The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

  The Void Grit was spent, but hovering around the table where the detonation occurred was a dome of discolored air. It would have been a spherical cloud if it had detonated midair, but the tabletop had been strong enough to contain the underside of the blast.

  Remaught stumbled a step closer. “How did you do that?”

  Ard wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean? It’s Void Grit. Digested granite. That’s what it does.” He bent down and retrieved a fallen pebble. “It voids a space within the blast radius. Clears everything out to the perimeter. The effect should last about ten minutes before the blast cloud burns out.”

  To prove his point, Ard tossed the pebble into the dome of discolored air. The little stone barely touched the perimeter before the effect of the Grit pushed it forcefully away.

  Remaught nodded absently, his hand drifting to his vest pocket. For a brief moment, Ard thought the mobster might pull a Singler, but he relaxed when Remaught withdrew the key to the safe box. Remaught stepped forward and set the key on the edge of the table, just outside the hazy Void cloud.

  “I’m ready to close the deal,” he said, producing a few papers for Ard’s inspection. Detonation licenses—or at least forgeries—which would allow him to purchase Grit.

  But Ard wasn’t interested in the legalities of the transaction. He dismissed the paperwork, picking up the keg of false Void Grit and holding it out to Remaught.

  “Of course, I’ll need a receipt,” said the mobster, tucking his licenses back into his vest.

  “A receipt?” That sounded frightfully legitimate to Ardor Benn.

  “For my records,” said Remaught. In a moment, the man had produced a small square of paper, and a charcoal scribing stick. “Go ahead and notate the details of the transaction. And sign your name at the bottom.”

  Ard handed the Grit keg to Remaught and accepted the paper and charcoal. Remaught stepped away, and it took only moments for Ard to write what was needed, autographing the bottom as requested.

  “I hope we can do business again in the future,” Ard said, looking up from his scrawling. But Remaught Azel didn’t seem to share his sentiment.

  “I’m afraid that will not be the case.” The mobster was standing near the open doorway, his Trothian bodyguard off to one side. Remaught had removed the cap from the Grit keg and was holding the cheap Slagstone ignitor.

  “Whoa!” Ard shouted. “What are you—”

  Remaught brought the ignitor down. A cluster of sparks danced from the impact, showering onto the gray powder housed in the open keg.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize an entire keg of counterfeit Grit?” Remaught asked.

  Ard crumpled the receipt and dropped it to the floor, lunging for the key on the edge of the table. He scooped it up, but before Ard could reach the safe box, the Trothian bodyguard was upon him. In the blink of an eye, Ard found himself in a headlock, forced to his knees before a smug Remaught.

  “I believe I mentioned that I had another appointment today?” Remaught said. “What I didn’t tell you was that the appointment is happening now. With an officer of the Regulation.”

  A man appeared in the doorway behind Remaught. Not just a man—a veritable mountain. He had dark skin, and his nose was somewhat flat, the side of his face marked with a thin scar. The Regulator ducked his shiny, bald head under the door frame as he entered the room.

  He wore the standard long wool coat of the Regulation, a crossbow slung over one shoulder and a sash of bolts across his broad chest. Beneath the coat, Ard thought he could see the bulge of a holstered gun.

  “Delivered as promised,” Remaught said, his tension at an all-new high. The Regulator seized Ard’s upper arm with an iron grip, prompting Remaught’s bodyguard to release the headlock.

  “What is this, Remaught?” Ard asked between gasps for air. “You’re selling me out? Don’t you know who I am?”

  “That’s just it,” said Remaught. “I know exactly who you are. Ardor Benn, ruse artist.”

  “Extraordinaire,” said Ard.

  “Excuse me?” Remaught asked.

  “Ardor Benn, ruse artist extraordinaire,” Ard corrected.

  The giant Regulator yanked Ard to his feet. Prying Ard’s fingers open, the man easily removed the key to the safe box before slapping a pair of shackles around Ard’s wrists.

  “Now wait a minute, big fella,” Ard stalled. “You can arrest me, an amicable ruse artist trying to eke out a humble living. Or you can take in Remaught Azel. Think it through. Remaught Azel. He’s the mobster.”

  The bald Regulator didn’t even falter. He stepped forward and handed the key to Remaught with a curt nod.

  “The Regulator and I have an understanding,” answered Remaught. “He came to me three weeks ago. Said there was a ruse artist in town selling counterfeit Grit. Said that if I came across anyone trying to hock large quantities of Specialty Grit, that I should set up a meet and reach out to him.”

  “Flames, Remaught! You’ve gone clean?” Ard asked. “A mobster of your standing, working with a Reggie like him? You disgust me.”

  “Clean? No,” Remaught replied. “And neither is my Regulator friend.”

  Ard craned his neck to shoot an incredulous stare at the Regulator holding him. “Unbelievable! A dirty Reggie and a petty mobster make a deal—and I’m the victim!”

  Remaught addressed the big official. “We’re good, then?”

  The large man nodded. “We’re good. I was never here.”

  The Regulator pushed Ard past Remaught, through the doorway, and into the creaky hallway, pausing to say one last thing to the mobster. “You got him to sign a receipt like I told you?”

  Remaught scanned the room and gestured to the crumpled piece of paper on the floor. “You need it for evidence?”

  “Nah,” said the Regulator. “This lowlife’s wanted on every island in the Greater Chain. The receipt was for your own protection. Proves you had every intention of making a legal transaction. Buying Grit isn’t a crime, providing you have the proper licensure.” He gave Ard a shove in the back, causing him to stumble across the rickety floorboards. “Give me plenty of time to distance myself before you leave this building,” the Regulator instructed. “Understood?”

  Ard glanced back in time to see Remaught nodding as the door swung shut. Ard and the Regulator descended the stairs in silence, the huge man never removing his iron grip from Ard’s shoulder. It wasn’t until they stepped outside into the warm afternoon that Ard spoke.

  “Lowlife?” he said. “Really, Raek? That seemed a bit much. Like you were enjoying it.”

  “Don’t lecture me on ‘a bit much,’” answered the Regulator. “What was that whole ‘ruse artist extraordinaire’ slag?”

  “You know I like that line. I saw an opportunity and I took it,” Ard answered.

  Raek grunted, tugging at the collar of his uniform. “This coat itches. No wonder we can always outrun the blazing Reggies. They’re practically choking themselves on the job.”

  “You almost look convincing,” Ard said. “But where’s the Reggie helmet?”

  “I couldn’t find one that fit,” answered Raek. “And besides, I figure I’m tall enough no one can see the top of my head. Maybe I’m wearing a tiny Reggie helmet. No one would know.”

  “Sound logic,” Ard said as they turned the corner to the west side of Remaught’s building. “You swapped the key?”

  “Child’s play,” Raek answered. “You leave the note?”

  “I even drew a little smiling face after my name.”

  Raek led them to a sturdy hay wagon hitched to a waiting horse.

  “Straw this time?” Ard asked, finding it difficult to climb onto the bench with his hands still shackled.

  “Should pad the landing,” Raek replied.

  “Look at you! Good idea.”

  “You’re not the only person who can have one, you know.” Raek pulled himself onto the bench beside Ard and stooped to grab the reins. “You’re getting bor
ed, Ard.”

  “Hmm?” He glanced at his friend.

  “This little stunt.” Raek gestured up to the third-story window directly above them. “It’s showy, even for you.”

  Ard dismissed the comment. Was there a simpler way to steal the safe box? Probably. But surely there wasn’t a more clever way.

  Remaught had to be feeling pretty smug. In his mind, the exchange had gone off without a hitch. The mobster had been gifted a Regulation-issue safe box, partnered with a crooked Reggie, and taken some competition off the streets by having the ruse artist arrested.

  By now, Remaught was probably reading Ard’s note on the receipt—a simple message thanking the mobster for the Ashings and informing him that the Reggie was as fake as the Grit. This would undoubtedly send Remaught scurrying to the safe box to check its valuable contents. All he needed to do was thrust Raek’s replacement key into the lock, and … boom.

  Any moment now.

  The idle horse stamped its hooves, awaiting Raek’s directions.

  “We’re sparked if he moves the safe box,” Raek muttered after a moment’s silence.

  “He won’t,” Ard reassured. “Remaught’s lazy.”

  “He could have the bodyguard do it.”

  “Suno was going soft,” Ard repeated what he’d heard from Remaught. “Something about fatherhood. I’m more worried that the window won’t break …”

  Three stories above, the glass window shattered. The safe box came hurtling out on a perfect trajectory, landing in the back of the hay-stuffed wagon with a thud.

  Remaught Azel was blazing predictable. Classic mobster. Maybe Ard was getting bored.

  “I’m actually surprised that worked,” Ard admitted, as Raek snapped the reins and sent the horse galloping down the street.

  “That doesn’t give me much confidence. Tampering with the safe box was your idea.”

  “I knew that would work,” Ard said. They’d tipped the replacement key with a tiny fragment of Slagstone and filled the inside of the lock with Void Grit. The detonation would have cleared everything within the blast radius, undoubtedly throwing Remaught backward. The box of Ashings, still latched shut, was hurtled outward by the force of the Grit, smashing through the glass panes and falling three stories to the hay wagon waiting on the street below.

  “I had full trust in the Grit.” Ard gestured behind him. “I’m just surprised the box actually landed where it was supposed to!”

  “Physics,” Raek said. “You trust the Grit, but you don’t trust physics?”

  “Not if I’m doing the math.”

  “Oh, come on,” said the large man. “Two and a half granules of Void Grit detonated against a safe box weighing twenty-eight panweights falling from a third-story window …”

  Ard held up his still-shackled hands. “It physically hurts me to hear you talk like that. Actual pain in my actual brain.”

  Behind them, from the shattered window of Remaught’s hideout, three gunshots pealed out, breaking the lazy silence of the afternoon.

  “Remaught? He’s shooting at us?” Raek asked.

  “He can’t hope to hit us at this distance,” answered Ard. “Even with a Fielder, that shot is hopeless.”

  Another gunshot resounded, and this time a lead ball struck the side of the wagon with a violent crack. Ard flinched and Raek cursed. The shot had not come from Remaught’s distant window. This gunman was closer, but Ard couldn’t tell from what direction he was firing.

  “Remaught’s shots were a signal,” Ard assumed. “He must have had his goons in position in case things went wrong with his new Reggie soulmate.”

  “We’re not soulmates,” Raek muttered.

  A man on horseback emerged from an alleyway behind them, his dark cloak flapping, hood up. The mob goon stretched out one hand and Ard saw the glint of a gun. He barely had time to shout a warning to Raek, both men ducking before the goon fired.

  The ball went high. Ard heard it whizzing overhead. It was a Singler. Ard recognized the timbre of the shot. As its name implied, the small gun could shoot only one ball before needing to be reloaded. The six-shot Rollers used by the Regulators were far more deadly. Not to mention ridiculously expensive and illegal for use by the common citizen.

  The goon had wasted his single ball, too eager to fire on the escaping ruse artists. He could reload, of course, but the process was nearly impossible on the back of a galloping horse. Instead, the goon holstered his Singler and drew a thin-bladed rapier.

  “Give me the key,” Ard said as another horseman appeared behind the first.

  “What key?” replied Raek. “The one I swapped from Remaught?”

  “Not that one.” Ard held up his chained wrists and jangled them next to Raek’s ear. “The key to the shackles.”

  “Oh.” Raek spit off the side of the wagon. “I don’t have it.”

  “You lost the key?” Ard shouted.

  “I didn’t lose it,” answered Raek. “Never had it. I stole the shackles from a Reggie outpost. I didn’t really have time to hunt around for keys.”

  Ard threw his chained hands in the air. “You locked me up without a way to get me out?”

  Raek shrugged. “Figured we’d deal with that problem later.”

  A cloaked figure on foot suddenly ducked out of a shanty, the butt of a long-barreled Fielder tucked against his shoulder.

  Raek transferred the reins to his left hand, reached into his Regulator coat, and drew a Roller. He pointed the gun at the goon with the Fielder, used his thumb to pull back the Slagstone hammer, and pulled the trigger.

  The Slagstone snapped down, throwing a spark into the first chamber to ignite a pinch of powdered Blast Grit in a paper cartridge. It detonated with a deafening crack, the metal gun chamber containing the explosion and throwing a lead ball out the barrel.

  The ball splintered through the wall of the shanty behind the goon. Before he could take proper aim at the passing wagon, Raek pulled back the Slagstone hammer and fired again.

  Another miss, but it was enough to put the goon behind them. Raek handed the smoking Roller to Ard. “Here,” the big man said. “I stole this for you.”

  “Wow.” Ard awkwardly accepted the gun with both wrists chained. “It looks just like the one I left holstered in my gun belt at the boat.”

  “Oh, this gun belt?” Raek brushed aside the wool Reggie coat to reveal a second holstered gun. “You shouldn’t leave valuable things lying around.”

  “It was in a locked compartment,” Ard said, sighting down his Roller. “I gave you the key.”

  “That was your mistake.”

  Behind them, the Fielder goon finally got his shot off. The resounding pop of the big gun was deep and powerful. Straw exploded in the back of the wagon, and one of the side boards snapped clean off as the Fielder ball clawed its way through.

  “Why don’t you try to make something of that Reggie crossbow?” Ard said. “I’ll handle the respectable firearms.”

  “There’s nothing disrespectful about a crossbow,” Raek answered. “It’s a gentleman’s weapon.”

  Ard glanced over his shoulder to find the swordsman riding dangerously close. He used his thumb to set the Slagstone hammer, the action spinning the chambers and moving a fresh cartridge and ball into position. But with both hands shackled together, he found it incredibly awkward to aim over his shoulder.

  “Flames,” Ard muttered. He’d have to reposition himself if he had any hope of making a decent shot. Pushing off the footboard, Ard cleared the low backboard and tumbled headfirst into the hay.

  “I hope you did that on purpose!” Raek shouted, giving the reins another flick.

  Ard rolled onto his knees as the mounted goon brought his sword down in a deadly arc. Ard reacted instinctively, catching the thin blade against the chains of his shackles.

  For a brief moment, Ard knelt, keeping the sword above his head. Then he twisted his right hand around, aimed the barrel of his Roller, and pulled the trigger. In a puff of Blast smoke,
the lead ball tore through the goon, instantly throwing him from the saddle.

  Ard shook his head, pieces of loosely clinging straw falling from his short dark hair. He turned his attention to the street behind, where more than half a dozen of Remaught’s men were riding to catch up. The nearest one fired, a Singler whose ball might have taken him if Raek hadn’t turned a corner so sharply.

  The wagon wheels drifted across the compact dirt, and Ard heard a few of the wooden spokes snapping under the strain. They were almost out of the slums, but still a fair distance from the docks. Raek’s stolen hay wagon was not going to see them to their journey’s end. Unless the journey ended with a gut full of lead.

  Ard gripped the Roller in both hands. Not his preferred way of aiming, but his best alternative since his wrists were hooked together. Squinting one eye, he tried to steady his aim, waiting for the first goon to round the corner.

  The rider appeared, hunched low on his horse. Ard fired once. The man dropped from the saddle, but six more appeared right behind him. And Ard’s Roller only packed two more shots.

  “We need something heavier to stop these goons!” Ard shouted. “You got any Grit bolts on that sash?”

  Raek glanced down at the ammunition sash across his chest. “Looks like an assortment. Anything specific you’re after?”

  “I don’t know … I was hoping for some Visitant Grit,” Ard joked as he reached over and pulled the crossbow off Raek’s shoulder.

  Raek chuckled. “Like you’d be worthy to summon a Paladin Visitant.”

  “Hey, I can be downright righteous if I need to be,” he answered.

  Ard didn’t favor the crossbow. He preferred the jarring recoil of a Roller, the heat from the flames that licked out the end of the barrel. The lingering smell of smoke.

  “Barrier Grit.” Raek carefully reached back to hand Ard a bolt from his sash. The projectile was like a stout arrow, black fletchings fixed to the shaft. The Grit bolt had a clay ball serving as an arrowhead, the tip dyed bright blue.