The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Read online

  Before him on the table was a thin woman, lying on her side in a rather provocative position with her eyes closed. A thin sheet draped over her shapely body, toes poking out the bottom, and bare shoulders visible at the top. The woman had blond hair, full lips, and a seductive expression. She remained absolutely still as Ard and Raek entered the room, her face toward Tarnath.

  “Isn’t she something?” Tarnath asked. His thick fingers were gripping a small, pointy tool. The heavy man leaned forward and poked the woman’s eye with the metal utensil.

  She remained perfectly motionless. Unflinching.

  Ard took a startled step closer as Tarnath dragged the pointy metal tool under the woman’s eyelid. Sparks! What kind of sorcery was this? Torture? Twisted pleasure? Ard couldn’t decide. But the woman on the table seemed completely unresponsive. He might have thought she were dead if it weren’t for the rosiness of her cheeks.

  “Who is she?” Raek asked.

  “Name’s Gella,” Tarnath said, switching the metal tool for a delicate paintbrush. “Making her for a client of mine.”

  “Making her?” Ard repeated as the man brushed soft strokes across the woman’s face.

  “Wax, my boy!” Tarnath threw back the sheet to expose her body. But what Ard saw was clearly not human. The shape had been roughed out, but the body was made of an opaque white material, like an unburned candle.

  “A wax figure,” muttered Ard, feeling duped. “That’s clever.”

  “Hopefully clever enough for my client,” said Tarnath. “She thinks her husband is unfaithful.” The forger reached out a thick hand and patted the wax woman. “Gella, here, is going to be a test. Position her just so upon the bed. Then hide in the room when the husband comes in.” He chuckled. “I don’t really care what the outcome is. Suspicion has already paid me a handsome Ashing.”

  Tarnath set down the small paintbrush and turned on his stool to face the two men in the doorway. He waved at the boy with the back of his hand. “Leave us to business, Kippo.” Now that Ard saw them in the same room, the family resemblance was obvious. The lad stepped onto the stairs, pulling the door closed as he returned to the shoe shop below.

  “My boy says you have an offer for me,” Tarnath said. “Ardor Benn, and the Short Fuse. I’m flattered.”

  “You should be.” Ard was somewhat pleased that his reputation had preceded their meeting. “I have a question for someone with your expertise.”

  He reached into his satchel and withdrew the fragment of white dragon shell that Isle Halavend had given him. Lyndel, the Agrodite priestess, had insisted that the shell was not real. And now Ard was trying to sniff out its origins.

  “What can you tell me about this?” Ard set the fragment on the table beside the wax woman.

  “Well, well,” muttered Tarnath, picking it up. “Fertilized sow dragon shell.”

  “My friend says it’s a …” Ard began.

  “Forgery,” Tarnath finished. “Yes, yes. Look how it’s worn along the edge to expose the resin. Would have been hard to spot in its day, but this piece is decades old. Weathered.”

  He found a pair of spectacles and slipped them onto his nose. Unlike Quarrah’s, these had multiple lenses, which could be lowered into place for magnification. “Where did you come by this piece?”

  “That’s not something I can talk about,” answered Ard. “Ever seen anything like it?”

  “Only a Moonsick fool would forge dragon shell.” Tarnath reached up and dropped an extra lens over his spectacles. “The Islehood controls this product. There’s no market for it whatsoever.”

  “Yet someone clearly took the time to make this piece,” Raek pointed out.

  “His name was Reejin,” answered the forger. He tapped his finger on the side of the shell fragment. “That’s his mark etched into the edge.”

  “You found that awfully quick,” Raek said.

  Tarnath glanced up and smiled. His eyes looked huge and watery under the magnification of his lenses. “Knew exactly what I was looking for.”

  “You know this Reejin?” Ard asked. This was good news for Isle Halavend.

  “I did,” answered Tarnath. “He’s dead now. Shot to death in a Beripent alley some years back.”

  “I hate it when that happens,” Raek said.

  “I had the chance to study with him.” Tarnath slid away the extra lenses on his spectacles. “Many years ago. Had a bit of a reputation, Reejin did. A bold cat, as they say. Lots of rumors. Some said Reejin worked for the Islehood. Others said he was cheating the Islehood. Whichever was the case, Reejin gained notoriety among forgers for making counterfeit dragon shell.”

  “Did he get paid for it?” Ard asked.

  “Reejin never seemed to be hurting for Ashings,” said Tarnath. “I was working around the clock trying to make ends meet with counterfeit Grit, paintings, instruments, anything that would fetch a price. Whatever arrangement Reejin had was a deluxe one. While I was apprenticed to him, someone used to bring him genuine shell fragments to forge.”

  “Who?” Ard asked.

  “Don’t know,” answered Tarnath. “I don’t even think Reejin knew. Fragment would show up, and he’d forge it and return both pieces to the drop site. By the time he got home there was a bag of Ashings on his doorstep.” Tarnath shook his head. “Yep. Reejin had it good. He was one of the lucky ones.”

  “Except for the whole shot-to-death-in-an-alley part,” Raek reminded.

  Tarnath shrugged. “Hey. Beripent’s a dangerous city. Highest crime in the Greater Chain. Why do you think I’m out in Panes? How do I compete with a city full of forgers?”

  “You specialize,” said Raek. “The forgers in Beripent are still gun shy when it comes to fake shell. Every lead I sniffed down sent me in your direction.”

  Tarnath set down the piece of shell and removed his intricate spectacles. “Now, hold on a minute, gentlemen. You want me to forge you some fertilized dragon shell?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Ard said. “Our offer will likely be the most complex of forgeries.”

  “More complex than a woman?” Tarnath chuckled, gesturing over his shoulder to the wax figure. “I somehow doubt that.”

  “You clearly have a lot of confidence in yourself,” said Ard. “Good. You’ll need it to pull this off.”

  “Who says I’m taking the job?” Tarnath asked.

  “This isn’t the kind of offer you turn down,” said Ard. “Understand?”

  “Is that a threat?” The forger laced his pale fingers across his leather artist apron and rested them on the bulge of his stomach.

  “It’s more of a mercy,” Raek added. “A chance to decline now, before we really explain anything.”

  Tarnath squinted thoughtfully at the two men. “What kind of payout are we talking?”

  “Five thousand Ashings,” answered Ard without hesitation. Like Elbrig’s disguise, the forged regalia was a commodity. Halavend would reimburse Tarnath’s fee without dipping into the million Ashings owed to Ard.

  The forger raised his bushy eyebrows. “It’s right to be suspicious of a sum that large, don’t you think? How do I know you’ll make good on your end?”

  “We’ll give you the money at the same time you give us the product,” Ard answered.

  “Eight thousand,” Tarnath haggled. “I’m the best forger on Espar when it comes to dragon shell.”

  “Done.” Ard shook hands with the burly man.

  “Now, what exactly do you need me to make?” Tarnath asked.

  “We want you to create an identical replica of the Royal Regalia,” answered Ard, his voice soft as a caution against eavesdroppers.

  Tarnath’s eyes grew wide. He looked from Ard to Raek, seeming to carry on an internal debate about whether or not they were serious. Then he let out a nervous laugh, swiveling on his bar stool to face the wax woman. “Did you hear that, Gella? King Pethredote’s Royal Regalia! These fellows are out of their blazing minds!”

  “Says the man talking to a
wax figure,” Raek replied.

  “Unfortunately, we’re very serious about all this,” Ard said.

  “And that alone is rare,” said Raek. “Ard has a hard time being serious about anything.”

  Tarnath ran a hand through his shaggy beard. “Absolute oysters! That’s a suicide job.”

  “This isn’t the kind of offer you turn down,” Ard repeated.

  “Now, that was a threat,” added Raek.

  “You don’t understand my methods.” Tarnath stood up for the first time since Ard and Raek had entered the room. “I saw the Royal Regalia once. More than ten years ago. From the back of a crowd. I can’t conjure up that image with enough detail to make a convincing replica.”

  Ard reached into his satchel and withdrew a small stack of papers that he had requested from Isle Halavend. “All the information in the Mooring Library about the Royal Regalia.” Ard handed the pages to Tarnath. There were detailed descriptions, and drawings from every angle.

  Tarnath rifled through the pages before looking up. “This is helpful for a start, but this isn’t how I work.” He set the papers on the table next to the wax woman. “I’m a tangible artist. In order to re-create something, I have to see the colors up close. Feel the textures with my own fingers …”

  “That’s simply not going to happen,” Raek said.

  “But what if it did?” interjected Ard, stroking his mustache. Elbrig had suggested an artificial one, now that Dale had made his crucial first impression. But Ard found the mustache helped him think.

  “What do you mean?” Tarnath’s voice was hesitant.

  “What if I could get you close enough to the regalia so you could gather your information?” answered Ard.

  “That would be … impossible,” whispered the forger.

  “How long would you need with it?” pressed Ard.

  Tarnath shook his head. “Only a moment. I can draft a clay model with the information from these pages. I’d just need a minute with the regalia to solidify the fine details before I finish crafting the replica. But the regalia is in the palace. How would you …”

  “I expect the king to invite me to the palace soon,” said Ard.

  Tarnath scoffed. “Now, that seems a bit arrogant. Even for Ardor Benn’s reputation.”

  “Clearly, you don’t know him,” Raek said.

  “I’m working an angle,” Ard continued. “I’ll be attending a concert with the king’s orchestra in a few days. Pethredote should be there, but he won’t likely be wearing the regalia.”

  “Even if he was,” said Raek, “how could you get Tarnath inside? The crazies?”

  Ard shook his head. Another disguise would be too expensive, and Elbrig wouldn’t have time to train Tarnath on a character suitable for a royal event.

  “If we can’t get Tarnath inside the palace,” said Ard, “we’ll have to find an opportunity to get the regalia out.”

  Raek scratched his bald head. “That doesn’t make much sense. If we could successfully steal the regalia, why would we need a replica?”

  Ard grinned. “I’m not talking about stealing it yet. I’m talking about having Tarnath make his inspection during a public address from the king.”

  “You want me to inspect the regalia,” Tarnath muttered, “while Pethredote is wearing it?” He looked again at the wax woman. “Sparks, Gella! They really are nutty!”

  “Be ready to move at a moment’s notice,” Ard instructed the forger. “We’ll need you in Beripent quickly should an opportunity present itself.” He turned to leave.

  “Oh,” Raek said to Tarnath, pausing in the doorway. “While you’re at it with the wax figures, you might want to sculpt one of Ard. I know a lady who wouldn’t mind keeping him propped up in the corner of her bedroom.”

  Ard reached up and smacked Raek across the back of his bald head. “Quarrah’s not a pervert.”

  Raek chuckled. “Oh! I was talking about the Trothian baker.”

  I’m certainly not the only person qualified for this task. Sometimes I wonder if I am insane for having agreed to do it. But the choice was mine alone.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Quarrah Khai adjusted her dress, took a deep breath, and turned back for a drink of water. Her fingers found another éclair instead, and she shoved the entire thing into her mouth.

  “Relax.” Ard’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Everything’s in place. You’re going to be amazing.”

  “You should get back to your seat.” Quarrah swallowed the dessert and chased it down with a gulp of water. “The intermission Light Grit will burn out any second.”

  “My tardiness won’t bother anyone,” Ard said. “They’d expect me here. Backstage with you.” He, too, helped himself to an éclair, shrugging only moderate approval of the pastry. “Besides, I’d rather wait until the Lights go out so I don’t have to see Farasse’s smug face. He talked through the entire first half of the concert.”

  Quarrah fanned her face with her hand. She wasn’t really listening to Ardor Benn. He had slipped backstage to the performers’ lounge to help calm her nerves, but at this point, her nerves were too far gone. She was a ship, lost at sea, tackling unmanageable waves that were much too big for her.

  The first half of the concert had been a steady flow of increasing anxiety. She’d thrown up twice before intermission, and was now nervously stuffing down anything edible, hoping she wouldn’t regret it onstage.

  Her part was coming fast. The Unified Aria started the second half of the concert, with one of Farasse’s short instrumental pieces as the final number. Whether she would be conscious to hear it was yet to be determined. Quarrah had the distinct shortage of breath that oft preceded passing out.

  Ard reached out suddenly, seizing her gloved hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it softly, his eyes locking with hers. Sparks, that didn’t help the nerves.

  Ard was definitely looking the part of Dale Hizror at the moment, long-haired wig pulled back and tied with a bright ribbon, thick mustache, and full sideburns extending almost to his chin. The wig’s prosthetic forehead had been tacked firmly into place, the shape of his head different from what she was accustomed to. But the eyes were the same. Ard’s eyes.

  “Azania Fyse.” Ard bowed as he released her hand. “I am supremely confident that you will leave this audience in speechless wonder.” Why did he have to say things like that? Didn’t Ard know that her insides were already a puddle of mush?

  He stepped over to the door and pulled it open. “If you’ll excuse me.” He slipped out of sight.

  Ard was good. Talented in so many ways. He had gone from downing pastries and bad-mouthing Farasse to a proper gentleman in the blink of an eye. Quarrah’s transition into character wasn’t half as fluid. She needed to start acting like Azania now if she had any hope of looking like her onstage.

  Quarrah crossed the room a few times, trying to practice the nuances of her character’s movement. The heels on these shoes were downright absurd. Every step was like an audible announcement of her approach.

  A young man’s face appeared in the open doorway. “If you are ready, madam, I’ll see you to the stage.”

  She nodded, downing one final sip of water to soothe her dry throat, before taking the arm of the young stagehand. They moved down a narrow backstage hallway, painted black and barely illuminated by a Light Grit detonation the size of a candle flame. When they rounded the corner, Quarrah saw the thick curtains hanging along the side of the stage. She almost lost the éclair she’d just eaten.

  The young stagehand deposited her in the darkness beside Lorstan Grale who smiled warmly and took her hand in both of his. “Are you ready, my dear?” he whispered.

  Ready? Flames, no! Quarrah had never felt less prepared for anything in her entire life.

  Onstage, the orchestra musicians had taken their seats. Cantibel Tren, the first violinist, was providing the tuning pitch. It was a cacophony of independent sounds, and Quarrah felt like she could have let out a few
much-needed shrieks of fear and no one would have noticed.

  “Does one ever feel truly ready for such things?” Quarrah replied to the conductor.

  Lorstan Grale chuckled. “The nerves can steel with experience. I’ve been doing this for a long time.” He let go of her hand as the orchestra’s whining faded to silence. “I’ll gesture for you to follow me out,” he whispered, stepping past the side curtain to uproarious applause from the audience.

  Don’t pass out. Breathing is important. Why did Cinza tie my dress so tight?

  Quarrah practiced breathing the way Cinza had taught her. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose …

  Lorstan Grale gestured to the side of the stage for her entrance. This was it. Quarrah slipped something from a secret pocket in her glove and popped it into her mouth. Then her legs were propelling her onstage, the applause a wash of indecipherable sounds.

  Find the mark. Find the mark.

  Quarrah kept her focus on the finely crafted wooden flooring. Several feet from the conductor’s podium was a very important mark chalked onto the flat black stage. She stepped across it, letting the long hem of her dress swirl around her feet.

  Safely in place, Quarrah struck the pose Cinza had drilled into her over the past three cycles. Only then did she look up.

  Quarrah hadn’t been expecting the light. Light Grit detonations hung above the stage, mirrors positioned to reflect the light directly upon her face. She felt instantly hot, like the amplified lights might melt the inordinate amount of makeup that Cinza had applied on her.

  The rest of the Royal Concert Hall was enveloped in darkness. So dark that Quarrah couldn’t see anyone sitting out there at first. Instead of finding comfort in that, she found it oddly unsettling. Like she was being watched by unknown eyes. The expert thief in her wanted to turn and run.

  Lorstan Grale took the podium. He looked once to Quarrah, who nodded. She didn’t think about the action, but muscle memory from her practice sessions took over. Lorstan rustled a few pages on his podium and lifted his baton. He prepped, his baton came down, and the orchestra launched into the opening of Farasse’s Unified Aria.