The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 29

  It was good to have Ard on the podium, however. He knew that Quarrah couldn’t answer any direct questions, and structured the rehearsal to accommodate the ruse. Had Lorstan Grale remained in control, their secret surely would have been discovered by now.

  Ard clinked a fork against his empty glass. A bit of ice rattled in the bottom, a favorite fad of the nobles. This time, there was a grape frozen in the little ice sphere.

  Good. Ard was finally going to get this night moving along. She’d waited half a year for this moment. Literally.

  “My esteemed colleagues and friends,” Ard began, as the crowd in the reception hall quieted. “And Noet Farasse,” he added, to laughter from the group. Farasse and Ard had developed a strange relationship since the announcement that Dale Hizror was the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony. They were openly hostile toward one another, but in a way that implied only good humor.

  “Two nights ago,” Ard continued, “I behaved irrationally and unacceptably.” He reached up and brushed his fingers over his artificial mustache. It was a little mannerism that Ard was fond of whenever he portrayed Dale Hizror. Quarrah suspected that it was mostly to reassure himself that the thing wouldn’t fall off while he was speaking.

  “Those of you who were at the rehearsal know exactly what I’m talking about,” said Ard. “And likely, news of my temper has already spread to those that weren’t there.” Ard dropped his chin slightly, a look of regret and embarrassment passing over his features. If Quarrah didn’t know that this was part of the ruse, she would have thought he felt genuinely sorrowful.

  Ard was referring to the exchange with Sem Braison, the timpanist in the king’s Royal Orchestra. Sem was an affable fellow, quick to laugh, and quicker still to apologize for laughing.

  The orchestration for the cantata presented a revolutionary challenge for the timpanist, requiring him to retune the pair of kettledrums midmovement. Sem had become quite skilled at turning the lugs and tightening the large drumheads. But the final movement didn’t seem to provide him enough time to make the necessary changes, and Sem often struck the final drumroll only to find that the pitch was a half step too low.

  At the last rehearsal, Dale had grown infuriated by Sem’s inability to make the change. And despite Sem’s profuse apologizing, Dale Hizror had stepped down from the podium, crossed to the back of the stage, and used his knife to slash the drumheads to shreds.

  “Sem Braison.” Ard pointed to the timpanist, who stood among the crowd. “It is with profound sincerity that I publicly beg your forgiveness. What do you say, good man?”

  Sem, comfortable in the back of the orchestra but unaccustomed to much attention at a reception, stepped forward hesitantly.

  “I say, good evening, sir,” answered Sem, to mild laughter from the group. “And it was quite a distinction to be at the receiving end of your perfectionism. How many musicians can say that the composer of the Unclaimed Symphony quite literally cut them down?” More laughter, Sem’s included. “Indeed, it should be me apologizing, as I was unable to properly perform the notes you so carefully crafted. I do intend to play it right at the festival concert, however.”

  “How hard can it be?” droned Cantibel Tren, taking a drink from her frosty glass. “You only have two notes to choose from at any given time.”

  Sem laughed off the insult as Ard continued. “I, too, expect you to play it right. But in order to do that, I believe you’ll need new drumheads.” Ard clapped his hands, and two servants promptly appeared in the doorway. Between them, they bore Sem Braison’s pair of timpani on a low wheeling cart, brand-new calfskin heads stretched across the frame.

  About blazing time.

  The nobles applauded their approval at Dale’s gesture, as Sem made his way toward the repaired drums. The big speech, the delivery from the servants … It was all about the drama with Ardor Benn. If it had been up to Quarrah, she would have slipped the replica regalia through a window and crept inside to pick it up. But, no …

  Ard had to hide the forged regalia inside a drum and parade it publicly in front of everyone at the reception.

  “The heads are tanned calfskin Striker,” said Ard, drawing all kinds of unnecessary attention to it. “I believe that is your favorite maker. I’ve also taken the liberty to install a new lug system. With improved threads on the bolts, and a reduction cog in the handle, this should allow you to make the tuning changes in the short measures I have written.”

  It was Raek’s design and clever engineering. Quarrah respected the work he did and fully understood why Ard needed him. The big man could turn a hazelnut into a miniature Grit pot, or a drum into a smuggler’s case.

  Sem was circling the large drums, his hand rubbing along the upgraded frames. Quarrah found she wasn’t breathing easily. All right, Ard. That was enough talk. The new drumheads were certainly opaque enough to conceal the regalia bundled inside, but Sem was the expert on this instrument. It wasn’t wise to let him examine the drums so closely with such a crucial package stowed inside.

  “Now, now,” Ard said, as he pulled Sem’s hands away from one of the drums. “You’re still in public. You can get to know her later. Three days until the festival concert. I trust that is enough time for you to master the new tuning mechanism?”

  “Thank you” was all that the excited Sem could manage.

  Ard gestured to the servants, who stepped up to wheel the timpani cart away. “The reception hall is no place for a musical instrument. There could be spilled drinks, crumbled cake.” Ard shrugged. “Who knows, maybe even a madman with a cheese knife.”

  Quarrah forced herself to laugh alongside the others. The drums were on the move at last, and with them, the item they had spent cycles to position. It was finally time for Quarrah Khai to do what Ard had hired her to do.

  She moved toward Ard as the timpani exited the reception. Acting wasn’t Quarrah’s strong suit. She’d play this next part subtly, and let Ard sell it for her.

  “I’m not feeling very well,” Quarrah whispered, as Ard welcomed her with a hand about her waist. It was a rehearsed line. A trigger. But Ard responded so convincingly that Quarrah was momentarily afraid that he thought she was being sincere.

  “Oh, my dearest.” Ard’s tone and volume picked up the attention of the nearest nobles. “Another episode?”

  She lifted a lace-gloved hand to her forehead and nodded. “I’m afraid I need a moment.”

  “Of course.” Ard led her through the crowd toward the door where the timpani had just exited. Several guests stared without reservation, so Ard decided to address them. “Regrettably, my sweet Azania and I must make an early exit tonight.”

  Another planned line to which Quarrah countered. “No, no, Dale. You’re the guest of honor. I couldn’t ask you to leave your own reception …”

  A young palace Regulator stepped forward. “I could see to her safe return home, sir,” he said to Ard. “I could summon a carriage.”

  That certainly wasn’t a planned line, but thankfully, Ard responded to it well, getting them back on script. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll see her home myself. Poor thing hasn’t quite been herself since that attack on the concert hall. Understandable, really. That lunatic criminal had her by the throat. She has since experienced occasional episodes of anxiety. Headache, nausea, shortage of breath. It will generally pass, but not in such a public atmosphere.”

  The crowd was watching sympathetically, several of the women nodding in understanding. Ha! If they only knew that the Drift Jump out the skylight had been her idea!

  “Perhaps there is a quiet, dim place where I could take a moment,” Quarrah suggested. “You could remain here and I could join you when I recover.”

  “There is a small service room down the corridor,” answered the Regulator. “It isn’t much, but it should be quiet.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Ard answered. “If you’ll show us the way, I’ll see her comfortably inside and return to the festivities.”

 
; The Reggie nodded and stepped into the hallway, Quarrah leaning heavily on Ard’s arm as they followed. They didn’t need the Regulator’s guidance. Quarrah had spotted the service room cycles ago, on their second venture into the palace. She had mapped it in her mind, and later determined it would be the perfect staging area. The entrance to the throne room was just around the corner.

  Ard had described the throne room to her, including details on where he suspected the Royal Regalia might usually be housed. But Quarrah hadn’t found those details nearly sufficient coming from Ardor Benn. The man could describe a filled doughnut with frightening clarity, but when it came to a secure room, Quarrah needed to see it herself.

  She’d received that opportunity two weeks ago. Dale’s pretend shoulder wound was healed enough to warrant another visit to the palace. This time, Ard took Quarrah with him. After Ard raved long enough about the magnificence of Grotenisk’s skull, the king allowed them both into the throne room for a look.

  The regalia had been there, displayed on a wooden mannequin, third alcove from the end. To reach it, Quarrah would have to bypass a mortise lock on the hallway door leading into the throne room. It was supplemented by a bar on the inside, but that would only be in use if someone wanted to shut themselves inside the room.

  The second lock was even simpler than the first. A standard pin lock on an iron gate that closed off the display alcove. Quarrah could pick that in her sleep.

  After all these cycles, it was surprising to discover such simple locks surrounding the regalia. But then, its location in the throne room was a formidable enough obstacle. With Regulators crawling the hallways, and consistent lighting, Quarrah never could have broken into the second-story room using her traditional stealthy methods.

  The Regulator they were following reached the service closet and pulled open the door. A bit of illumination from the hallway Light Grit spilled into the dark room. Stacked inside were things typically useful for servants; trays, barrels, brooms, linens.

  The only thing out of place was a low cart with the set of timpani. Only moments ago, Sem Braison’s repaired drums had been stashed in the closet according to Dale Hizror’s previous instructions.

  “I’ll get her settled,” Ard replied to the Regulator as he pulled the closet door shut behind him and Quarrah.

  The room was instantly plunged into complete blackness, only the outline of the door glowing where hallway light leaked through. Quarrah heard Ard rustling, followed by a crack of shattering clay as a pot detonated against the wall. A small cloud of Light Grit hung against the stones, smaller than her fist but providing sufficient light for a few minutes.

  “You took your time in there.” Quarrah stepped over to the pair of timpani.

  “What are a few minutes in the grand scheme of things?” Ard dismissed.

  But minutes were important to Quarrah. At times, a minute was all that separated a thief from a prisoner.

  Picking the larger of the two drums, Quarrah felt beneath the rim and unclasped a series of latches. Raek’s improvements to the drums actually had nothing to do with facilitating Sem Braison’s tuning changes. Grabbing the T-shaped handles mounted to the top of the lug bolts, Quarrah lifted, the entire drumhead swinging upward on a concealed hinge. Quarrah reached inside the drum and withdrew a cloth bag.

  The replica regalia was actually housed in the other drum. This bag contained her belts and tools, items Quarrah had been itching to wear for weeks now.

  “Face the wall,” she whispered to Ard. He turned obediently as she began to disrobe. The pale blue dress was not easy to slide in and out of, but at least Cinza had designed it with the laces on the side so she didn’t need a second pair of hands to undress.

  Quarrah dropped the dress behind an empty barrel, standing in her bloomers as she carefully reached into her wig and removed the pins that held it in place. Her natural hair was matted beneath, but in a moment she’d pull a cap over it anyway.

  Having deposited the wig and spectacles with the dress, Quarrah reached into her bag and pulled on a tight black shirt. She quickly replaced her bloomers with fitted pants, keeping herself directly behind Ard in case he decided to steal a glance.

  In another moment, she was ready. Various belts adorned her legs and torso, each carefully stocked with items she might need. Her lock-picking tools were in place, and Raek had outfitted her with Grit pots of nearly every type: Blast Grit, of course, though she hoped they wouldn’t need to blow their way out of the palace. Then there was Light, Drift, and Barrier, mixed with various levels of Prolonging Grit. Those four basics she could understand, but Raek hadn’t stopped there.

  On a job like this, she didn’t see much purpose for Cold and Heat Grit. Health and Memory Grit would only be needed if things went seriously wrong. Void Grit, Silence Grit, Illusion Grit, Shadow Grit. This was the final stretch of the ruse. Raekon Dorrel did not want Quarrah to be caught unprepared.

  Quarrah pulled on her mostly fingerless gloves, feeling the tiny fragment of Slagstone against the tip of her middle finger. The sewn pockets on the backs of her hands, as well as her palms, had been loaded with her usual choice of Grit.

  “All right,” Quarrah said.

  “Oh, I can turn around now?” he replied smugly.

  “I thought you’d figure that out by now,” answered Quarrah. “I’ve heard you say that you have eyes in the back of your head.”

  “I closed them while you were changing, of course.” Ard grinned. “You ready to do this?”

  “This may be the only thing I’ve felt ready to do since you hired me.”

  “Good luck, Quarrah Khai.”

  She stepped up to the open kettledrum. The wooden legs on the instrument looked a little spindly, but they had practiced at the apartment. The drum would hold her weight just fine.

  Ard provided his shoulder as a brace while Quarrah swung her leg into the oversized drum. A second later, she was settling into its depths, curled tightly like a cat on a rug. She saw Ard smile before the calfskin drumhead swung into place, sealing her inside.

  Quarrah heard the storage room door open, and felt movement as the instrument cart rolled forward, carrying her and the drums into the hallway. The cart paused, and Quarrah heard Ard’s voice, presumably speaking to the Regulator waiting outside the service room.

  “She’s in quite a state tonight. I had my servants stow these drums in there, but Azania can’t stand the sight of them right now.”

  “We could find her another room,” came the muffled reply of the Regulator.

  “Absolutely not,” whispered Ard. “I just got her settled. Moving her would be a grave mistake. Better for me to push these kettledrums a healthy distance away and come back for them later.”

  They rolled down the hallway, wheels of the instrument cart groaning against the added weight of a person onboard. What if the cart’s axle snapped? Had they tested that possibility? Quarrah grimaced. If it were up to her, she’d be doing something far more trusted and safe. Like leaping along the palace rooftops. Or scaling the exterior stone walls.

  It certainly wasn’t comfortable inside the kettledrum. Quarrah once again cursed her taller-than-average stature. A more petite thief might have been able to sit up instead of experiencing the pain that Quarrah currently felt in her neck and knees. She didn’t feel claustrophobic, though. Wedging herself into tight places was part of Quarrah’s job description.

  Ard would leave the kettledrums near the throne room entrance and return to the reception so as not to raise any suspicions. Quarrah would climb out of the timpani, pick the locks, replace the real regalia with Tarnath’s replica, and slip back into the drums. A short time later, Ard would retrieve the drums, and return her to the service room so she could transition back into Azania Fyse. They’d spend the rest of the evening at the reception, with a promise to deliver Sem’s new drums to the concert hall by tomorrow’s rehearsal. That would give them time to get the drums out of the palace, rendezvous with Raek, and remove the stolen regalia
from the timpani.

  Tomorrow’s rehearsal would come with no sign of Dale Hizror or Azania Fyse. Sure, their abandonment would leave Lorstan Grale scrambling to conduct the cantata, with only three days to find a replacement soprano. But that was hardly Quarrah’s concern. By the time the cantata was scheduled to be performed, she would be on Pekal with Ard and Raek.

  The cart came to a halt and Quarrah tensed, preparing to spring into action.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to see the likes of you.” Ard’s voice came filtering through the calfskin drumhead. Who was he talking to? How was Quarrah supposed to pop out of a drum if the hallway wasn’t vacant?

  “Two strapping palace Regulators are just what I need.” Ard tipped her off.

  Two guards. According to their surveillance, there shouldn’t have been guards in this hallway at this hour. It was customary to have them standing at attention during the day, when the throne room was unlocked. And throughout the night, servants were admitted every four hours to stoke the fire in Grotenisk’s skull. But Ard had taken all of that into consideration. The fire had been tended just a half hour ago.

  “I was wondering how you would feel if I left these drums under your watchful care for just a few moments,” Ard said. Quarrah grimaced. Was he really going to leave her with a problem like this?

  “Say,” continued Ard. “What’s that on your vest? Did you spill some soup?”

  There was a bang, a crash, a grunt, a groan. Quarrah reached up and pushed gently on the calfskin drumhead, shifting herself uncomfortably to peer out. A hand seized the rim and flipped the drumhead covering fully open.

  Ardor Benn was standing there, his lip bloody and his knuckles bloodier. Quarrah took his hand and leapt out of the kettledrum in a single bound, examining the results of the commotion she’d heard.