The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Read online

  Quarrah took a deep breath, careful not to choke on the item in her mouth. She was on an unalterable course now. From the downbeat, Quarrah had sixty-four measures before her first notes. Sixty-four measures to get everything into position for Cinza to effectively take over as the soloist.

  Quarrah felt a slight thump at her feet and she knew the disguise manager was making the first move. Concealed in the crawl space below the stage, Cinza was removing a precut portion of the flooring between Quarrah’s feet. The process took some force, but the orchestra’s vigorous opening provided ideal sound cover for any bumps that may occur. And Quarrah’s long dress hung like a curtain to hide the trickery, so long as she didn’t move from the chalk mark she was straddling.

  Quarrah stared out, her eyes adjusting to the reflected light enough that she could see the audience rows. She scanned the faces for Ard, but individuals were difficult to make out. There was a balcony, too, but Ard had said Farasse saved their seats on the ground floor.

  The hall was full, but that was to be expected. Attending a concert was a thing of status. Even more, when it was the king’s own orchestra at the Royal Concert Hall adjacent to the palace. To the patrons here tonight, it mattered less about whether they enjoyed the music, and more about being seen at such a prestigious event. Supposedly, King Pethredote himself was out there. Ard hadn’t seen him, as the king had a private box on the Grand Tier.

  Quarrah tried not to fidget as she felt something between her legs. It was Cinza’s head, unencumbered by a wig of any kind. The disguise manager would have a set of teeth in, but other than that, Cinza would be in her raw and natural state, sliding her narrow shoulders through the trapdoor she had just removed from the stage.

  Cinza’s head rose uncomfortably high, coming to rest between Quarrah’s thighs. For stability, Cinza wrapped her arms around Quarrah’s legs until she was positioned just right, her lower half under the stage, and her upper half hidden beneath the thick folds of Quarrah’s dress.

  The dress itself was of singular design. The thick burgundy fabric made intricate folds and scallops, trimmed with black lace. From the outside, nothing appeared unusual about the front seam, pulling away from the hips in two rich draperies. But Quarrah had felt the chill of winter on her thighs as they entered the building, the lace front deceivingly thin and breathable.

  As uncomfortable as the arrangement was for Quarrah, she figured it was far worse for Cinza, who was stuck between her legs with a stifling dome of fabric hanging around her as she sang through a lace window.

  Cinza tapped Quarrah’s knee three times to indicate that she was ready. Good. There were still eight measures before their entrance.

  Quarrah rolled the small item out from beneath her tongue. It was a hazelnut, shelled and roasted. Raek had painstakingly hollowed it out to create an open cavity inside. Next, the Mixer had poured high-grade Silence Grit, mixed with just a touch of Prolonging Grit to make absolutely sure that the effect would last the length of the fifteen-minute aria, but not too long after. If things went as planned, she’d need to be able to accept congratulations shortly after the piece’s conclusion. Last, Raek had inserted two minuscule shards of Slagstone before sealing the opening with a tiny beeswax plug.

  Quarrah maneuvered the nut across her mouth until it rest between her molars. The edge of the hazelnut was growing soft from being under her tongue, despite the dryness of her mouth.

  Bracing herself against the unpleasantness, Quarrah bit down swiftly on the nut. She felt the spark between her teeth as the tiny fragments of Slagstone grated together. The Silence Grit detonated, like a sudden puff of air originating within her mouth.

  There was a bitter taste, and Quarrah fought to keep her lips sealed, containing the blast. The cloud filled her mouth, with any residual spilling down her throat to sufficiently mask her vocal cords.

  Every trial they’d run in the bakery’s upper room had worked, but Quarrah couldn’t help but feel uncertain as the orchestra swelled toward her entrance.

  From the corner of her eye, Quarrah saw Lorstan Grale lean out slightly, his free hand cueing her to come in. She didn’t need the cue. Cinza had drilled the counting into her head and Quarrah felt like she knew the aria as well as Noet Farasse himself.

  She opened her mouth and boldly sang the first note. Not a sound escaped her lips. But from beneath her wide dress, Cinza’s pure soprano notes pealed out to fill the Royal Concert Hall.

  In his soft chair on the seventh row, Ard felt his entire body relax, muscles loosening that he hadn’t realized were tensed. Praise the Homeland, that was not Quarrah’s voice coming from the stage.

  Quarrah Khai was many things, but a singer was not one of them. Had Cinza’s trickery beneath the stage not worked, Farasse would likely have chased Quarrah off the stage with a loaded Singler.

  “She was absolutely effortless on that opening line.” Farasse leaned over to whisper in Ard’s ear. “The impact there really sets the tone for the entire piece.”

  Ard gave a knowing nod without replying. It was his first concert as a legitimate attendee, but even Ard knew that common etiquette demanded silence during a performance. Farasse obviously felt like the exception, perhaps due to the fact that they were performing his compositions.

  Ard squinted to see if he could see the discolored detonation cloud in Quarrah’s mouth. There was no trace of it from where he was sitting, but other patrons carried special magnifying glasses crafted specifically for watching performers onstage. Ard hoped they wouldn’t spot anything amiss.

  Quarrah was already to the third stanza. “‘A shattered glass repaired. A scattered dust of Grit cannot ignite. Bring us henceforth inward. Let our dwellings be as ceramic pots, our actions as Slagstone striking. Hail the victor; worthy one. Our glorious crusader monarch, whose peace is ever Compounding.’”

  Farasse swiveled in his chair, peering upward over his broad shoulder, then whispering again to Ard, “It’s one thing to have this performed with the Northeastern Orchestra. But it’s another to have His Majesty listening. What do you suppose he’s thinking?”

  Ard shrugged silently. The Unified Aria probably wasn’t the first song to be written about King Pethredote. The lyrics spoke of how the great crusader monarch reestablished peace across the islands of the Greater Chain. Ard had heard Quarrah practicing it a hundred times. It talked about King Pethredote’s worthiness in summoning a Paladin Visitant. It talked about his magnanimous reign.

  Personally, Ard found the whole thing distasteful. Sure, he agreed with the lyrics, but he didn’t agree with Farasse’s reason for writing them. The Unified Aria was the work of a self-righteous sycophant. And that was one personality Ard couldn’t abide.

  Still, sitting next to Farasse was useful in establishing himself. Before the concert began, Ard had managed to plant a few more clues implying that Dale Hizror was the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony. There was another reception in two weeks, followed by a concert the week after. If he could keep up the game, the royal folk might come to their own conclusion in another cycle or two.

  “Wow … Flawless approach to that high C,” Farasse muttered. He wasn’t necessarily speaking to Ard anymore, but the man seemed compelled to narrate the aria.

  To her credit, Quarrah was doing an incredible job. If Ard didn’t know better, he would have been easily convinced that the voice he was hearing belonged to the young woman onstage. Her mouth formed the words perfectly in sync with Cinza’s hidden performance below. Her diaphragm contracted naturally under the tight corset as she drew breaths between phrases. Everything looked perfect and natural.

  “‘A stronger steel of justice. A gentler touch of grace.’” Quarrah began what Ard recognized as the final line of the aria. “‘Homeland see him well to guide us. Hail the crusader monarch.”

  Quarrah finished strong and confident, the orchestra cutting off their final sustain under Lorstan Grale’s baton. Ard finally relaxed to the point where he wasn’t even gripping his armrests anym
ore.

  The audience broke into rich applause. Farasse leapt to his feet, hands thundering together as Quarrah took the first bow in a series of many. Ard imagined the frantic work of Cinza beneath the dress, ducking her shaved head below the stage, fixing the floor panel back into place. Quarrah exited, then returned a moment later with a bouquet of flowers to continue bowing at the gracious audience.

  Well, they liked her, Ard thought. That would certainly strengthen the position of the ruse going forward. He glanced up toward the glass box on the Grand Tier, hopeful to catch a glimpse of the king’s reaction.

  Suddenly, Lorstan Grale was quieting the audience with a gesture. Patrons seated themselves to hear the conductor’s remarks as Quarrah stood nearby, cradling the flowers, her back rigid in that practiced pose.

  “Before we play tonight’s final number,” Lorstan Grale’s voice was soft enough to prompt everyone in the hall to hold very still, “I wanted to acknowledge the beautiful voice you just heard. Our soloist, Azania Fyse, is something of a newcomer to Beripent’s musical scene, but she was able to fill in for Kercha Gant in a flawless manner.”

  There was some applause, and Quarrah had the presence of mind to bow again. This kind of attention was good, and Ard was impressed with the way Quarrah was handling it.

  “And if this young vocalist was not impressive enough,” continued Lorstan, “I’d like to introduce her fiancé, Dale Hizror, who also happens to be in attendance with us tonight.”

  Ard’s heart rate quickened as the conductor peered out across the audience. “Mr. Hizror, would you please come forward?”

  Ard stood up stiffly. Sparks, what was going on? Had they seen through his disguise? He glanced at Farasse, but the composer seemed genuinely puzzled, if not a little perturbed that Dale was receiving attention at a concert featuring Farasse’s compositions.

  Slowly, Ard moved into the aisle, resisting the urge to adjust his wig. He needed to trust Elbrig’s costume and coaching. Besides, acknowledgment was what he needed, right? What was more notable than getting called to the stage in front of the king and a hall full of wealthy nobles?

  Ard ascended the side steps to the stage, his march feeling as though it had taken hours instead of mere seconds. He approached the conductor, locking eyes with Quarrah as he stepped past her. She looked genuinely panicked, and that, strangely, put him at ease.

  This was his thing: acting smooth under pressure. He was a ruse artist, able to talk his way out of any scenario. Whatever the reason behind getting singled out, Ard was going to deal with it to prove to Quarrah that he was a master of his craft.

  “I believe this man warrants a special introduction.” Lorstan Grale slapped a hand around Ard’s shoulder. “Some of you had the opportunity of speaking with him at last week’s reception. I, for one, learned something very interesting the moment I shook his hand.” Lorstan Grale seized Ard’s right hand and raised it before the audience. “Dale Hizror is none other than the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony.”

  A collective gasp came over the audience, followed by a wavelike murmur. Ard glanced at Quarrah, a broad smile passing over his face. As it turned out, there would be no need for talking them out of trouble after all! And the ruse had just accelerated. Ard felt the giddiness of victory spreading though his body. For once, something had turned out better than planned!

  “Give us proof!” cried a faceless voice from the audience.

  “Of course.” Lorstan Grale held up his hands for order. “I would never make such a statement without backing it up. When the Unclaimed Symphony was deposited on the palace steps, the score was packaged in parchment, sealed with a drop of wax. Pressed into that wax was an emblem of a blooming iris. For years, the king’s men searched for the identity behind this emblem. It wasn’t until last week that I found it—in the signet ring of Dale Hizror.”

  Ard glanced at the ring on his right hand. It was part of the costume he had purchased from Elbrig. If the ring had such important ties to the Unclaimed Symphony, why hadn’t Elbrig mentioned it? Here, Ard had been dropping subtle clues, when all he really needed to do was flash the ring to the right people.

  “Upon further investigation,” continued the conductor, “I discovered that Dale Hizror is trained in the musical calligraphy style of the Octowyn conservatory, which matches the penmanship of the symphony’s original score. He was also schooled in classic Dronodanian, matching the numeration of parts and movements found through the score. I have little doubt as to the true identity of this man, and lack only a confession from him to confirm my suspicions.” Lorstan Grale let Ard’s arm fall as he turned to face him. “Well, sir. What do you have to say regarding this matter?”

  Ard looked over the stunned audience. He’d have to play this right so he didn’t enrage the people. He wanted them to celebrate his role as composer of the Unclaimed Symphony, not spite him for it.

  “A sparrow and a dragon are not that different,” Ard began. “Both hatch from eggs; both can fly freely upon the breeze. We esteem one greater because of what it can accomplish. It gives us Grit. It breathes fire. It demands fear and respect.” He paused, glancing at Farasse, who was poised at the edge of his seat to hear Dale’s statement.

  “I had no intention of going about my life as a dragon,” continued Ard, “when I could fly just as well as a sparrow.” The answer was much too poetic for Ard’s liking, but it worked for Dale Hizror. “I am the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony.”

  This time, the audience erupted into full chaos, and it took several moments for Lorstan Grale to calm them. Ard briefly caught the red face of Noet Farasse, who seemed to be on the verge of throwing a tantrum to rival the one he recounted about young Dale Hizror.

  Ard finally risked a glance at the king’s private box, but the glass was dark. The purpose of the ruse was to get close enough to steal the regalia. Setting himself up as the king’s favorite composer was the perfect opportunity. But it would only work if His Majesty believed.

  When the conductor finally managed to settle the crowd, Ard saw a handful of figures he hadn’t noticed before. Regulators—their wool coats and helmets barely visible as they lurked in the back of the concert hall. Had they been there all evening?

  Lorstan Grale turned to Ard. “I must ask the question all of us have wondered. Why did you choose to remain anonymous when your symphony was so warmly received?”

  “When I wrote that symphony, I knew it was special,” Ard answered. He and Elbrig hadn’t rehearsed these answers, so he’d have to be careful to speak only in broad, vague terms. “There was something about the piece that made me want to see it fly unhindered. I wanted each note to be esteemed for its own merit, with no association to a face.”

  Sparks, there were more Regulators pouring through the back door. What was going on? They whispered to one another, fanning out behind the back row to cover the hall’s exits.

  “So,” continued the conductor with his impromptu interview, “after all these years away, what made you return to Beripent?”

  Ard glanced at Quarrah. Her posture suddenly seemed a little more Quarrah, and a little less Azania. He could tell by her expression that she had spotted the Regulators, too.

  “It was my dear Azania who brought me back to Beripent,” answered Ard. “She is simply teeming with talent, and I knew I had to do all I could to integrate her into Beripent society. Give her the chance to work with the most professional and gifted individuals in the Greater Chain.”

  Oh, no. One of the Reggies was coming down the aisle toward the stage. He had a lot of stripes on his shoulders, and his helmet was a darker shade of blue.

  “Suppose I hadn’t seen the ring. Did you ever have the intention of coming forward to claim your work?” Lorstan Grale seemed oblivious to the sudden influx of Reggies.

  Ard, on the other hand, had put so much focus on the officers, he could barely construct a reply. “It’s hard to say. I think …”

  The Regulator reached the edge of the stage, leaning
forward to get Lorstan Grale’s attention. “I hate to cut in like this,” he said quietly, “but I’m afraid we have a possible security threat in the building. I’m going to need to address the audience for a moment.”

  Lorstan Grale swallowed visibly. “Of course.” He gestured for the man to take the stage. Ignoring the steps, the Regulator hoisted himself up until he was standing between Ard and Quarrah.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” The Reggie’s voice was booming, projecting through the hall as well as Cinza’s. “I apologize for the interruption. You understand that safety and security is our top priority, especially at an event where His Majesty is present.” He cleared his throat. “We have received information that a known criminal is in our midst tonight.”

  Well, there it went, slipping sideways. Had someone spotted Cinza as she crawled out from beneath the stage?

  The Regulator chief reached into his coat and withdrew a paper. “The man is a ruse artist by the name of Ardor Benn.”

  Blazing sparks!

  The Regulator unfolded the paper to reveal a charcoal sketch of Ard’s face. It wasn’t a very good one—what was the deal with those eyebrows? But it got the point across.

  It took all of Ard’s self-control not to bolt. Quarrah edged closer to him, the bouquet of flowers hanging limply in one hand. This was really happening? This, on the heels of successfully establishing himself as the composer of the symphony?

  “Here’s how we’re going to proceed,” continued the Reggie chief. “My Regulators will make their way through the concert hall, checking faces and confirming identities. The word we received said that Ardor Benn would likely be mingling among us in disguise.” He held up his gloved hands. “Now, no one panic. Everyone remain seated. If he’s here, I assure you my Regulators will smoke him out. Although I’m afraid this could take some time.”

  Wall ignitors sparked, and the entire concert hall brightened with multiple detonations of Light Grit piped in the same manner as the palace reception room. The Regulator chief leapt down from the stage to direct his officers. In seconds, the Reggies had fanned out along the aisles, making their crossbows and Rollers highly visible.