The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Read online

  If Halavend wasn’t careful, he found himself trying to ignore what his studies really meant for mankind. He was obsessed with finding answers, and it was less emotional to get totally lost in the puzzle of the research. But not Lyndel. Every question she asked and every theory she suggested was motivated by a desire to see her people survive the coming Moonsickness.

  Halavend set aside the second volume. Perhaps it wasn’t what he had feared. Perhaps the scrap of fake shell had merely belonged to a criminal sculptor. What did Ardor call them? Forgers. Perhaps a forger had tested his skills by making a sample of falsified dragon shell, only to cast it into the sea once satisfied with his own competence.

  Isle Halavend had just begun his search of the third volume, when he found the match. Page nine. An artist’s rendering of the same shell fragment lying on the desk. Halavend’s suspicions were confirmed as he tested the fragment against a measuring stick.

  He called to Lyndel, who was at his side in a heartbeat. The book was open, the matching fragment beside it. She didn’t need to see what was on the page to know what he had discovered. Halavend pulled off his spectacles and pressed the palms of his hands over his tired eyes.

  “What does all this mean?” Lyndel finally asked.

  “It could mean any number of things,” said Halavend, finally willing to verbalize some of the theories he had been concocting as he studied. “We know this piece of shell is not real. Yet we found a diagram of this very piece recorded in the Islehood index.”

  “So someone stole the real shell,” Lyndel said. “Replaced it with a false piece that looked identical.”

  “The very ruse that Ardor Benn is currently running,” said Halavend.

  “But who?” wondered Lyndel. “This could mean the real shell is out there. If we find the person who made this replica, we find the true fragment.”

  “There is another possibility,” said Halavend. “And I fear this one more than the first.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your divers said this piece had been underwater for some twenty years.” That was the comment that had sent him scurrying to the library in the first place. “Twenty years ago, the Egrebel Dam broke. The resulting flood obliterated two of the Islehood’s storehouses, destroying the contents and washing them out to sea. One of those storehouses contained the Islehood’s fragments of dragon shell.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Halavend took a deep breath. “That this is one of those fragments from the storehouse. That the Islehood indexed a fake fragment before the stores were washed away in the dam break.”

  “What caused the Egrebel Dam to break?” asked Lyndel.

  Halavend thought back to the disaster. “Structural failure. The dam was very old, and the winter’s rains had swelled its levels.”

  “Your people do not check the dams?” Lyndel asked. “Strengthen old wood?”

  “The dams are stone,” said Halavend, but that wasn’t the point. Of course they did. Maintenance crews were always making improvements to existing structures.

  “Then how did it fail?” pressed Lyndel.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “What if the breach was not an accident?” said Lyndel. “What if someone wanted to wash away the Islehood’s shell fragments?”

  “I can’t imagine …” Halavend began. But nothing was making sense anymore. From the fake fragment to Prime Isle Chauster’s defensive behavior. It was at least worth investigating the Egrebel Dam break.

  “What year is this piece?” asked Lyndel.

  Halavend slipped his spectacles on once more and glanced at the page. “It says this fragment was brought from Pekal and indexed in 919.”

  “Was Visitant Grit successfully detonated after that year?” Lyndel asked.

  “Of course,” he said. Pethredote himself had done it within Halavend’s lifetime. “Why?”

  “The thought occurred to me that perhaps there were more false pieces in the Islehood storehouse,” said Lyndel.

  Halavend couldn’t ignore the probability. What were the odds that the only piece of fake shell happened to be the one that Lyndel’s divers discovered? It was more likely that this was one of many falsified shell fragments that the Islehood had stored.

  “Still, some of the shell must have been real,” said Lyndel. “For the successful detonations.”

  Halavend nodded. “Maybe that’s the answer we’ve been searching for. Perhaps every detonation of Visitant Grit is successful. Perhaps the Prime Isle delivers fake Grit to some people in order to perpetuate the idea that not everyone is ‘worthy.’”

  “That is a harsh claim against your Prime Isle.”

  Lyndel’s words caused Halavend to feel a twinge of guilt. He had made the accusation so quickly. Did it take an Agrodite priestess to remind him of his own faith?

  Now that he paused to give it more thought, the idea seemed ludicrous. The Islehood wasn’t manipulating the people’s faith in that way. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe that the organization he’d dedicated his life to would do something like that. He was a Holy Isle, for Homeland’s sake!

  Halavend sighed. Lyndel’s discovery had opened so many new questions. How was he supposed to keep up when questions on his other topics still remained unanswered?

  “Ardor Benn is preparing to hire a forger to create a replica of the Royal Regalia,” said Halavend. “If you lend me this scrap of shell, perhaps that forger might be able to provide us more information about it.”

  “You trust this forger?” asked Lyndel.

  “I barely trust Ardor,” answered Isle Halavend. “They’re all Settled criminals, and I pray the Homeland will forgive me for my association with them.”

  “You are a good man, Isle Halavend,” Lyndel replied. “Perhaps even a worthy one.”

  He looked up at her sharply. Was Lyndel really implying that he could be the one to detonate the Visitant Grit? He, a Holy Isle dabbling into criminal deeds? No, Halavend certainly did not consider himself worthy enough to summon a Paladin Visitant.

  But he was running out of time. Not only did he need to find a worthy hero, but he needed to convince said person to carry out an illegal plan that had been created by the joint efforts of a Holy Isle, an Agrodite priestess, and a ruse artist.

  Halavend closed the dragon shell index, shaking his head. And Lyndel considered him? Homeland save us all, Halavend thought, if we grow desperate enough to see worthiness in me.

  I will pursue the truth at any cost.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Ard shifted in the saddle, glancing back down the long dirt road. A few leafless trees stood in clusters along the way, but the flat expanse of the countryside seemed to sprawl endlessly. Far behind, Beripent hunkered like a smudge of grease on the horizon. The distant city was hazy with smoke from the wood-burning hearths. The citizens weren’t so frivolous as to warm their homes with Heat Grit.

  Ard glanced at Raek, who rode alongside him on a chestnut horse. He hadn’t asked where his partner had scored the two mounts. Raek would give him the receipt for Halavend’s reimbursement later … if the horses had been rented legitimately.

  They had an appointment with Tarnath Aimes, the man Raek had selected from their list of potential forgers. Where Tarnath lived was too far outside Beripent for a rented carriage. It would be hours of traveling in both directions, and the distance would be covered much more quickly on horseback.

  “Quarrah would hate it out here,” Ard said. “So flat. Wide.”

  “Doesn’t that sum up every island?” Raek replied. “Aside from Pekal.”

  Central Espar was considered the most mountainous, but even those peaks looked like low hills compared to Pekal’s height. The wild island loomed at the center of it all, the summit so high that most days it was shrouded in clouds.

  “I mean, no buildings,” Ard explained. “No nooks or corners to hide around. Just the open road.”

  Ard found the country rejuvenating. Not that he’d
want to live out here in this Homeland-forsaken wilderness. Not enough people for his liking. Not enough coming and going. Not enough opportunity.

  “You two seem to be getting along rather well,” Raek pointed out.

  “Quarrah and me?” Ard replied. “Our characters are supposed to be engaged. It’s all a bit of an act.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen you show this kind of interest in someone.” Then he added, “Since Tanalin.”

  “That’s blazing nonsense,” said Ard. “I’ve shown plenty of interest. What about the haberdasher girl? Remember her?”

  “Vaguely,” Raek answered. “What was her name, again?”

  “Collia. No, Colenia … Anyway, it started with a C.”

  Raek grinned. “My point exactly.”

  Ard twisted the leather strap of the horse’s reins through his fingers distractedly. “She’s not Tanalin,” he said. “Quarrah’s nothing like her.”

  “Does she have to be?” Raek asked. “It’s been seven years, Ard. You’re a whole new person. You can’t keep holding out for someone who thinks you’re dead. Who’s to say Tanalin would even look twice at Ardor Benn?”

  “I’m still myself,” he answered. “Dashing, brilliant, charming …”

  “Humble,” Raek added. “Don’t forget humble.”

  “I didn’t want to list them all,” said Ard. “You’ve known me longer than anyone, Raek. Have I really changed that much?”

  “Ardor Benn is a far cry from that lanky teenage kid who got his trousers stuck on the Pelfid family’s fence while trying to throw that pigeon trap onto the roof. You were hanging there like a limp flag when I found you.”

  “Those pants were made by a delirious tailor,” Ard rebutted. “Who sews pockets that hang open like that? And besides, I was going to train those pigeons to bring me Grit pots. Would’ve worked, too, if you’d designed a better trap.”

  Raek chuckled. “Ardor Castenac was a dreamer. Ardor Benn is a dreamer and a taker. Not sure Tanalin would appreciate the latter.”

  Ard noticed the way Raek had brought the conversation back to her, despite his efforts to derail it.

  “Tanalin won’t understand why you didn’t come back,” continued Raek. “Even if she understands why you did it, she’s going to wonder why you stayed dead so long.”

  “It’s this lifestyle, Raek,” said Ard. “Come on, you know Tanalin. She’s a straight arrow. Probably even more so now, because of what happened. As long as I’m rusing, I can’t risk getting her involved. But this is it. This is the big score! With half a million Ashings, I won’t have to live this lifestyle anymore.”

  “So, what? You’re just going to hang up your rusing hat, find Tanalin, and sweep her off her feet?” He chuckled. “Please let me know how that goes.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.” Ard’s hopes for him and Tanalin were never too clear, even in his own mind. Had it really been seven years? He’d gotten far too deep into something that was supposed to be only temporary. With every passing cycle—passing year—he felt the reality of being with Tanalin slip further away.

  He hoped she had moved on. No, he wanted to hope that, but he couldn’t really bring himself to feel it. In his mind, Tanalin was holding out for him the same way he was holding out for her. But that was ridiculous. Tanalin Phor thought he was dead.

  Ard kept track of her secretly, as best he could. From what he gathered, Tanalin was still working on Pekal, but she’d risen in the ranks. He’d heard she was a Tracer in the king’s own Harvesting crew! Flames, Tanalin was probably making enough money now that he didn’t need the half million Ashings.

  But Raek was right. How was he supposed to mend things after all this time? Tanalin was headstrong, independent, trusting. But she could be stubborn, too. Not quick to forgive a massive stunt like the one Ard pulled.

  “You and Quarrah makes sense together, Ard,” Raek went on. “I mean, you’re both on the Regulation’s wanted list, so your dangerous lifestyle wouldn’t be a problem.” He grinned. “You could be like the next Elbrig and Cinza.”

  “Gross.” Ard shuddered. “You know, Quarrah asked me the other day if those two were brother and sister?”

  “Now, that’s gross,” Raek said. “I swear I saw them kiss once.”

  “They did!” Ard agreed. “They demonstrated once for Quarrah and me. Said we had no chemistry.”

  “Was that before or after she wondered about them being siblings?”

  “That’s what sparked the question.” Homeland only knew how Elbrig and Cinza were related, but Ard remembered Quarrah’s disgusted reaction.

  Quarrah made him laugh. Not always on purpose, but that was part of her charm. She was talented, clever. And at times downright awkward. Sparks, was he falling for her? Ard didn’t know what to think. After so many hours of practicing with Elbrig and Cinza, the line between Dale’s affection for Azania and Ard’s feelings toward Quarrah was blurring.

  “They were wrong, by the way,” Raek added. “You and Quarrah have plenty of chemistry.”

  “Glad it’s convincing,” said Ard. Maybe he was even convincing himself. “It’s a lot of work to maintain a fake relationship.”

  And the ruse was only growing more demanding. Five days had passed since Quarrah had served Kercha Gant the Furybeth extract. With the concert fast approaching, it had become clear to Farasse and Lorstan Grale that the soprano soloist would need to be replaced. Quarrah’s impressive regurgitation of the aria’s lyrics must have stuck in their minds, because just last night an invitation had arrived at Dale’s residence, requesting Azania’s vocal talent.

  Elbrig and Cinza would be seeing to her success at the rehearsal. They had some servant disguises established at the concert hall. It would get them inside, allow them to make the necessary modifications to the stage, and position Cinza in a situation that would enable her to sing for Quarrah.

  Rehearsals would be trickier than the actual performance, due to their stop-and-go nature. The orchestra had been practicing for several weeks, but luckily, the soloist was only expected to attend two rehearsals preceding the concert. Cinza had it all worked out, but Quarrah still seemed a nervous wreck when Ard and Raek had left the bakery that morning.

  Ard wished he could have donned Dale Hizror’s disguise and gone with her to the rehearsal. But Raek’s meeting with Tarnath Aimes wasn’t something easy to reschedule. In fact, Raek had coordinated everything through a servant boy, with instructions to meet them at Panes junction, an hour past noon.

  Ard happened to be on time for once. Squinting across the flat stretch of countryside, he thought he could see a horseman waiting at the crossroads ahead.

  Ard shifted the satchel Isle Halavend had given him at their last meeting. The old man had seemed even more uptight than usual, and Ard realized that he should probably exercise some measure of frugality in the ruse. However Halavend was withdrawing Ashings was bound to be risky. There would be no million-Ashing payout if their employer was caught and executed.

  Isle Halavend had again urged Ard to work as quickly as possible, reminding him that time was of the essence. Whatever that meant. In the same breath, Halavend had apologized for distracting Ard with the contents of this satchel, but it was a matter that needed looking into. It was no trouble for Ard. He needed to meet with a forger anyway, and if Raek’s research held up, Tarnath Aimes was the best source to check it.

  The boy waiting at the junction couldn’t have been over fourteen years old. He had a mess of curly black hair on his head, and his skin was pale, like he rarely went outside.

  “It’s this way,” said the lad, turning his horse down the road toward Panes.

  They rode for another hour before they reached the town, the boy tight-lipped despite Ard’s best efforts to engage him in conversation. A youthful messenger who spilled trade secrets was more liability than help. This one seemed to earn his keep.

  Panes
was just big enough not to be considered a township—located halfway between Beripent and Ergomun. For a visit, Ard enjoyed the city’s casual approach toward life. But it was lacking several things that Beripent had—the pollution, the stench, the poverty, and the crime. It would be too hard to live like Ardor Benn and blend into the general population.

  The boy led them past a tavern attached to the side of a hotel, and came to a stop before a multistory brick building with a cobbler’s shop on the ground level. All three dismounted, hitching their horses to a post by the shopfront before entering.

  It was quiet inside, the smell of fresh leather and adhesive filling Ard’s nose. Shelves lined the walls, full of every type of shoe. From the sturdy boots of a field laborer, to the tall riding boot. From the square-toed ankle shoe of the nobleman—the uncomfortable type Ard wore when playing his role as Dale—to the laced heel of the noblewoman.

  There were two small mobile benches, and a low mounted mirror on one wall. A workbench occupied the far side, scraps of leather and bits of braided shoelace littered across its scuffed surface. There were a variety of foot molds, some of which had been placed inside damp leather forms to give them the proper shape.

  The only thing missing was the cobbler.

  The quiet boy stepped behind the workbench, instructing Ard and Raek to remain where they were while he disappeared up a stairwell. A moment later, the youngster returned, waving for them to follow.

  The wooden stairs creaked as Ard and Raek made their way up. The boy opened a door at the top of the stairs and gestured for them to pass. “Tarnath will see you.”

  Ard stepped into the room to find a heavyset man sitting on a bar stool. Tarnath’s face was round, and his eyes deep set in his pale face. Both ears were pierced, with golden studs poking out through black hair that fell in tight curls to his shoulders. His beard was bushy and thick, like the hair on his arms. Golden chains were draped around his thick neck, and his shirt fell open to reveal a chest that looked as furry as a dog’s backside.