The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 16

  Quarrah knew her pitch was awful, but that wouldn’t really matter. It was tempo and rhythm that Cinza harped about.

  The strange woman stood before Quarrah, humming the accompaniment and waving her hands as though conducting an invisible orchestra in the bakery’s upper room. When the performance finally arrived, there would be an actual orchestra, of course, and it was imperative that Quarrah learn to follow the conductor so she could stay on track.

  Quarrah knew the first movement rather well. The libretto was originally a poem written in 1086, and read aloud to mark one hundred years from the dragon’s attack on Beripent. The author was one Isless Vesta, who Quarrah decided was much too verbose.

  The movement focused on the attack, the heavy lyrics set to a dark and brooding melody. The second movement was a slow and mournful funeral march. Quarrah was supposed to sing a long list of names—prominent people in Beripent whom Grotenisk had chewed up. In Quarrah’s opinion, the whole movement was obsolete in today’s age. But Cinza assured her that the names would mean something to the royal descendants in attendance at the Grotenisk Festival.

  The third movement began a more hopeful tone, the lyrics talking about the survivors banding together to rebuild a new Beripent. And the cantata finished with a triumphant fanfare, acknowledging a new city, alive with commerce and culture. The whole thing took about an hour to sing. Lots of pointless repetition.

  As for the origin of the music … well, that was a bit of a mystery. Elbrig had arrived one day with the complete musical score, as well as a separate solo soprano part that Quarrah would be “singing.”

  Over the weeks, Elbrig’s lessons had instructed Ard to transcribe the orchestra parts from the score onto separate sheets. It looked like terribly tedious work, drawing all those small dots and perfectly straight lines. But Ard was good at it, and he never seemed to complain.

  Ard would need to be incredibly familiar with the piece, since he was claiming to have composed it. Quarrah didn’t want to know who the actual composer was, or how Elbrig obtained the music. He made the same assurances with this cantata as he did with the Unclaimed Symphony. The actual composer was taken care of. Out of the picture. Not a threat.

  Quarrah hit a high note moving toward a key change. It sounded horrible, and Cinza’s uninhibited laughter didn’t buoy her confidence. Quarrah paused, counting the measures of rest before coming in again, imagining an orchestral accompaniment that she’d only ever heard hummed by Cinza.

  “No!” Cinza clapped her hands in Quarrah’s face. “You came in early on the recitative!”

  “I was within a count,” said Quarrah, dropping her pose. Sparks. Standing like that made her chest feel as though it was going to split right down the middle.

  Cinza stepped forward, bringing her hand up like she might jab Quarrah in the stomach. Quarrah tensed until she saw that it was just a threat. She exhaled, relaxing. Then Cinza jabbed her just below the ribs.

  “Ow!” Quarrah stepped back, swatting Cinza’s hand away. “Why?”

  “There are certain reactions people expect,” said Cinza. “I bring up my hand, and you flex. When you open your mouth to speak or sing, people expect the words to match the movement of your lips. If that doesn’t happen, it’s like a jab to the gut when you’re not expecting it.”

  “Why can’t you follow me?” Quarrah asked. “I’m the one hanging out in the public eye with a blast of Silence Grit in my mouth.”

  “And how will I be able to see you, dear”—Cinza’s tone was falsely sweet—“when I’m under the stage making you sound like a decent soprano?” She stepped back, pointing for Quarrah to take her place again. “Pick it up at the recitative.”

  Quarrah took a deep breath and began again. For the recitative, Isless Vesta had borrowed a passage from the seventh volume of Wayfarist Voyage. It was about Oriar’s failure to successfully detonate the Visitant Grit against Grotenisk.

  “‘Oh, that chosen of the Islehood, even Captain Oriar. Who, through his unknown Settled sins, brought ruin to the masses. Who stood upon the palace step of Beripent, and cast the Grit upon the stones. When feigning righteous deeds, the midnight blast enveloped Oriar. But he was left alone. No Paladin Visitant was his rearguard. No flaming form to bring the dragon low. Just a cloud of darkest night where the bright warrior should have been.’”

  “No! Did you forget to breathe?” Cinza cut her off. “You can’t afford to go red in the face like that. You look like a constipated street dog.”

  “So many words,” Quarrah gasped.

  The door opened, and Quarrah straightened at the sight of Ardor Benn, Elbrig entering through the false oven chimney just behind.

  “About time you got back,” Cinza chided. “Saved me from the mournful mewling of a dying cat.”

  Quarrah flushed, putting a hand to her eyebrow. What was it with Cinza and cats?

  “I doubt that.” Ard crossed the room and set a plate of pastries on the table. “I find Quarrah’s voice to have a rather captivating natural tone. Sure, she’s untrained, but I think there’s a surprising amount of raw musical talent in that throat of hers.”

  See? There he went with the compliments again. Was there any truth behind his words?

  “Say goodbye to the beautiful beard, Quarrah,” Ard said, rubbing a hand over his chin. It had grown quite full over the past three cycles, and she’d become accustomed to it.

  “Elbrig’s playing barber in the morning,” Ard continued. “Only the mustache and sideburns get to stay. Got to look convincing for tomorrow night’s big debut.”

  Sparks! Was the reception really tomorrow? The thought made Quarrah’s knees weak.

  “Although, I must confess,” said Ard, “the winter cycles would be much more comfortable with a full beard. It’s like wearing a permanent scarf.”

  Autumn had been wholly gobbled up in tedious preparations. The Eighth Cycle began with the Moon Passing tonight, and that meant the official onset of winter.

  “Not a chance,” said Cinza. “Dale Hizror would never wear a full beard. I should know; I’ve actually met him.”

  “It was a funny story,” Elbrig said. “I’ll fill you in later. For now, we need to go over a few final details regarding tomorrow night’s reception.” Elbrig gestured for Ard and Quarrah to seat themselves on the padded couch.

  It had been a feat to get the thing into the upper room, requiring the removal of the faux oven and chimney. But, as Quarrah had discovered from lounging during her brief breaks, the comfort of the couch was worth the effort.

  Ard plopped down, looking comfortable in his new attire, shoulder cape spilling stylishly down his left arm. Quarrah dropped beside him, earning an instant reprimand from Cinza.

  “Sit like a noble lady, Quarrah Khai,” she said. “Put your blazing knees together. Your dress isn’t a Trothian tent.”

  Flustered, Quarrah snapped her knees together. Like Cinza was one to speak about elegant behavior. Her first impression had been bald, and toothless, wearing a dirty pair of long underwear.

  Without looking over, Ard reached out and placed a comforting hand on Quarrah’s knee. They had grown physically close over the last three cycles, and it wasn’t uncommon for Ard to place a hand around her waist when they stood side by side. Or occasionally peck her on the cheek when he went out. And for no good reason!

  Well, there was a reason, Quarrah knew. Azania Fyse and Dale Hizror were supposed to be engaged. Their courtship would be proper, restrained, in the fashion of the royal folk. But sometimes it was difficult to differentiate Ard’s considerations from Dale’s affections.

  Quarrah definitely felt something stir inside when Ard touched her. So unlike most of the advances from other men she’d experienced over the years. Companionship wasn’t something Quarrah Khai had ever actively sought, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t come close to finding her.

  Like that next-door tenant who had always happened to take his dog out when Quarrah came up the steps. Or that man who lived across the stre
et from the Starboard Keel, who consistently entered the tavern moments after her. Or that muscly fellow who’d been hired to repair her roof at that run-down tenement in the Eastern Quarter.

  Quarrah hadn’t sought those men, but circumstances had brought them into her life. Like Ard, they had done most of the talking. Quarrah patiently learned their names, their interests, where they kept their safe boxes. She tried to feel something for them—the way they obviously felt things for her. But there’d never been any real connection. In the end, when the men had grown too close for Quarrah’s comfort, she’d pack her bags and vanish into the smoky haze of Beripent’s anonymity.

  Ard was so different from any other man she’d met. He wasn’t pushy or needy. He was arrogant, but not the intolerable type that Quarrah found so obnoxious. Maybe she was a fool. Maybe it was all an act with Ardor Benn, but this was supposed to be an act for her, too. And somehow, oddly, that made his hand on her knee actually feel … right.

  “I have your invitations to the reception.” Elbrig handed them both a folded piece of parchment, sealed with a pressed drop of hardened wax. “I also have confirmation that you are on the guest list, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting into the palace.” He clasped his hands in a teacherly fashion. “Now, let’s go over your objectives for tomorrow evening’s debut.”

  “We introduce ourselves to Beripent’s upper crust as eager newcomers to the big city,” said Ard, “but don’t give away the fact that I am the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Elbrig. “Over the years, there have been too many imposters coming forward to claim the composition. In order for this to work, the realization must be made internally. That is to say, we leave a trail of bread crumbs that will allow Beripent’s rich and famous to come to the conclusion about your identity on their own.”

  Elbrig kicked out a chair and sat down across from the couple on the couch. “So let’s review the bread crumbs. You need to naturally steer the conversation toward a handful of key points. What are they?”

  Naturally, Ard answered first. All the bread crumbs were about him. Quarrah was simply the soft-spoken fiancée. If they managed to successfully build Dale’s character, then Azania would be pulled into the fame by mere association.

  That was fine with Quarrah. Let the ruse artist have the spotlight. Her time to shine would come: wearing black and creeping through the shadows to steal the regalia. For now, Quarrah just had to be sure she didn’t make a fool out of Azania Fyse. Sparks, this was going to be an awkward reception.

  “I was in the city of Octowyn during the summers of 1229 and 1230,” Ard said, Elbrig nodding his approval. “I dislike quill and ink, preferring charcoal scribing tools when writing. Though deprived of formal schooling, I am proud of my mother’s Dronodanian heritage and her insistence on education. And I proposed to Azania with a bouquet of blue irises,” Ard finished. “The flower of my family crest.”

  Quarrah knew the reasoning behind each conversational bread crumb, no matter how disconnected they initially seemed. Cinza and Elbrig had gone over them a dozen times.

  Octowyn had a conservatory that taught a style of musical calligraphy that uniquely formed the flags of semiquavers. Ard had been dutifully practicing the style under Elbrig’s tutelage for weeks now. The score of the Unclaimed Symphony was written in that way, so it would make sense that Dale Hizror had spent some time in Octowyn.

  Supposedly, the original score was written in two mediums. The staves and notes were in common ink and quill, but all additional markings were done in charcoal—an unusual choice for composers, since charcoal was more likely to smudge than ink.

  Elbrig said the pages of the score were numbered in old Dronodanian numerals. It was an obsolete numbering system, but one Dale would have learned if his mother was proud of that island’s heritage.

  Lastly, upon the final page of the Unclaimed Symphony was said to be drawn, in charcoal, a small flower. Elbrig had been making Ard practice the sketch over and over again until it so closely resembled the one in the score that no one would question it.

  How Elbrig knew so much about the original score of the Unclaimed Symphony, Quarrah didn’t know. Unless being performed, the score was locked away somewhere in the palace. And aside from King Pethredote and the conductor of the Royal Orchestra, few were said to have ever even seen it. That, at least, made the whole thing interesting to Quarrah. Maybe she would steal the original score when all this was over.

  “A few notable figures to watch out for at the reception,” Elbrig went on, drawing a small paper from his pocket and glancing at the names listed. “Cantibel Tren, the orchestra’s first violinist. She’s frighteningly knowledgeable on music theory, so it’s best to avoid such discussions with her.” He referred back to the list. “Lorstan Grale. You’ll want to talk to him, but not for very long. He’s been the conductor of the Royal Orchestra going on ten years. He’s met a lot of composers. But he’s never met Dale, lucky for you.”

  “Hopefully no one has,” Ard pointed out.

  “We’re not that lucky, I’m afraid,” said Elbrig. “Noet Farasse. He’s the guest composer at tomorrow’s function. The orchestra will be playing several of his compositions at next week’s concert. The reception is in his honor, so I’m afraid avoiding him would actually draw suspicion.”

  “And Ard’s met him before?” Quarrah asked.

  “Not Ard,” answered Elbrig. “But Dale Hizror has. Eight years ago, when living in Beripent, Dale auditioned for the Southern Quarter Orchestra. Violin. Of course, he didn’t receive a spot, which eventually led him to pursue composing instead of performing. Noet Farasse was the conductor of the Southern Quarter at the time. There is a chance he’ll remember your audition.”

  “That was eight years ago,” Ard said. “Farasse must have seen hundreds of prospectives since then. You really think he’ll remember Dale, who didn’t even manage to get in?”

  Elbrig raised his eyebrows. “When developing a character, Cinza and I tend to do things to stand out. That way, each public interaction carries weight and is worth the time we spent developing that persona.” Elbrig glanced at Cinza. “Dale’s audition was … memorable.”

  “Oh, great,” Ard said. “What did I do?”

  “There was something of a tantrum thrown when your name was not called at the end of auditions,” answered Elbrig. “It resulted in hundreds of pieces of violin on the stage.”

  “Ah.” Ard nodded, and Quarrah thought he even looked a little embarrassed on behalf of his character.

  “I’ll fill you in on all the details shortly,” Elbrig said. “Noet Farasse might recall it in shocking clarity.” He looked once more at the list of names on his paper. “Another person you’ll need to meet is a woman named Kercha Gant. She’s the soprano that will be featured in Farasse’s aria next week.”

  “Why do we need to meet her?” Quarrah asked.

  “Because you’re going to replace her,” answered Cinza.

  “The aria?” Quarrah asked. “The aria I’ve been working on is Farasse’s composition?”

  “Now you’re catching on,” Cinza said. “It’s just as important to solidify your position as it is Ard’s. That’s why Kercha is going to be feeling a little under the weather this week. Lorstan Grale will be desperate to find a new soloist for the concert. You need to make a good enough impression on the conductor tomorrow night that your name will come to mind as a replacement.”

  “What’s going to happen to Kercha?” Quarrah hadn’t signed up to see prominent musicians murdered.

  “Furybeth extract.” Cinza produced a small vial from her pocket. “It’s a slow-releasing toxin that won’t kick in for several days. But, boy, when it does …”

  Elbrig plugged his nose and spoke with an altered voice. “I’b not feelig bery good.”

  “Congestion,” explained Cinza. “A singer’s worst nightmare. Kercha’s sinuses will swell like she snorted a bunch of grapes.”

  “Surely someon
e of her standing has the funds to acquire plenty of Health Grit,” Ard said. “How do we make sure Kercha Gant stays down long enough for Quarrah to replace her?”

  “That’s the magic of Furybeth,” said Cinza. “It so closely resembles the symptoms of a terrible head cold, she won’t risk wasting her Health Grit on it.”

  It was common knowledge that Health Grit had little to no effect on common illnesses. In fact, some claimed it made the illness last longer, the symptoms more intense. Health Grit strengthened any living creature, which led some healers to think that flus and colds were somehow alive inside a human host. The very notion made Quarrah shudder.

  But Health Grit was wonderfully effective for aches and pains, allergic reactions, injury, and, of course, toxins and poisons like this Furybeth extract. Cinza was counting on Kercha Gant not to suspect her condition to be the result of foul play. The vocalist’s ignorance would keep her down while the poison ran its course.

  Cinza tossed the little vial of extract to Quarrah. “You can just drop it in her drink at any time during the reception.”

  Quarrah’s eyes grew as she realized what Cinza was implying. “Me? You want me to drug the soprano?”

  “If I recall correctly,” said Cinza, “being sneaky was one of your only useful skill sets.”

  Quarrah looked at the tiny glass container in her hand. Drugging a stranger’s drink at a social event was very different from lifting a safe box in the dead of night. Where was Quarrah going to draw the line with these people?

  “Let’s see what else.” Elbrig checked his list once more. “Yes. You should steer clear of Waelis Mordo, Rispit Born, Ardor Sicero, and Chal Ovent,” he said. “They’re all backbiting gossipers who grow quickly jealous of popular newcomers.”

  Quarrah silently reviewed the names Elbrig had just listed. This was ridiculous. How was she supposed to remember all this, plus the pose, the lyrics, and her own fake name?

  “Oh, and of course, King Pethredote,” said Elbrig. “Though it’s unlikely that he’ll actually be there. Over the last few years, he’s grown more selective about which events to attend. Age is finally catching up to him, I suppose.”