The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

  “I’ll have a scotch,” Ard said. “A red for the lady.”

  The bartender nodded, pouring a dark wine into a stemmed glass for Quarrah and selecting a tumbler for Ard. From a jar on the table, the bartender pinched a tiny amount of powder and dropped it into the glass.

  “What’s this?” Ard said. “I asked for a scotch.” He wasn’t fond of people dropping unidentified substances into his beverages. Kercha was supposed to be the only one drugged tonight.

  “It’s a new technique the king is rather fond of,” replied the bartender, adding a pinch of a second substance to the empty glass. “A powerful mix of Cold Grit and Compounding Grit.”

  Ard was familiar with Compounding Grit, derived from digested and processed quartzite. Like Prolonging, it only worked in tandem with other Grit types. When detonated at the same time, it increased the effect of the primary Grit.

  But its use was fairly limited. Not all Grit types could be compounded. Drift Grit, for instance, created a cloud of weightless space. Compounding couldn’t make it more weightless. But combined with Light Grit, for example, it could create a nearly blinding cloud.

  Compounding Grit was dreadfully expensive. And now the nobles were putting it in their drinks?

  The bartender picked up a Slagstone ignitor, the kind with a trigger which grated the explosive stone against a steel rod. Holding the glass in one gloved hand, he sparked the ignitor and detonated the mixed Grit.

  A tiny blast cloud formed inside the glass, the temperature dropping so quickly and drastically that the glass began to frost. Holding the glass steady, the bartender poured an ounce of water into the contained Cold cloud. Upon contact with the extremely frigid detonation, the water instantly froze into a perfect sphere of ice.

  The bartender carefully lowered the frosty glass, the ice sphere resting in the bottom while the small detonation cloud hung suspended in the space where he had detonated it. At last, he poured the scotch, the amber liquid causing the freshly frozen ice to crackle in the bottom of the glass.

  Now, that was something! Citizens of Beripent were up late tending fires to stay warm on a winter night like tonight, and the nobles were making iced drinks.

  Ard and Quarrah took their beverages, the plate of food, and headed toward the far table where Kercha Gant had been spotted.

  “I’ll engage her in conversation,” Ard whispered to Quarrah. “Once she’s distracted, you can slip the Furybeth extract into her drink.”

  He saw Quarrah stiffen at the mention of the task ahead. This was undoubtedly the riskiest thing they would attempt tonight.

  “You’ll be fine,” Ard reassured. “Just like picking a pocket. Except you’re putting something in instead of taking something out.” He had full confidence in Quarrah as long as she remained collected.

  “What if I don’t see an opening?” Quarrah asked.

  “Play it safe,” answered Ard. “If the conditions aren’t right, we can always strike up another conversation with Kercha Gant later in the evening. Give ourselves a second chance.”

  “I’d rather do it right the first time,” said Quarrah.

  Ard nodded in agreement. “Just don’t say anything to draw attention to yourself.”

  “Sometimes words come out,” Quarrah whispered.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” replied Ard.

  They had reached the tall table where Kercha Gant stood with four other women. It would appear that Ard was the only man brave enough to draw near.

  “Mind if we join you?” Ard asked.

  Kercha turned, examining him from head to toe before shrugging dismissively. Ard took that as a yes. He stepped forward, letting Quarrah occupy the spot closest to Kercha in case an opportunity presented itself to reach the woman’s drink.

  “Dale Hizror,” Ard introduced. “It’s an honor to meet you. My fiancée and I are so looking forward to hearing your performance of Farasse’s Unified Aria next week.”

  “Fiancée, huh?” Kercha glowered at Quarrah. “That’s a blazing shame.” She lifted her glass and took a big gulp of wine. At least it wasn’t going to be difficult to convince her to drink something.

  “What are you drinking?” Quarrah asked.

  Ard tensed. Come on, Quarrah! Hadn’t they just agreed that it would be better for Ard to do the talking? And drawing attention to the woman’s beverage was among the most foolish things she could do!

  “If you’re going to tell me that I’ve had too much,” snapped Kercha, “then I’m going to tell you to find me again after you’ve had his baby.” She gestured to Ard with her glass and took another draught. “Nights like this … nights away. The only relief I get anymore.”

  “You have a child?” Ard asked.

  “Four cycles old, the little brat,” Kercha answered. “I haven’t slept a wink since he was born.”

  Ard couldn’t help but glance down at her. That body had a baby four cycles ago?

  “You really should try Silence Grit,” said a woman across the table. “I used it with all three of my babies.”

  “Silence Grit?” Ard asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “You wouldn’t,” muttered Kercha. “Men …” She took another swig. If Quarrah didn’t act soon, there would be no drink left.

  “The nights do get long,” continued the woman, “and Homeland knows a lady needs her sleep. A blast of Silence Grit under the baby’s crib can make for a much more restful night. I know a Mixer who adds just the right amount of Prolonging Grit so it will burn all night. Of course, it starts to wear through after a few hours, but it’s muffled. After a while you’ll learn to sleep through that, too.” The woman took a sip of her own beverage, a fruity light-colored drink. “It does wonders. The baby can cry all night without bothering you.”

  “I’ll try anything at this point.” Kercha lifted her glass and drank the final swallow. Ard glanced at Quarrah. Well, there was an opportunity missed. Quarrah barely seemed to notice what was going on. She was crumbling a piece of bread nervously over her plate.

  “Well, for what it’s worth,” Ard said, “I think you look absolutely radiant.”

  “I think you look like you need something to eat,” Quarrah muttered.

  “What was that?” Kercha turned. The women on the other side of the table fell perfectly silent, watching like sharks behind a fishing boat.

  “I mean, you don’t get to be that thin—especially so soon after having a baby—without skipping a few meals,” Quarrah insisted.

  Ard placed a hand of caution on Quarrah’s back. What was she doing? Now that the drink was gone, they needed a second conversation with Kercha if they hoped to administer that extract.

  “Perhaps if you ate something,” said Quarrah, “you’d have more energy to take care of your screaming child.”

  “I eat!” Kercha insisted. “I eat plenty, all right?” As if to prove the point, the soprano reached out and snatched the remaining bacon-wrapped morsel from Quarrah’s plate. Without turning away, she shoved the bite into her mouth and chewed obnoxiously. “There!” she swallowed forcefully. “Are you happy now?”

  “Quite.” Quarrah backed up, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.

  “It really was a pleasure meeting you,” Ard said, following his companion as she peeled away from the table. “What was that?” he hissed in Quarrah’s ear. “What kind of second chance are we going to have now?”

  Quarrah glanced at him, her face smug under those wide-rimmed spectacles. “We don’t need a second chance.”

  Ard paused, milling over her words until the cleverness of Quarrah’s deed dawned on him. “The food?” he whispered.

  Quarrah nodded. “Bacon-wrapped Furybeth.”

  Ard leaned forward and kissed her cheek. That was a brilliant development, when he thought Quarrah had been completely out of the loop. Prying that drink out of Kercha’s hand would have been nearly impossible. So Quarrah had baited her. Like a sow dragon.

  That wasn’t a thief’s strategy, using words to lure K
ercha to eat something. Quarrah was thinking like a ruse artist, and that gave Ard an unexpected feeling of pride.

  “Let’s talk to the others so we can get the sparks out of here,” Quarrah said.

  Ard was pleased to see that Lorstan Grale was still sitting with the composer at their isolated table. As they approached, Ard decided he would play out the scenario as if Dale had never met Farasse. Besides, their previous encounter would be wildly embarrassing to a more mature Dale. He wasn’t likely to lead a conversation with it.

  “Gentlemen,” Ard said. “May we borrow a few moments of your time?”

  “‘Borrowing’ would imply that you intend to give them back,” said Farasse, turning his broad shoulders to see Ard and Quarrah. His face was bearded and his hair long enough to pull back.

  Ard gave a good-natured chuckle. “I’m afraid we’ll have to steal them, then.” He pulled out a stool for Quarrah, but remained standing behind her.

  “Noet Farasse,” said the composer, putting out his hand.

  “Oh, I know.” Ard accepted the handshake. “You’re the man of the hour. So much anticipation for next week’s compositions. Especially the Unified Aria. Great piece of music. I heard it performed by the Northeastern Orchestra last year.” It was a bit of useful information he’d picked up from Elbrig.

  “Yes,” said Farasse. “Tunea was the soprano for that one. She choked a bit on the words of the second stanza.”

  “‘Founders in peace, their wistful eyes closing. A new generation sprouts in fertile soil,’” spouted Quarrah.

  Ard had no idea what the words meant, but the sentence clearly impressed Farasse, who grinned broadly.

  “You know the piece?” he remarked.

  “Very well,” Quarrah answered.

  “Yes,” Ard jumped in again. “Azania, here, is an extremely talented soprano. And I’m not just saying that because we’re soon to be married.”

  “Lorstan Grale,” said the other man, beckoning for Quarrah’s hand. She allowed him to take it, and he kissed her softly on the knuckles. The conductor was slight of build, with salt-and-pepper hair, and large ears that poked through. He had a pointy beard that made his chin seem long, and a gap between his teeth. The man wore square-rimmed spectacles upon his wide nose. Probably useful for reading a musical score on a podium, but he didn’t seem to need them otherwise, peering over the rims at Ard.

  “You introduced your lovely fiancée, but I didn’t catch your name,” said Lorstan.

  Ard grinned. Someone had called Azania “lovely.” Cinza would probably count the whole evening a success just for that. “Dale Hizror,” he answered.

  Noet Farasse scratched his thick beard. “Dale Hizror,” he repeated. Ard could tell he was trying to make the connection. But it had been eight years. Surely he had forgotten the incident.

  “Hold the wagon!” Farasse looked excitedly at Ard. “Did you audition for the Southern Quarter Orchestra? Would have been several years back now, when I was conductor there. Violin?”

  Ard nodded reluctantly. “It was a challenging time in my life.”

  Farasse clapped his hands. “Hot sparks! I’ve told that story countless times over the years. Never gets old.”

  “What’s the story?” Lorstan Grale asked.

  Ard looked down, scratching his nose. Nothing like being embarrassed for something he hadn’t actually done.

  “So, we finish a round of auditions,” Farasse launched in, “and we’re announcing the list to the people waiting. Well, we get to the end of the list, and this whippersnapper comes marching up on the stage and insists that there’s been some mistake. I extend my apologies but explain that decisions are final. And that’s when he loses it.”

  Farasse began to laugh at what he knew was coming. “So he smashes his violin. I kid you not. Smashes his violin into a thousand chips right there on the stage. He’s yelling something.” Here, Farasse shook his fist in impersonation. “‘You wouldn’t know talent if it sat up and bit your nose!’ until eventually, the Regulators come in and pull the kid off the stage.”

  Ard was standing rigid. Several people at nearby tables had keyed into the animated conversation, and Ard actually felt a little sheepish. But that was ridiculous. That tantrum had been thrown years ago, by Elbrig’s portrayal of Dale Hizror. Ard’s version of the man was much more composed. Refined, even.

  “Quite the blazing temper,” finished Farasse, glancing up at Ard.

  “I’m afraid I get that from my mother,” Ard replied. “She was a typical Dronodanian. You know how fiery they can be.”

  Farasse nodded. “I used to be married to one.”

  “Then you can imagine what it was like to have my mother as a teacher,” Ard said with a bemused chuckle. “I couldn’t have received a stricter education had I gone to the University in Helizon. So you understand why I might have expected more out of that audition. But you’ll be pleased to know that, unlike a good cheese, I have grown more mild with age. I’m not even likely to smash your dinner plate on the floor if you send me away.”

  “I often wondered what became of that youngster,” mused Farasse. “You’re here.” He gestured around the royal reception room. “And that’s an impressive sign. What have you done with yourself?”

  “Attempting to follow in your footsteps, actually,” answered Ard. “I’ve begun composing. Hopeful to have something performed in a few cycles.”

  “That’s wonderful,” answered the composer.

  “It’s challenging work,” continued Ard. “The harmonies and progressions tax my brain in a wonderful way, but scribing the score can be painstaking.”

  “Here’s a professional tip.” Farasse leaned forward, cupping one hand against his mouth in a mock whisper. “Hire someone to scribe the staves for you. Give your hand a rest. Trying to hold on to a quill for so long will cripple your knuckles.”

  “Oh, I only use quill and ink when absolutely necessary,” Ard said. “I find those charcoal scribing tools much easier on the hand.” He paused to let that bit of information sink in. “But I appreciate the tip. When I sell my first composition, I’ll set aside a few Ashings to hire out the tedious work.”

  Farasse chuckled, clapping Ard on the shoulder. “Looks like you turned out all right, kid,” he said. “Tell you what. Why don’t I save a seat for you and your beautiful Azania at the concert next week.”

  “Really?” Quarrah chimed. “Oh, we’d be honored.” Then, seeming unsure about whether she should have agreed to that, Quarrah swiveled around to look at Ard. “Wouldn’t we?”

  “Of course, dear,” said Ard. Though, if everything went as planned, Farasse would only need to save one seat, since Quarrah would be onstage mouthing the aria while Cinza’s voice was projected out to the concert hall.

  “You can have the tickets sent to 448B Avedon Street in the Central Quarter,” Ard informed him. The apartment was one of Elbrig’s, and Ard was expected to pay rent for its use. Dale had to live somewhere, and they couldn’t risk running a connection back to the bakery. Leaving the Avedon address was essential, since Farasse and Lorstan Grale would need to contact Quarrah to replace Kercha Gant.

  Lorstan Grale sat quietly, studying Ard in a different way than he had when they’d first stepped up to the table. The conductor stood slowly, reaching for Ard’s hand this time.

  Ard nodded courteously, taking the handshake in parting. Lorstan turned his wrist, pulling Ard’s hand closer as he peered at it through his square spectacles.

  “Pleasure meeting you, Dale Hizror,” said the conductor, the gap in his teeth causing a soft whistle to escape when he said the name.

  “Until next week.” Ard took Quarrah’s hand as they stepped away from the two men.

  Well, that couldn’t have gone much better, Ard thought. They’d hit every talking point that Elbrig had assigned, and Kercha Gant would soon be feeling ill. Ard paused as they passed the bar. Just one more frozen scotch and they’d be on their way.

  It is no wonder the dragons ar
e solitary. What reason would such a commanding creature have to socialize with others?

  CHAPTER

  11

  Isle Halavend barely waited until Lyndel had crawled out from beneath the desk before launching into his findings. Since their last meeting, he’d studied some accounts of unsuccessful Visitant Grit detonations, and he wanted Lyndel’s perspective.

  “Captain Oriar’s failure to summon a Paladin Visitant against Grotenisk’s attack is well documented in Rishna’s The Folly of Beripent.” Halavend adjusted his spectacles and began to read the excerpt he was so excited to share.

  “‘Why the Prime Isle selected Oriar as the city’s champion against such a furious dragon is certainly a matter to be questioned. There is no doubt about Oriar’s Wayfarist devotion at the time he faced Grotenisk, though later investigation revealed that his youthful years were somewhat more Settled than he let on. Could this duplicitousness be the cause of his astronomical failure?’”

  Isle Halavend paused, thinking about the events surrounding Oriar’s fruitless detonation. “It was confirmed that the Visitant Grit did ignite on the Old Palace Steps in the Char. Survivors even reported that the detonation cloud was large enough to envelop most of the staircase …”

  Halavend finally looked to Lyndel. She stood stiffly beside the desk, arms wrapped in the red cloth of her religion, with a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” Halavend asked. It was uncharacteristic for Lyndel to seem disinterested in his findings. She had not even taken her seat on the bench.

  “There is something,” said Lyndel. “A matter unrelated to the topic of our current research. It is the shell.”

  Halavend closed The Folly of Beripent. That didn’t seem unrelated at all. Wasn’t that what they’d been studying since the moment he hired Ardor Benn? Searching for answers about dragon shell. Visitant Grit. What made one person more likely than another to succeed in summoning a Paladin Visitant?