The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “There is no more shell.” Isle Halavend’s reply was sharp. “Whatever had been collected was swept out to sea when the storehouse flooded twenty years ago.”

  “I remember the flood,” Ard said, though he’d been just a boy. A dam had broken and the resulting rush of water had devastated a good portion of western Beripent. “But I didn’t know it wiped out the Islehood storehouse.”

  “That information was not made public for a good reason,” said Halavend. “The bull dragons are thirty years gone. The entire dragon race is riding toward inevitable extinction. Everyone knows there won’t be more fertilized shell. What we have is what we have. The general public cannot know that the Islehood’s stored shell has been swept away. The Wayfarists need to believe that there is potential for a Paladin Visitant to appear. To say that the holy warriors are a thing of the past would shatter the kingdom. It is not the Paladin Visitants who keep the peace. Their appearances through history are but few. It is the fear of a Paladin Visitant who keeps anarchists from rising without a worthy cause.”

  “So the Royal Regalia is the only fertilized shell left,” said Ard. Stealing it was a bold plan. And why the blazes did a Holy Isle want to summon a Paladin Visitant? “Let’s suppose I succeed. I get you a detonation of Visitant Grit. The Paladin Visitants can level an entire army with a single word. You feared a war, but it sounds to me like you’re planning one.”

  Halavend shook his head. “I would never intend to use the Paladin Visitant for violence. I may be a heretic, but I am not a killer.”

  Ard couldn’t help but give an incredulous laugh. “Let me get this straight. You want to summon the most powerful warrior in history, but you’re not going to use him to fight?” He put his hands up. “What use is a Paladin Visitant if there is no battle?”

  “I have my reasons, Ardor Benn,” said Halavend.

  “I’d love to know them.”

  “Do you demand a full accounting from every employer?” Isle Halavend snapped. “Or do you merely expect one from me because I am a Holy Isle?”

  Ard faltered. He didn’t take jobs from strangers very often. Most of the ruses Ard ran were jobs that he or Raek drummed up. He’d catch wind of a rakish lord, or a devious mobster, and decide to show them that there was someone on the island more rakish, or more devious.

  But from time to time, a fellow criminal would come to him, seeking vengeance. Wanting to see an enemy ruined without putting themselves at risk.

  In those instances, Ard liked to know why. Needed to know why. His employers didn’t always tell him, though he inevitably sleuthed it out during the course of the ruse. But a Holy Isle … this was new. If Halavend’s motives stemmed from some new doctrine he’d uncovered with Lyndel, then Ard doubted he’d have much chance of uncovering it on his own.

  “I’m not hiring you to know my reasons,” said Halavend. “I’m hiring you to run a ruse. Steal the regalia, and process the shell into high-grade Visitant Grit.”

  “And what’s the payout?” asked Ard.

  “I will fund every expense of the ruse, so you and your partner will not take any financial risk,” assured Halavend. “In addition, I will see to it that the Regulation clears your name of any crimes previously committed.”

  “What about my partner?”

  “Yes, yes. Raekon Dorrel, too. The one the Regulators call the Short Fuse.”

  “Tempting offer,” Ard remarked. It would be good to have their names cleared. But they’d survived this long without getting caught. Ard’s usual payouts involved good sums of Ashings. “I don’t see a lot of profit in it. The Ardor Benn I know wouldn’t have agreed to those terms in the alleyway.”

  “The Ardor Benn I spoke with in the alleyway was convinced of the importance of this task,” said Isle Halavend. “Under the cloud of Memory Grit, I was able to explain my new doctrine, and all my motives.”

  “But you’re not going to do that now?”

  “I cannot,” replied Halavend. “There is too much at stake to let you leave this cove with such information.”

  “You’re out of your mind, old man.” Ard waved a dismissive hand. “You expect me to run the biggest ruse of my career under the assumption that I agreed with your motives in a cloud of Memory Grit?”

  “No,” answered the Isle. “Although that was the case with the Ardor Benn I spoke with in the alley. I knew I’d need something more material to entice you today.” Halavend took a deep breath. “I am prepared to withdraw one million Ashings from the Islehood Treasury. To be paid upon delivery of the processed Visitant Grit. What do you say now, Ardor Benn?”

  Ard’s insides were churning. Sparks, he’d never heard of a job with this kind of payout! Not to mention full funding along the way. “A million Ashings … How do you intend to make such a withdrawal without raising serious suspicion?”

  “I have the approval papers for a massive construction overhaul of the Mooring,” said Halavend. “It’s a forgery, but I’m a confirmed and trusted source. The Ashings will be long gone before anyone realizes what happened.”

  “And you’ll be a criminal,” Ard pointed out.

  “Never mind that.” He waved a wrinkled hand. “Do you accept the job?”

  Ard had to admit, Isle Halavend was everything he looked for in an employer: thorough, committed, dependable, and shrouded in hidden motives. “I’ll do it,” he agreed. “But a ruse this size can’t be performed alone. I’ll need to contract a few other experts.”

  “The million Ashings will be yours to split how you choose. I’ll fund whatever supplies or temporary services you need. Whatever the cost.” Isle Halavend’s forehead was creased. “Lyndel and I will continue our joint study. Visitant Grit has failed far more times than it has worked. Wayfarism teaches that only a select few are worthy of a visit. If we only have one detonation from the regalia, we want to make sure it’s in the right hands.”

  In response, Ard held up his hands. “These?”

  “Homeland, no!” cried Halavend. “Not you!”

  “Good,” replied Ard. “Find your own worthy hero to detonate that mess. You said a million Ashings payable in full upon delivery of the Grit.”

  Isle Halavend nodded.

  “How long do I have?” Ard asked.

  “As long as you need to do it right,” answered the old Isle. “But you must know that time is against us. Homeland knows how many more cycles we can last before the devastation reaches us.”

  Ard raised an eyebrow and adjusted his vest. Halavend’s cryptic words were unsettling. Sounded much more threatening than new doctrine. “This has been a most enlightening conversation. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way. I have quite a royal ruse to plan.”

  “Actually, there is one more thing.” Isle Halavend paused, as if debating whether or not to go on. “Your name,” he finally said. “Why did you choose it?”

  “A parent usually does that for you,” he answered. “Not sure I understand the question.”

  “You’re a known criminal throughout the Greater Chain. Surely you changed your name from what your mother picked. I’m just wondering why you selected Ardor?” asked Halavend. “A strong Wayfarist name. ‘A deep burning. A passion.’”

  Ard was surprised by the question. Why did it matter to Halavend if Ard abused a religious name? In a way, weren’t they both betraying Wayfarism? Ardor with his name, and the Holy Isle in his association with a criminal?

  “Seems to suit me,” Ard answered. “After I eat a dozen or so pastries, I get quite a burning in my gut.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Ard opened the door and stepped out onto the floating dock. He rang the bell on the wall and waited for a raft to come for him.

  Truth was, his name had always been Ardor. The last name was a change, but Ard had always kept his given first name. He didn’t mind the Wayfarist association. He had nothing against the religion, despite his decision to abandon it.

  He liked the name. He liked what it meant.

  A deep burning.
A passion.

  A ruse artist had to care. He needed to immerse himself in the job to perform the trickery needed. Sometimes Ard feared he cared too much. It was a slippery slope, passion.

  Ard didn’t like the way Halavend had concealed his motives. According to that Y chalked onto the alley wall, they were motives that Ard had agreed with just two nights prior. If that was true, then Ard felt himself itching to know what this was really about.

  Ard took a deep breath and shook his head. He’d have to be careful not to get too wrapped up in uncovering the cause of this one. Wasn’t it enough to simply get paid for a job well done?

  A million Ashings and his criminal name cleared.

  Ard rocked gently as he waited on the dock. He and Raek were good at what they did. But stealing the Royal Regalia?

  Ard was going to need a thief.

  The importance of my task is the only thing leading me on. Without such a dire cause, I surely would have shrunk in terror at the sacrifice the Homeland Urges me to make.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Quarrah Khai was taller than she wished to be. Small people could fit into more places, squeeze into tighter spots. Quarrah wasn’t large, by any means. But she wasn’t the size of a child anymore. And that frustrated her. Especially on nights like tonight, when the easiest way to break in was through a gap too small.

  Quarrah sized up the culvert once more. The grate was new, the metal rungs a bit tighter than the previous one. Sparks, it had only been two days since she’d surveyed the manor. What were the odds that Lord Wilt would change the grate?

  She could use Blast Grit to blow it off, of course. But that would require every granule of her Silence Grit to cover the sound, leaving her nothing for the extraction.

  Quarrah cursed and turned away from the culvert. Now she’d have to go around the manor and enter through the window on the northeast side. The backup plan was never as smooth.

  Quarrah moved through the landscaping of Lord Wilt’s grounds without a sound. The next Moon Passing was still four days away, so the night was utterly black. She was dressed to match the darkness, her blondish-brown hair tucked beneath a tight-fitting cap that tied beneath the chin.

  Her attire was uniquely suited for the job—knee-high black boots of a supple leather. Trousers that sported customized pockets along the thighs. Her long-sleeved shirt was snug against her upper body, with a series of belts that hugged her hips and crisscrossed her chest.

  Quarrah preferred the belts to any sort of pack or satchel. From the leather straps, she could secure anything she might need. Access was quick, her movements unrestricted.

  She paused below the window. Her backup plan was higher than she remembered. Why didn’t they design these manors to be more accommodating to burglars? She found it downright rude, installing tight grates and high windows. There was no conveniently placed tree, either.

  The exterior walls of Lord Wilt’s manor were made of limestone. The mortar between the large blocks was smooth and flush, denying any kind of handhold. Quarrah wouldn’t reach the windowsill unaided.

  Reaching into a hardened leather pouch on one of her belts, she produced a tiny mesh teabag containing a pinch of powder. She had carefully preplaced everything on her belts, so she didn’t even have to check the marking on the bag. Quarrah had a system, a consistent method, that enabled her to select the exact item she wanted even in absolute darkness.

  The teabag in her hand would be Drift Grit. She’d been warned a dozen times about packing Grit like this, with a loose fragment of Slagstone in the bag to provide the needed spark. The fine mesh bag was not a secure way. Taking a hard fall could impact the Slagstone and detonate every bit of Grit on her belts—a lethal error if she happened to be wearing explosive Blast Grit.

  Detonation licenses required the powder to be stored in a Grit keg or a clay detonation pot. But clearly, that decision was not made with thieves in mind. Quarrah couldn’t very well go smashing clay pots without drawing attention. So she’d devised a Grit teabag. Cheaper than buying blank detonation pots, though she did have to handle them with greater care.

  Quarrah gauged the distance to the window, and dropped to one knee. She gripped a handful of the manicured grass with her left hand and slammed the Grit bag against an ornamental stone beside her. She saw a spark as the fragment of Slagstone hit the rock, detonating the Drift Grit.

  The hazy cloud kicked up around her, bleeding instantly through the fine mesh of the teabag to form an eight-foot radius. Drift Grit always delivered a bit of a jolt upon detonation, and the action would have sent Quarrah floating off the ground if she hadn’t anchored herself with a fistful of grass.

  She glanced up at the window, crouching with both feet planted firmly against the ground. Letting go of the grass, she lunged straight upward, kicking off the ground with all her strength. Her body propelled through the weightless environment, exiting the top of the domed cloud on a path to the window. With that eight-foot head start, she was able to grasp the stone sill and hoist herself onto the ledge.

  Drift Jumping was an expensive technique, and not many were as practiced at it as Quarrah Khai.

  She peered through the window into a room full of bookshelves, a single desk tucked into the corner. The only illumination came through the open door from the hallway.

  Quarrah examined the window. Two panels, each hinged to swing inward. There was a latching mechanism, but no lock. She had been counting on that for a second-story window.

  She reached along her inner thigh and withdrew a long slender band of steel, hammered nearly as thin as parchment. Carefully, she slid the tool between the window panels, jostling it upward until she found the latch. Applying just the right amount of pressure, she felt the latch pop, one of the glass panels swinging inward.

  Quarrah replaced the tool along her thigh and tucked up her legs. Releasing a clasp on her boot, she loosened a leather binding over her arch and slipped out of the sole. Those heavy things were useful in making a fast retreat down a cobblestone road, but they were far too noisy for creeping around a lord’s manor in the middle of the night.

  Once removed, the soles clipped onto one of her belts and she dropped from the windowsill to land on silent, leather-clad feet inside the study. She latched the window behind her, casting a quick glance to the Drift Grit cloud below. The detonation would burn out in a few minutes. Quarrah wished she could snuff out the cloud now, but once Grit ignited, there was nothing to do but let it burn.

  She moved across the study, pausing where the hallway Light spilled into the room. The route she had planned to take was memorized. But that was useless since she couldn’t get into the kitchen through the culvert.

  Crouching, Quarrah withdrew a paper and studied her charcoal-sketched map. It was by no means comprehensive. She had pieced together only what could be seen while surveying the manor from a safe distance. Her spyglass had impeccable range, but there was a lot more to the manor than the outer rooms and hallways.

  A door shut. Voices sounded in the hallway. Quarrah melted into the shadows. Sparks, it was hours past midnight. Why didn’t people sleep when she needed them to?

  “That’s what I’ve been saying,” spoke one voice. “But it doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “He has unreasonable expectations,” said another. “What’s he going to do if nobody comes to see the hideous thing?”

  They continued talking, but their voices faded as they moved into an unmarked area on Quarrah’s map. It was true that many people found Lemnow’s artistic style bold, even abrasive. But that “hideous thing” was worth eight hundred Ashings. The painting hadn’t left Beripent since Lemnow created it some eighty years ago. Finally, a tour of the artwork had been announced, with a stop in every major city on Espar and Talumon.

  Lord Wilt was the perfect Focus for her thievery. He hadn’t been part of the original tour, but flooding in Tosbit had cut that location short. The painting had been transferred inland to Leez, and Lord Wilt found h
imself with an opportunity to host the famous artwork for a single day.

  Quarrah had watched Lemnow’s painting arrive at sunset. A covered wagon driven by two Reggies. It was a skeleton crew, since the others must have gone ahead to prepare the next stop. And Lord Wilt was far too cheap to hire additional security for the night. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Quarrah was surprised that the grounds weren’t crawling with would-be thieves.

  She checked her map once more, then folded it and tucked it away. Drawing a dagger from her boot, she slipped into the bright hallway.

  Quarrah moved with purpose, following the new route. Down the stairs at the end of the hallway. Tucking into a dim room as more servants passed. Around a corner. Down another flight of stairs. At last, passing the kitchen. See, all that risk could have been avoided if the grate hadn’t been replaced.

  Finally, she came to a halt before a heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway. A Light Grit torch had been detonated on a wall sconce nearby, a glowing cloud that hung where it had been ignited like a bright orb. Except this one was dimming.

  It was common practice to mix Prolonging Grit into the detonation to keep the Light Grit working all night. Prolonging Grit could stretch the effect of any other type, but the result caused the potency of the primary Grit to wane.

  Quarrah slipped the dagger into her boot and took a knee to examine the lock. It was a mortise lock, set into the door itself, allowing someone to use a key from either side. Her tools were out in a flash, a thin pin-like piece in her left hand, and a flat toothed device in her right. Her mouth held a third tool, hooked and pronged, but she doubted she’d even need it for a standard lock like this.

  She inserted the tools into the keyhole and turned her head, pressing one ear against the cold lock. Her eyes were useless for a task like this, and would serve her much better by watching the hallway. This was a job for her fingers and ears.