lovers’ quarrel. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” The woman tried to dart forward, but the man’s sword came up to bar her path.

  Quarrah heard the click of a gun hammer locking into place. She turned to find Ard pointing his Roller at the man with the sword.

  “Let’s hear both sides of the story before we decide to walk away,” Ard demanded.

  “I don’t know this man,” the woman whimpered. “I don’t know him at all.”

  “Shut yer blazing mouth!” yelled the man, making an aggressive move toward her.

  Ard clucked his tongue sharply. “Not another step.”

  “Did he hurt you?” Quarrah asked the woman.

  “I was upstairs …” The lady could barely keep it together. “He came in. But I escaped down the back steps. Please, somebody call the Regulators. Take this horrible man away!”

  “That’s enough from your pretty mouth.” The man took another step toward the woman.

  A gunshot cracked through the dead-end alley, the abrupt sound nearly deafening Quarrah. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ard lower his Roller, a white puff of smoke lingering where the gun had been fired.

  The man in the alley dropped his sword, staggering. His right hand flew to his chest, and Quarrah saw a deep red begin to soak his fine shirt. The stranger made a strangled, grunting sound as blood dripped from his lips. Then he collapsed in a heap.

  Quarrah covered her mouth, feeling as though she, too, might collapse. Ard seemed incredibly nonchalant about the exchange, holstering his Roller and concealing it with his coat.

  The woman raced past her dead assailant and grasped Ard’s arm. The woman was shaking. Quarrah was shaking. Sparks! Ard had just killed a man!

  “You’re going to be all right.” Ard reached into his vest and withdrew an embroidered handkerchief. “Something for your tears?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She clutched the kerchief to her face and muffled the sobs. Quarrah followed them around a corner, hesitant to leave the man bleeding out in the dingy dead end, rain pattering around his body. She saw faces peering out of nearby windows. The crack of a Roller in the morning was bound to draw attention.

  “Are you the Regulation?” the shaken woman asked.

  “Yes, madam,” Ard said. “I’m not in coat at the moment, but I happened to be passing through the neighborhood when I heard what was happening.”

  The lies! He spoke the lies so smoothly. For a moment, Quarrah herself might have believed that Ard was an actual Reggie.

  “Homeland bless you,” the woman whimpered, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief as they stopped before a multilevel apartment building. “I have to pull myself together.” She moved up the stairs, pausing in the doorway long enough to look back at Quarrah. “You found yourself a respectable man, miss. Don’t make the mistake of letting him go.”

  “What?” Quarrah stammered. “No. We’re not together like that …” The traumatized woman closed the door, cutting off Quarrah’s explanation midsentence.

  “We should get off the streets.” Ard led the way past their waiting carriage toward the building where he had sent the overweight driver.

  “What do we do about the body?” Quarrah asked as Ard began noting the numbers on the apartment doors.

  “What body?” Ard knocked on the door labeled with a seventeen.

  “‘What body?’” Quarrah cried. “I don’t know, how about the one in that alleyway back there?”

  “I warned that blazing idiot,” Ard answered. “I told him not to take another step.”

  “You can’t behave like this!” When Quarrah had agreed to work with Ardor Benn, she hadn’t known he’d be so reckless. “Shooting whomever you please. We should have called for the Regulation.”

  “The man was assaulting her,” Ard exclaimed. “Besides, I make it a point never to call for the Reggies. That man was a criminal, and I dealt with him accordingly.”

  “You’re a criminal, too!” cried Quarrah. “How would you feel if someone shot you in the chest?”

  “I suppose I’d feel nothing, as I’d be dead.” Ard pressed his ear against the door. “I don’t think they’re here. Flames! Something must have spooked them.”

  “Any chance it could have been some lunatic firing a Roller in the alley just outside?” Quarrah remarked.

  “No sign of the driver, either.” Ard stepped away from the door. “We’ll wait for him at the carriage. Come on.”

  He set off once more, ducking against the drizzling rain as Quarrah moved to keep up. Ard reached the carriage first, flung open the door, and hoisted himself inside. Quarrah was right behind him, halfway in, when she noticed two people already sitting inside. She hesitated, but Ard seized her arm, pulling her down onto the bench beside him.

  The carriage door clicked shut and Quarrah stared at the strange duo seated across from them. It was a man and a woman who seemed to be slightly older than Ard. No, much older. Quarrah drew back. Perhaps they were younger?

  There were several things about the two that made it nearly impossible to guess their age. To start with, both were missing hair, though clearly not from balding. Even the woman had shaved her head, leaving just a fuzz of new growth upon her scalp. In addition, neither had any teeth, their lips folding in like wrinkled pits above their chins.

  “Quarrah Khai,” said Ard. “Meet Elbrig Taut and Cinza Ortemion.” He gestured across the carriage, and suddenly, Quarrah knew exactly why Raek had called them crazies.

  They were clothed only in long underwear that buttoned up the front, the tan material ironed as though they might wear it to the symphony. Their builds were slight, and they both seemed shorter than Quarrah, though it was hard to tell while everyone sat.

  “Oh, Ardy,” said the woman. “Did you bring me a kitty?” Her toothless speech was difficult for Quarrah to understand.

  Ard shot a sideways glance to Quarrah. “Not this time, Cinza. I’m afraid I left the task of finding a cat to someone else, and they didn’t come through. Just goes to prove, if you want the job done right, do it yourself.”

  “It wasn’t Raekon, was it?” Elbrig asked. “It would take that oaf weeks to catch a cat, loud and obtrusive as he is.”

  “It wasn’t Raek,” Ard said. Quarrah waited for him to call her out, but for once, he let the story lie. “Thanks for going through with the meeting.”

  “I wasn’t sure about your new friend at first glance,” Cinza said. “Knew she had potential, but I had to see her move. See her out and about.”

  “What do you mean?” Quarrah shifted under the stranger’s piercing gaze. “You were watching us from the carriage?”

  Elbrig chuckled. “How many people spoke to you on your ride from the Char?”

  Quarrah thought back to the morning’s trip. Besides Ard, there was the overweight driver, the panhandling hag, and the quarreling couple. Now the two strangers in the carriage.

  “Six,” answered Quarrah. “Including the two of you, but not Ard.”

  “Think again,” said Cinza.

  Had she forgotten something? Quarrah squinted her eyes, mentally running over the morning’s ride from the moment Ard’s carriage had picked her up. The driver, the hag, the swordsman, the distressed woman. That was all.

  “Th
e answer is two,” said Elbrig. He reached down to a bag on the floor and withdrew a familiar green coin pouch full of Ashings.

  “You stole that from the driver?” Quarrah muttered.

  “I was the driver,” answered Elbrig Taut.

  No. How? He was so fat!

  From the same bag, Cinza withdrew a strand of pearls and an embroidered handkerchief. Quarrah stared. Ard had given both of those items away. The hag had been old and hideous, the crying woman young and attractive. Quarrah studied Cinza’s face across the carriage, but could see no resemblance to either woman.

  “And the swordsman in the alleyway?” Quarrah dared ask.

  Elbrig withdrew a white shirt, the front stained with crimson liquid, still wet. He stretched the shirt tight, and Quarrah saw that there was no hole from the lead ball.

  Now she spun on Ard. “You knew?” How had she let him trick her again? “You staged all of this?” Did he keep doing this just to prove that he was always two steps ahead?

  “Not my idea this time,” Ard said defensively. “Elbrig and Cinza have an intense screening process for new clients. They want the chance to interact before making the decision to work with you. The pearls were the first test. If she refused when I offered, then it meant you had no potential.”

  “Like Raekon,” muttered Elbrig.

  “When Cinza accepted my handkerchief,” Ard explained, “she was actually giving a final agreement. It meant you passed the inspection and warranted a meet.”

  Inspection! Like Quarrah was some kind of commodity to be sold at the Char marketplace. “You didn’t kill anyone,” she finally said to Ard. Quarrah didn’t know if she should feel relieved to know that her new partner wasn’t a killer, or upset to know that a man dying before her very eyes could be a stunt.

  “I usually try not to. There was a blank Blast cartridge in my Roller,” Ard explained. “And Elbrig has a thing for artificial blood.”