The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

  Quarrah glanced back at Raek. The Reggie impersonator had stopped trying to detain her, but his big hand still rested on her shoulder. Quarrah reached up and brushed it off, stepping sideways so she could see both men clearly.

  Only twice in her thieving career had Quarrah teamed up with other criminals. One had tried to drown her, and the other had betrayed her to the Regulation. Those kind of experiences didn’t make her too anxious to sign on with another team. But this was Ardor Benn and the Short Fuse. The duo was already a legend. And now they were inviting her to help them take the Royal Regalia. Plus, two hundred thousand Ashings certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  She was going to say yes. Quarrah could feel it pulling her insides, a job bigger than anything she’d previously tried, tempting her with its impossibilities.

  “So we’d be partners, then?” Quarrah asked.

  “If that’s what you want to call us,” replied Ard. “I would have liked to hire you as a single-service contractor, but I’m afraid your particular skills will be needed from start to finish. So I’m offering to bring you into this ruse with payment taken from my own earnings.” He paused. “I guess that makes us partners.” He stuck out his hand, an affable grin on his face. “What do you say, Quarrah Khai? It’s gonna be fun. There’ll be gunfights, dragons, swordplay, narrow escapes …”

  “Explosions,” Raek added.

  Ard nodded. “Possibly even a Paladin Visitant.”

  Before she could think any more about it, Quarrah accepted Ardor’s handshake to seal the deal. Well, she could always get herself out if it got too dicey. Quarrah would see the early signs of betrayal and vanish into the night—probably taking Ardor’s coin purse with her.

  “When do I see the money?” she asked.

  “Upon completion of the ruse,” Ard answered. “But …” He held up a finger as though anticipating that she might gripe about the payout schedule. “Our employer is fully invested and willing to fund all our operations.”

  “That means an upgrade on any gear you might need,” Raek said. “You can finally afford to carry your Grit in proper pots.”

  “I like my gear,” Quarrah defended. “Pots are too noisy.”

  “Suit yourself,” Raek said. “But I’m not coming within twenty yards of you. Not while you insist on using those blazing dangerous teabags.”

  “She’ll come around to your methods,” Ard said to his partner. “Nobody mixes a Grit pot like the Short Fuse.”

  It would be a real time-saver to have someone else preparing her Grit. A world of possibilities was opening to Quarrah. And these men were intriguing. Partners who had successfully worked together for years. People who might actually care for each other.

  “So, what’s next?” she asked.

  Ardor reached into the pocket of his leather vest and withdrew a scrap of paper. “Meet us in Beripent. Noon, three days from now.” She took the slip, noticing an address scribed in charcoal.

  “It’s our new hideout,” said Raek. “Recently purchased and renovated to fit our needs. All at the expense of our generous employer.”

  “The Bakery on Humont Street?” Quarrah read.

  “A dangerous place, to be sure,” added Ard. “Enough secret meetings there and none of us will be squeezing through a culvert grate.”

  Oh, he was a coy one. Quarrah narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “That reminds me. Do you have a way out of this dungeon?”

  Ardor slipped the Roller from his holster and clicked back the hammer. “That’s part two of your job interview.” He pointed the gun toward the low dungeon ceiling. “It’s called ‘See how they run.’”

  He fired over her head, a deafening bang and a puff of white smoke. Quarrah stumbled backward. What was he doing? Ardor fired a second shot, and then holstered his gun.

  “Better hurry,” urged Ard. “Two shots in the middle of the night are bound to draw attention from Lord Wilt’s security—they’re already on edge, what with a rare Lemnow painting being stored in the dungeon.”

  Every muscle tensed as Quarrah waited to see how the two men would react to the unwanted noise they’d just made.

  “Don’t wait for us,” said the Short Fuse. He tugged at his knit cap and straightened the collar of his wool coat. “All they’ll find down here is a couple of Reggies and a thief.”

  “And no Lemnow painting,” Ard pointed out. “I don’t think Wilt’s security will like your explanation.”

  Quarrah ground her teeth. There was no point in arguing. She never seemed to have the right words, anyhow. She turned and sprinted out of the cell, her soft-clad feet barely making a sound.

  Oh, flames. Was this how it was going to be with these two? Quarrah had half a mind to disappear into the night and be done with them. But the other half of her mind agreed with Ardor Benn.

  This was going to be fun.

  The colors are so vibrant here. In comparison, the Greater Chain seems dull. It is as though this island is a thief, stealing the brightest hues and leaving what is left for mankind.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Ard had himself a genuine chalkboard. The smooth, dark piece of slate was almost five feet wide, and nearly as tall, affixed to a wooden frame and propped against the wall in the hidden room above the bakery. The blazing thing weighed a load, but it made his meetings feel so much more official.

  “Visitant Grit?” Quarrah repeated for the third time. “From the king’s crown?”

  Ard understood her hesitations. What right did a trio of criminals have in meddling with the holy responsibility of the Prime Isle? But that was the job. He crumbled off a bit of cinnamon scone and shoved it in his mouth.

  “And this Halavend fellow.” Quarrah pointed to the board where Ard had written the old man’s name. “You trust him?”

  “I do,” he answered, barely intelligible while chewing.

  “What about you?” she asked Raek. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt, his boots up on the chair beside him, sipping a dark tea.

  “I haven’t met the old Isle,” answered Raek. “Ard filled me in on the job, same as you. But Ard wouldn’t take a job if the source wasn’t genuine.”

  “Thank you, Raek,” Ard said, trying to catch a piece of scone that crumbled to the floor. “Isle Halavend is trustworthy. He has no reason not to be. He’s an Isle, for Homeland’s sake.”

  “Not a very holy one, by the sound of it,” Quarrah mumbled. “Why would he come to you?”

  “He said, and I quote, ‘Ardor Benn is the best.’” He polished off the scone.

  “I mean, why go to you instead of going to the Prime Isle himself? Or even the king?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Raek said. “‘Hey, Pethredote. Just wondering if I could borrow your crown and coat this afternoon. I want to feed it to a dragon and then grind it up.’”

  Quarrah glared at Raek, and Ard smiled. His team was gelling quite nicely.

  “Halavend claims to have uncovered some big new doctrine in his studies with Lyndel,” Ard explained. “Prime Isle Chauster didn’t take kindly to that, so Halavend had to recruit us to get things done.”

  “So, where do we start?” Raek asked, swapping his teacup for an apple tart.

  Ard grabbed the dusty rag draped over the chalkboard frame and wiped the slate clean. He flung the rag over his shoulder and plucked out a piece of white chalk.

  “We start with a basic infiltration into high society,” Ard said. “Quarrah and I will begin maneuvering ourselves into the royal circles.”

  “Hold on,” said Quarrah. “That seems awfully complicated. This is a simple burglary we’re talking about. Why don’t I just slip into the palace in the middle of the night and take it?”

  “Simple burglary?” Ard turned to Raek and let out an incredulous laugh. Apparently, Quarrah Khai thought very highly of herself. “We’re talking about the Royal Regalia. Stealing the crown.” He turned to Raek. “Can you remind me what the penalty is for treason? I can’t seem to remember.”

  Raek mad
e three simple gestures. The first implied getting shot; the second, hanged; and the third, slitting his throat.

  “Obviously, the Reggies won’t do all three,” Ard said. “One is usually enough to ruin your day. This isn’t an ordinary job, Quarrah. You think your spyglass is going to shine right into Pethredote’s chambers? Figure out where he stores the regalia?” Ard shook his head. “Between us and our prize is every red-coat Reggie in the king’s employ. Even if you did snake your way in and steal it, how long do you think it would take the king to notice that his crown and coat were missing?” He paused to see if Quarrah would retort, but Ard appeared to have made his point. “We have to do this right. Careful.”

  “Passing ourselves off as royal folk,” Quarrah mused. “That’s going to take a lot of time. And a lot of, you know … talking.”

  “You’re right. It’s going to take significant positioning,” Ard said. “But I’d rather be slow than dead.”

  The four islands of the Greater Chain had been united under King Pethredote’s rule for some forty years now, but a single kingdom had not always been the norm throughout history. Talumon and Dronodan, even Strind still had bloodlines that actively ruled under Pethredote’s crown.

  Ard shook his head. “And we won’t be going as royalty. Even a lesser lord would likely be recognized by somebody’s cousin’s uncle. No. We need to mingle with them from a more believable angle.”

  “And what angle would that be?” Quarrah asked.

  Ard shrugged. “Cook staff, tailors, and servants would all get us access. A musician or an inventor would get us access and notoriety …”

  Quarrah leaned back in her chair. “Why don’t you take Raek?”

  Ard laughed. “You can’t take that guy to the market in the Char, let alone infiltrate high society. For starters, his manners are atrocious.”

  Ard pointed to Raek, who promptly put whatever was left of his apple tart on top of his large bald head.

  “Besides,” Ard said, “the whole idea is to get you into the palace. You need to be familiar enough with its layout so you can slip away and steal the goods undetected.”

  “I don’t like it,” Quarrah answered. “I’m not really suited for high society, either.”

  “Sparks, no! I certainly wouldn’t take Quarrah Khai to a royal function,” Ard assured. “But remember, you won’t be going as yourself.” He wiggled his fingers mystically.

  Quarrah narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “I swear, Ard. If you make me a royal prostitute, I’m going to …”

  Raek burst out laughing, and Ard shook his head emphatically. “Nothing like that, I hope. I’ve got someone working on options for us.”

  He twirled the chalk between his fingers once, and then turned to the slate and wrote two names: Elbrig Taut and Cinza Ortemion.

  Raek moaned, pulling the tart off his head and finishing it in one bite. “Not the crazies.”

  “Who are they?” Quarrah asked.

  “You haven’t heard of them?” Ard asked. “Of course not. Those are the names I know them by, but I’ll be sparked if that’s what their mothers called them.” He turned back to the chalkboard. “Disguise managers.” He wrote the label beneath the two names.

  “Crazies,” Raek muttered again.

  “And we’ll need disguise managers to move into high society?” Quarrah asked.

  “Naturally,” answered Ard. “Certain jobs require a costume. You know what I mean?”

  Quarrah raised an eyebrow.

  “Take Raek a few nights back,” Ard explained. “Dressed up like a Reggie when you met him in the dungeon. You’ve done that before, right?”

  Quarrah answered with a blank stare and a shake of the head. Sparks, had he picked the wrong thief after all? He and Quarrah were both experts at taking things that didn’t belong to them, but that seemed to be where the similarities ended.

  “All right,” Ard tried again. “Maybe you’ve dressed in something a bit more provocative than you might usually wear. A costume to seduce your Focus?”

  “I wear black,” she answered. “What you saw me wearing in Lord Wilt’s manor. That’s what I always wear on the job.”

  Ard sighed. Not much creativity in that corner. Cinza was going to have a blazing time working with her. “Anyway,” Ard continued, “Elbrig and Cinza’s services go far beyond a costume. They provide identities. Flesh-and-blood characters with documented records and backgrounds.”

  “But they cost a fortune,” Raek protested.

  “A cost we would normally avoid,” Ard agreed. “But with Isle Halavend funding the ruse, Quarrah and I can buy identities from Elbrig and Cinza without cutting into our own Ashings.”

  “Let’s say we get these new costumes,” Quarrah said. “Then what?”

  “Eventually, we position ourselves to be able to make the theft.”

  “But like you said, won’t Pethredote know the moment his regalia goes missing?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” answered Ard. “And that’s why we’ll need a forger.” He spun and wrote the word on the chalkboard. This thing really added nicely to the drama of his presentation. “Raek, how are we doing on that?”

  “I’m still compiling a list of potential forgers,” he answered. “Ones we’ve used in the past, as well as a few new kids who are gaining a reputation.”

  “The Forger will craft a replica of the Royal Regalia,” explained Ard. “We’ll swap it for the real one and trust that King Pethredote will be none the wiser.”

  “Then we get paid?” Quarrah asked.

  Ard shook his head. “Then comes the interesting part.” He turned and wrote the word Pekal. “Next we have to feed the regalia to a sow dragon.”

  “You ever been to Pekal?” Raek asked Quarrah.

  She shook her head. “Nothing to steal there.”

  “On the contrary,” replied Ard. “The mountains are littered with uncut dragon scales.”

  “Which are no good unless they’re coined into Ashings.” Quarrah picked up a pastry and took a bite.

  Again, with the lack of imagination! If Ard only thought of things in terms of their current value, he never would have become a ruse artist. Potential value was often a hidden jackpot. Like a husk of uncut scales, needing only a little, albeit precise, work to transform them into a fortune.

  “Ard and I used to be Harvesters,” Raek said. “We have experience on Pekal, so that shouldn’t pose too great an obstacle in the operation.”

  “We’ll set some bait for the dragon, embedded with the pieces of shell from the Royal Regalia,” Ard explained.

  “The fragments of shell should be large enough to pass through the dragon’s digestive acids without too much dissolving,” added Raek. “We’ve got to have a sizable chunk to work with once it passes out the other end.”

  Quarrah wrinkled her nose at that. If she only knew how it really smelled! Especially if the job was botched and the dragon didn’t return to fire the slag. Ard remembered watching Tanalin be sick from the reek of it.

  Tanalin Phor was always so anxious to get in and get the work done. He preferred watching from a less toxic proximity. There were plenty of Harvesters to recover the indigestibles on a botched job. Ard always said that the work of a hundred men could easily be done by ninety-nine.

  “Once the dung is passed, the dragon breathes fire to harden it,” Raek said.

  “That’s disgusting.” Quarrah set her half-eaten pastry back on the table.

  Ard was always surprised by how little the common citizen knew about the process of obtaining Grit. The powder’s impact on society was hugely taken for granted.

  “It’s not that unusual,” Ard said. “Cats cover their litter. Dogs often scratch the ground or turn a circle to prepare the area. Dragons are fastidious animals. They clean up after themselves.”

  “Once the slag is fire-hardened, we’ll need to bring the resulting Slagstone back to the Greater Chain for processing,” said Raek.

  “Where do you do something like that?” Qu
arrah asked.

  “It’ll have to be on Strind,” Raek replied. “Nearly all the processing is done there. I’ll head out in the morning to begin scouting for a factory that’ll fit our needs.”

  Ard clapped his hands together. “That’s it, then! We’re well on our way to running the largest ruse in the history of the islands.”

  “That’s it?” Quarrah asked. “What about after we process the shell? What’s going to be done with the Visitant Grit?”

  Ard leaned against the wall. Wasn’t that the question of the year? “That’s not up to us. We get paid once Halavend gets the Grit. How he chooses to detonate it is his own business.”

  Ard didn’t really feel that way, of course. Halavend’s motive for the Visitant Grit had been eating away at him for weeks now. He’d had a second meeting with the old Isle, briefer than the first, to receive the Ashings he needed to pay rent on the bakery. Despite Ard’s pressuring, Halavend remained tight-lipped about his true reason for wanting the Visitant Grit.

  The three of them sat in silence for a moment before Quarrah spoke. “The last time a Paladin Visitant was successfully summoned was over forty years ago. King Pethredote, himself.”

  Ard had been only a small child when Dietrik Pethredote had led the uprising and taken the throne. But everyone knew the story.

  The Greater Chain was fresh off the rule of a respected queen who had died peacefully in her sleep. Her Majesty’s son, King Barrid, assumed the throne, but he turned out to be a tyrannical imbecile. The moment he came into power, he disavowed any affiliation with Wayfarism and announced that he was a Settled man.

  Less than a year into his reign, he banned all Wayfarist Voyages, claiming that such a religious exodus was economically devastating. In a way, Ard saw his logic. In the history of the Greater Chain, no one had ever returned who sailed away from the islands. Whether they all died or whether they reached the Homeland didn’t change the fact that ships and resources were lost.

  However, King Barrid’s Settled policies didn’t go over too well with the Prime Isless at the time. She encouraged the other islands to secede from the kingdom. Dronodan and Talumon did, and from that rebellion rose young Dietrik Pethredote, a Wayfarist zealot barely out of his teens. It had been a year of ugly inter-island war, but Pethredote put an end to the bloodshed.