The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  He swept side to side, doing his best to knock the burning wood to the edges of the skull, creating a makeshift pathway down the center. Flames were still flames, even if they didn’t feel hot, and the spear was now smoldering.

  Ard swung his leg up to clear the row of bottom teeth. Ducking his head, he hoisted himself into Grotenisk’s mouth.

  The dragon skull was big, but it certainly wasn’t spacious. Ard crouched in the small aisle he had cleared, maneuvering himself forward while using Kerith’s spear to sweep a path through the coals.

  It was incredibly hot, even with the Compounded Cold Grit lowering the ambient temperature. Without the Grit he would have incinerated. Without the fire, the intensity of the Cold Grit would have frozen him. He was maneuvering through a dangerous balance of elements.

  Ard reached the heaped regalia in a series of quick shuffles. He reached down to grab a piece of dragon shell, but drew back his hand. Much too hot to handle.

  Using his boot and the smoking tip of the spear, Ard began scooting the fragments into the leather bag he had stolen. Surprisingly, several of the metal fastenings had survived the fire, though the padding and straps had obviously been burned away.

  The crown was in pieces, but Ard was able to bag all the significant fragments. He might have missed a few little ones, but the tiny scraps weren’t likely to survive the dragon’s digestive tract, anyway.

  “Ardor!” Quarrah’s voice called from outside the skull. She’d have to be patient. It would take a moment to get all these hot pieces of shell into the bag.

  “Ard!” Quarrah shouted again. “The Void cloud is out! The Reggies are moving in from the balcony!”

  Well, so much for dealing with that problem later. How rude of those Regulators to barge in before Ard had a chance to finish his current problem.

  Ard shut his eyes, trying to think his way out of this as he sucked in a deep breath. The smoke caught in his chest, making him cough. With a large fire burning around the clock, how was the throne room not always a smoky mess?

  Ard’s eyes snapped open. If the smoke could get out, then maybe they could as well. The chimney pipes! Ard remembered seeing them in the center of the room. They rose from the back of Grotenisk’s skull like dual columns behind the king’s throne.

  “Quarrah! Get in here!” Ard shouted. “And try not to catch on fire!” It was sound advice for any occasion, really.

  Gunshots sounded in the throne room. Squinting through the bright fire, he saw Quarrah climbing over the teeth and dropping to a crouch inside the dragon’s maw.

  Quarrah shuffled on her black leather boots, moving with much more grace than he had. “For the record,” Quarrah said as she crawled along the path Ard had cleared, “I think this is a terrible hiding place.”

  “For us, or for the regalia?” Ard shoveled the last few pieces of shell into the bag.

  “You decide.”

  “We need Drift Grit.” Ard pointed up the nearest chimney pipe. They were almost directly beneath it, the pipe barely wide enough to accommodate Ard’s shoulders. Raek wouldn’t have fit, for sure.

  “We’re going up the chimney?” Quarrah passed him a pot of Drift Grit from her belt.

  “I thought the thief in you would appreciate this.” Ard reached his arm as far as he could up the pipe. “We vanish like smoke.” He smashed the pot against the metal chimney with a resounding clang.

  Though he didn’t see it, Ard knew the Slagstone ignitor had sparked, detonating the blast of Drift Grit. Contained in the pipe, the detonation was forced in both directions, filling the chimney with the characteristic weightless effect. A portion of the Drift cloud spilled out the bottom of the pipe, enveloping the spot where Ard crouched, and causing the leather bag to float lazily.

  More gunshots. At this point, every available Reggie would be climbing up the balcony ladders and spilling into the throne room. Had the Regulators seen them duck into Grotenisk’s mouth? Maybe they’d assume the two thieves were burning up and leave them in peace.

  Ard grabbed the duffel bag and maneuvered it into the bottom of the chimney. Giving it a sharp upward toss, he sent the Royal Regalia floating up the metal pipe on a one-way journey to the palace rooftop.

  “All right.” He seized Quarrah by the arm and pulled her into the bottom of the Drift cloud. “Up you go.”

  Whether Quarrah liked this plan or not, she didn’t argue. Lining up her shoulders, she threaded herself headfirst into the pipe. Ard helped align her in the weightless environment, and she gave a solid kick, propelling upward through the narrow chimney.

  Outside the skull, Ard saw the flash of a gun barrel. Lead balls laced through the dragon’s teeth as the Regulators began shooting blindly at the two criminals who had climbed into the skull. But the balls didn’t find their mark, as Ard was streaming upward through the pipe at Quarrah’s heels.

  It was a claustrophobic feeling, the metal chimney pipe tearing Ard’s shirt and singeing flesh as he shot upward. Once in transit, there was no changing positions, and Ard was grateful that he’d entered the narrow pipe with both arms above his head.

  He crashed into Quarrah on the exit, his hands frantically grabbing at her feet as she hoisted herself out the top of the chimney. A moment later, the two of them collapsed on the roof under natural gravity, covered in soot, burns, and scrapes.

  Ard began to laugh. “We did it,” he muttered, staring up at the stars. “We blazing did it!”

  Quarrah sat up abruptly. “Not much time left. I have an audience that will soon be expecting my bows.”

  Ard grimaced against the raw scrapes on his arms as he rose to his feet. “Azania’s finished,” he said. “Just come with me to the bakery.”

  “I wish I could,” she answered. “But that would leave Lorstan Grale with a few too many questions to answer.”

  It would be inconceivable that a conductor could lead an hour-long piece of music and not know that his soloist was a fraud. Quarrah had to get back for Elbrig, and that was an agreement Ard would help her honor.

  “I’m worried, Quarrah,” Ard said.

  “I’ll be fine,” she replied. “The third movement is probably just ending. I’ll have time.”

  “It’s not that …” Ard took a deep breath. If they were going to split up again, Quarrah needed to know what really happened leading up to Dale Hizror’s arrest. She needed to know about the king’s informant. “Last time you broke into the throne room … the whole thing was a trap.”

  “I gathered that,” she replied. “The moment the crossbow shot me in the chest.”

  “But it’s more than that,” Ard continued. “Someone told Pethredote we were coming to the throne room that night. He knew we were trying to steal the regalia.”

  Ard studied the shocked look on Quarrah’s face. The expression was genuine, furthering his feelings toward her innocence in this.

  “And it wasn’t the first time someone sold us out,” continued Ard. “The same informant tipped off the Regulation that I’d be at Farasse’s concert.”

  Quarrah shook her head. “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” Ard answered honestly. He’d nearly split his brain over the matter, sitting in that dark cell thinking. “Elbrig and Cinza both knew we’d be at that reception.” The disguise managers had certainly put together that the end goal of the ruse was to steal the regalia. But if they were selling secrets to the king, then why would Elbrig visit Ard in the Stockade and risk revealing himself as Lorstan Grale?

  Quarrah suddenly drew a deep breath, as though startled by an idea of her own. Her hand flew to her lips. She looked at him, and Ard could tell what she was thinking. Homeland knew he’d thought it, too, but only ever for a brief second.

  “Ard,” she whispered. “What if it’s Raek?”

  He looked at her, his stomach knotting. Then the fear of her question quickly gave way to vexation. How dare she even suggest such an idea? She didn’t know Raek like he did!

  “He was the only other person who rea
lly knew what we were doing that night,” she pressed. “And on the night of Farasse’s concert, he was out of harm’s way. Like tonight.”

  Ard shook his head. “But tonight wasn’t a setup,” he said, fighting to keep his voice low. “If Raek wanted to betray us, he wouldn’t have sprung me from the Stockade.” Quarrah had gone too far, suggesting that Raek might be a double-crosser.

  Ard breathed slowly, feeling the cool spring night air fill his lungs. “You don’t know him like I do,” he whispered. “Raek would never …”

  But it was hard to ignore the facts. Ard, Raek, and Quarrah were the only three who ever knew all the plans. Raek had never put himself in danger, while Ard and Quarrah had both experienced serious setbacks that nearly did them in.

  “No,” Ard insisted. “I can’t explain it. But it’s not Raek. Just be careful tonight. The king might know that Azania Fyse is not who she’s supposed to be.”

  “The king won’t try anything tonight,” she replied. “Not while the public’s eye is on me.”

  Ard picked up the leather duffel bag, noting the satisfying clink of shell fragments. Grotenisk’s fire had not only been a clever hiding place, but it had also been proof that the regalia Ard now held was the real one. Tarnath’s replica would have melted to a puddle of resin in that heat.

  “We have to be more cautious than ever,” Ard said. “We shouldn’t mention our suspicions about the king’s informant to anyone … not even Raek.” It pained him even to say it—and he certainly didn’t believe it. But until he had a better idea of who the king’s informant was, Ard needed to start keeping things closer to the vest.

  “I should go. The cantata is probably starting into the fourth movement by now,” Quarrah said.

  Ard nodded. The night was still a huge victory. Quarrah was skilled and smart. She’d survive the bows. “Something about the cruel flames of Grotenisk’s skull …” Ard tried to recall the lyrics.

  “‘. . . the unforgiving flames a symbol of his hatred,’” Quarrah quoted.

  “Nah. Poor Grotenisk was really just misunderstood. I mean, I thought he was pretty helpful down there.”

  “You just have to get to know him,” Quarrah added. “Spend some quality time in his mouth.”

  Ard grinned. It would seem Quarrah Khai had a sense of humor, after all. “So.” He glanced across the dark rooftop. “Any ideas on how to get down?”

  I am always aware of the time frame. Aware that all will be lost if I am not where I need to be when my time runs out.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Quarrah sprinted.

  She knew she’d arrive at the stage completely winded, panting so hard she’d look like a dying horse. But at least she’d be there to take her bows.

  Raek had taken her as close as he dared on horseback, but the last quarter mile had to be done on foot. One thing was certain: the music in Quarrah’s head did not match up with the music she heard as she hastily approached the back side of the stage.

  She was behind schedule. In her mind, Quarrah was singing “a city, a beacon to the Greater Chain.” But Cinza’s voice, as it came into range, was already at “Fateful Grotenisk no more to gloat.”

  Sparks! That was the final verse!

  She scrambled through the flap and under the stage, her eye instantly training on the faint glimmer of light where Cinza was stationed. With the low stage overhead, Quarrah half crawled to reach her, finding her gown, wig, and spectacles carefully laid out and ready. Cinza must have set them for her during rests, or in the pause between movements. This would speed things considerably.

  Quarrah unbuckled her Grit belts and shed her black garb as quickly as she could. Standing in her underwear, Quarrah had a terrible thought that Cinza might force her up through the trapdoor like this if she didn’t get into the dress quickly.

  She hiked the shimmery silver fabric up and began lacing the sides. No corset on this one. The dress itself seemed designed to squeeze her breathless. An extra pair of hands suddenly snatched the laces on her other side, and Quarrah repositioned herself to allow Cinza to continue singing while helping tie.

  The dress was smudged with dirt, but Quarrah hoped the smoky atmosphere of the stage above would conceal that. Hopefully it would conceal a lot of little discrepancies. Quarrah’s hands were soot-smeared from the chimney escape, and without a mirror, she wondered if her face was, too.

  The wretched wig came next. Quarrah found some comfort in thinking that this was likely the last time she’d have to wear it. Cinza held out the two hairpins, and Quarrah carefully slipped them into place, securing the hairpiece. She had to be careful not to prick herself. Those things were unnecessarily sharp.

  “‘Life! Life! From death springs life.’”

  Cinza belted the final lines, maneuvering Quarrah into position beneath the trapdoor. In the dim light, the two women finally took a moment to look at each other. Cinza’s eyes grew wide, and her expression told Quarrah that her face was definitely not presentable.

  Cinza held out a mug of water as she hit the final sustain, the orchestra playing out as she held the note. Quarrah plunged her gloved hand into the drink and wiped frantically at her face. Was that dried blood under her nose? Better her glove was filthy than her face. Hopefully that was better. Hopefully she hadn’t smeared her makeup to look like something horrifying. Quarrah jammed the red spectacles onto her face.

  As Cinza added vibrato to her tone, she pitched a small pot of Drift Grit at Quarrah’s feet. It filled the space under the stage and Quarrah anchored herself against the weightlessness by pushing on the low floor above her.

  Cinza Ortemion cut off her note with a dramatic flair as the cantata ended. Outside, Quarrah heard more aerial Light Grit detonations designed to make the audience look up. At the same moment, Cinza yanked open the trapdoor. Quarrah knew exactly what to do. She sprang upward through the Drift cloud, popping up in the middle of the stage. The trapdoor slammed under her, and when she touched down, she was standing at her usual mark.

  For a strange moment, the Illusion Grit kept burning. If someone looked closely, they might have seen two versions of Azania Fyse sharing the same space. But the Illusion burned out so quickly, it would likely seem a mere trick of the eye.

  The audience was applauding now, their attention back on her. It was a roar louder than anything Quarrah had ever heard, and it made her smile. No, this was more than a smile. This was a giddy grin.

  It had worked!

  Praise the Homeland! The cantata heist had been successful in every way. Ard was free. They had the regalia. Everything was finally going right!

  Quarrah took a bow. Then another. And another. Lorstan Grale had stepped off his podium. He was bowing, too, and gesturing proudly at Quarrah. Someone stuffed a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She bowed again. Was the crowd ever going to quiet down?

  The crowd quieted. Instantly. Unnaturally.

  Quarrah looked up, but the crowd was looking down, every head bowing in reverence. The smile melted from Quarrah’s face. Only one person commanded this kind of respect.

  King Pethredote strode onto the stage, the amber regalia shimmering in the firelight. It was a stunning forgery. Quarrah never would have suspected it was fake, if she hadn’t just stolen the real one.

  The king paused beside Lorstan Grale, the two men clapping hands together and exchanging brief words. Then Pethredote was moving toward Quarrah.

  What was he going to do? The king had made it clear that he would deal with her once the cantata was over. But she hadn’t expected him to act so soon. And in front of thousands?

  No. Pethredote wouldn’t hurt her here. There would still be time to get away.

  “Azania Fyse.” Pethredote reached for her hand, and she gave it to him instinctively. Her wet hand, the silver glove stained with soot and dried blood. He lifted it slowly to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

  Quarrah was trembling. Oh, she hated this man. So spotless on the outside. So rotten on the inside.
He lowered her hand, but didn’t let go. Turning, he addressed the crowd.

  “Tonight, you have heard the voice of a flower in full bloom.”

  Great, there he went with the flower analogy again. Was this the part where she got cut down?

  “No doubt, you all would like to shower our dear Azania with adoring praise,” continued the king. “But the night grows late, and I must ensure that such a lustrous talent as hers be safeguarded in a crowd so large.”

  The king gestured to the side of the stage. Next to the ruins of the Old Palace Steps was a private carriage, hitched to a chestnut horse.

  “I had my servants prepare my carriage in advance so I could make an easy departure,” said the king. “But I must insist that you take the carriage instead, Azania Fyse.”

  This couldn’t be good. Something told her that carriage wouldn’t be going to Avedon Street.

  “What about Your Majesty?” asked Quarrah, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  “My servants are already preparing another carriage,” replied the king. “Though it will be some time before it will arrive, with the crowds such as they are. I am more than delighted to remain on the stage and congratulate this fine orchestra.”

  “So am I,” said Quarrah. She turned awkwardly to the orchestra behind her. “Um … Congratulations!” Ah, flames. She was making a fool of herself. She needed to get ahold of this situation.

  King Pethredote gestured to the carriage once more. “I insist, Lady Azania. Surely, you would not turn down your king.”

  Well, when he put it that way, what choice did she have? “I would be honored,” she lied.

  The king finally released her damp glove, and Quarrah stepped past him, moving slowly for the stairs at the end of the stage.

  On display for thousands of eyes, Quarrah Khai was marching to her certain doom. She passed Lorstan Grale. For one hopeful moment, she hoped he’d do something to save her. Like when he’d fired that shot at the Royal Concert Hall.