The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “‘As I’m sure you are aware,’” Ard continued dictating, “‘I, Ardor Benn, am currently in possession of a single detonation of Visitant Grit.’”

  “You sure we want to show our hand like that?” Quarrah cut in. “Is it a good idea to tell him we only have enough for one detonation?”

  Ard smiled. “Actually, that little nugget of truth is essential to my plan.”

  “What exactly is your plan?” Raek tucked the long scribing charcoal behind his ear. “I mean, besides the letter—which you can finish writing yourself. I’m sure your prose is only going to get more flowery.”

  “The letter gets us face-to-face with the king,” said Ard. “Once there, we can question him about his knowledge of Visitant Grit and discover what we need to know to make our detonation successful.”

  “Successful to what end?” Raek asked. “We get a Paladin Visitant to show up. So what? How is that supposed to protect us from the Moonsickness? We stake everything we’ve got on a Wayfarist scripture.”

  “I am not Wayfarist,” Lyndel said. “Yet I believe.” She took a step forward. “If I do not believe, then hope is dead. There would be no reason to go on with any of this.”

  “Lyndel’s right,” Ard agreed. “We have to assume that the Paladin Visitant can do something to shield the islands against the coming Moonsickness. I believe it could work. But I’m also a fan of cold, hard facts. That’s why I’m proposing this final run against Pethredote. We get him to spill his secrets, and we reconvene to make a plan based on our new findings.”

  “How do we coerce the king into revealing what he knows?” asked Quarrah.

  “We take the Visitant Grit to him,” Ard said.

  “Absolutely not!” Lyndel began. “You are—”

  “Relax!” Ard waved the angry Trothian back. “Not the real Grit. We take a fake pot to our meeting and detonate it on the floor.”

  “It wouldn’t do anything,” Quarrah said.

  “That’s right,” answered Ard. “When no Paladin Visitant appears, it’ll look like our detonation failed. The king will be far more likely to tell us what we did wrong, once he knows we’ve used the Visitant Grit and don’t have a second shot.”

  “I don’t see an escape plan,” said Raek. “Once Pethredote thinks we’ve used up our Grit, our insurance is gone. We’ll be in his palace, surrounded by his Regulators. There’s no amount of intimidation we could apply that would get him to talk. He’ll probably have us killed on the spot.”

  “Unless we actually summoned a Paladin Visitant,” Quarrah muttered. If history was any indication, those fiery visitors could decimate an entire room with their mere presence.

  Ard suddenly clapped his hands. He crossed the room, grabbed Quarrah by the neck, and kissed her forehead. “Quarrah Khai, you are a genius!”

  “What?” she gasped, flustered from the public show of affection and completely puzzled at his words.

  “We summon a Paladin Visitant!” Ard dropped to one knee and scrawled on the chalkboard.

  “Actually …” Quarrah whispered. “I didn’t seriously think we could.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Ard said. “It’s brilliant. Summoning a Paladin Visitant provides the intimidation we need to get Pethredote talking. And like I said earlier, he’ll be more likely to talk if he thinks our single detonation is spent.”

  “But won’t it be?” Lyndel asked. “You propose to actually detonate the Grit in the king’s presence.”

  “No, no!” Ard was still scrawling ideas across the board. “That would be a waste. Even if a Paladin did appear, we’d be too late to employ anything useful that we learned from Pethredote.”

  “What are you suggesting, Ard?” Quarrah asked.

  He dropped the chalk and stood up abruptly. Now that Quarrah could see his scribblings, they hardly made sense. Half the words were illegible. Several seemed of little application to the problem at hand. Quarrah saw the words heat, radius, palace, Grit. And, seriously, had Ard written Pethredolt? The man could be so immature sometimes.

  Ard walked across the room until he stood face-to-face with Raek. “Could you light yourself on fire?”

  Raek scratched his bald head. “I suppose anyone could. I typically avoid it.”

  “You know what I mean, Raek.” Ard was on a roll. “Could you be the Paladin Visitant?”

  Quarrah’s eyebrows lifted as she realized what Ard was proposing. Her throwaway remark had sparked this plan? She didn’t understand how Ard’s brain worked. Probably never would. The ruse artist’s mind was like the Char on a busy day—with more ideas coming and going than Quarrah could keep track of.

  “That’d be a complex trick,” Raek responded. “But I know a vendor in the Western Quarter that sells a sunflare cloak. The fabric repels flame. They use them in the industrial forges. Doesn’t stop heat, though. Unpleasant work.”

  “Nothing a bit of Cold Grit won’t fix,” Ard said. “As Quarrah and I were clever enough to figure out the night we climbed into Grotenisk’s burning skull.”

  “It’s not like the Cold Grit made it pleasant,” Quarrah pointed out.

  “But we didn’t die,” said Ard. “I think that’s the takeaway message here.”

  “Sure,” continued Raek. “I could trap a blast of Compounded Cold Grit under the sunflare cloak to keep my body sufficiently cool. The outside of the cloak could easily be fitted with strings soaked in Thrast oil. It burns long and steady.”

  “See?” Ard reached up and rubbed the big man’s shaved head. “You’re well on your way to becoming a Paladin Visitant. My boy’s growing up so fast.”

  “Lighting myself on fire isn’t the complicated part,” said Raek.

  Ard sighed, stepping back. “You had to go and spoil our moment.”

  “Paladin Visitants are supposedly too glorious to behold with the eye,” said Raek. “Any creature who looks at them is supposed to burst into flame.”

  “You’re saying you’re not glorious enough?” Ard replied.

  “He’s saying that the whole illusion will be shattered the moment Pethredote sees him and doesn’t burn up,” said Quarrah. Ard was getting particularly punchy as the plan developed. That was what confidence did to him.

  “Pethredote won’t dare look.” Ard didn’t miss a beat. “I will announce that I’m detonating Visitant Grit. Pethredote will certainly shield his eyes. And when he senses a fiery figure standing behind me, he won’t risk taking a peek.”

  “That works in a perfect scenario,” answered Raek. “If we had Pethredote alone. But what about the Reggies in the room? We can’t count on all of them to have the self-discipline of the king. If one of them looks, the trick will dissolve.”

  This seemed to stump Ard for a moment. He put a hand to his forehead and turned away, pacing a few steps in front of the chalkboard.

  “We need to convince the Reggies, too,” Ard finally muttered. “We need the fear of a Paladin Visitant to strike them so deeply that they vacate the room.”

  “Why don’t we catch a few of them on fire?” Lyndel suggested.

  All heads turned to the Agrodite priestess. She was crouched against the wall again, her blue fingers knit together and her hands resting just below her chin, shimmering eyes staring at them.

  Quarrah didn’t know why the comment surprised her. Lyndel had already shown a ruthless side in her dealing with Mearet and Chauster. But for some reason, Quarrah assumed a priestess would seek a more peaceful alternative. But then, Agroditism wasn’t Wayfarism. What did Quarrah even know about Lyndel’s religion?

  “Would you care to elaborate?” Ard asked.

  Lyndel remained in her pensive stance. “If several of the Regulators were to spontaneously burst into flame, it would prove to the others that the fiery figure in the room is a genuine Paladin Visitant.”

  “And if the Regulators are on fire, they’re probably going to leave the room in a hurry,” said Ard.

  “Catching on fire seems to have that effect on people,” Raek added.r />
  Quarrah watched the conversation unfold with a mix of disgust and awe. Were they really discussing this option? Now that they knew what was really at stake with the coming Moonsickness, Ard’s commitment to this job knew no bounds.

  “So, how do we do it?” Ard asked. “How do we spontaneously ignite everyone in the room?”

  “Except for you and Pethredote,” Quarrah said.

  “I thought that went without saying.” Ard turned to Raek. “You can do it, right? Mix up some kind of Grit, slip it into the Reggie pockets, have it go boom precisely when we need it to?”

  “That’s not the way Grit works.” Raek sighed, putting a hand to his forehead. Quarrah got the impression that this was a recurring conversation between these two. Ard demanded something spectacular, and Raek had to find a feasible way of making it work.

  “Fuses!” Ard suggested. “Really slow-burning fuses?”

  “And how would we get fuse pots into the pockets of every Reggie in the room?”

  “Depends on how many there are,” Ard pointed out. “Depends on the size of the room.”

  “That’s a good point,” Quarrah said. “Where are you hoping this parley will take place?”

  “It’ll be at the palace,” Ard replied. “We’ll never convince Pethredote to meet on neutral ground.”

  “So, the throne room,” said Quarrah. “Homeland knows we’ve spent enough time there.”

  “The throne room doesn’t present us with any real advantages,” said Ard. “In fact, we run the risk that the fire in Grotenisk’s skull would detract from Raek’s appearance as the Paladin.”

  “How do we get Pethredote to pick a different room?” Quarrah asked.

  Ard snapped his fingers, an early sign that a sharp idea had just entered his mind. “The reception hall! I’ll put it in the letter.” Ard pretended to quote a passage that he had not yet written. “‘We will meet in the palace reception hall, a location familiar to both of us, but one that does not bear the unpleasant memories we share in the throne room.’”

  Sparks, Ard was good with words. But Quarrah wasn’t sure why he seemed excited about that venue. The reception hall was significantly larger than the throne room, with multiple doors and a sprawling balcony that could all serve as access points for the Reggies.

  “The reception hall is illuminated by a Grit delivery system recessed into the walls,” Ard said. “A servant in the room below operates a bellows to disperse Light Grit into the pipes. A wall ignitor switch detonates the Grit and leaves orbs of light hanging on the chandeliers.”

  “And you think we could pump another type of Grit through the system,” Raek said. “Fill the room with something that will set the Reggies on fire.”

  Ard nodded. “What about Blast Grit?”

  Raek laughed. “If we pumped Blast Grit into the reception hall, a single spark would blow the palace halfway to the Homeland. You might survive in a Barrier cloud, but I don’t think that’s the effect you’re going for.”

  “I’m just throwing out ideas,” Ard said. “What about Heat Grit? We raise the temperature high enough that those Reggie wool coats ignite.”

  “That kind of temperature, and we’d all be dead,” replied Raek. “Wool is fairly flame resistant. Our skin would scald before the uniforms caught fire.” He paused. “There is a substance. A chemical called Kalignine—a potent liquid created from Dross. It spontaneously combusts at around 115 degrees. But it flares almost like a spark. Doesn’t burn long enough to catch anything on fire.”

  “Unless …” Ard probed.

  “I didn’t have an unless planned for that statement,” Raek said. “Give me a second.” He shut his eyes and yawned. “Particles of Blast Grit diluted fifty parts to one in a solution of corn oil, beeswax, and Kalignine. We apply it to the Reggie uniforms, and they should catch fire if the ambient temperature in the room reaches 115 degrees.”

  Now it was Quarrah’s turn to be astounded by Raek. She’d seen him spout formulas and equations in the past, but this was incredible. She understood exactly why Ard had kept Raek close over all their years of rusing. One was a dreamer. The other a doer. Together, they were practically unstoppable.

  “Perfect!” Ard cried. “How do we apply the solution to the Reggie coats?”

  “Not while they’re wearing them, obviously,” Quarrah said.

  “The palace Reggies wear red coats,” said Raek, in what Quarrah thought sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a bad joke. “But they aren’t allowed to wear them into the city. That means somewhere in the palace, there’s bound to be a giant closet full of uniforms, just waiting to be tainted.”

  Ard glanced at Quarrah as though he expected her to know where such a closet existed. She simply shrugged. During her time as Azania Fyse, she had been exposed to many hallways and chambers, adding them first to her mental map before solidifying them with a sketch on a paper. But she didn’t know every closet.

  “Maybe we do not need to know where these coats are kept,” said Lyndel unexpectedly. “We just need them to be taken somewhere we can get them.”

  “Ideas?” Ard probed.

  “Outside,” suggested Lyndel. “Why does anyone take their clothing outside?”

  “To wash,” said Quarrah. “How do we get them to wash all the Reggie coats at the same time?”

  “There is a Trothian saying,” Lyndel said. “The bird who brings the viper to the nest spoils the meal for everyone.”

  There was momentary silence in the dugout butchery before Ard said, “Yeah, I don’t really capture the meaning of that.”

  “At the end of a day, we put something into the coat of one Reggie.” Lyndel said it like she’d never tried out that slang before. “When he returns the uniform to the closet, it spoils the others overnight.”

  “Something smelly.” Ard seemed pleased with the idea.

  “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.” Raek rubbed his hands together like an excited little boy. “Remember that Choke Beetle I got in Noriman last year?”

  “During the Luthpit job?” Ard asked. “You stank for a week.”

  “The point is … I still have a vial of the oil I extracted from its glands,” he replied. “I’ll dispense some into a wax ball. A little Guman’s vinegar will slowly dissolve the wax during the night until the Choke Beetle extract spills out.”

  “The smell is strong enough?” Quarrah asked.

  “It’ll be enough to pollute a fair-sized room,” Raek said. “An enclosed closet with wool uniforms is ideal.”

  “So how do we place this delightful little bundle of wax?” Ard asked.

  “I could do it,” Quarrah volunteered. “It shouldn’t be any trouble to tuck something into a Reggie’s coat and slip away without drawing too much attention.”

  Ard nodded. “Pull your hair back. You’ll want to look as little like Azania Fyse as possible. Some of the palace Reggies might recognize your face.”

  “I don’t really plan to be seen,” said Quarrah.

  “Obviously, not all of the Reggie coats will be affected,” said Ard. “Those on duty while the Choke Beetle works its magic will escape the stench. But if we time it right, and strike during the smallest shift, we maximize our chance of reaching the most uniforms. The following morning, they’ll bring the uniforms out to air. And if we’re lucky, they’ll employ some extra hands to wash them down by the river delta.”

  “I’ll make sure my hands are there,” said Raek, “with a large basin of flammable Kalignine solution.”

  “Heavy wool … It’ll take the uniforms a full day in the sun to dry,” said Ard. “That’ll mean most of the Reggies on duty won’t have the standard red uniform available. They’ll most likely wear street uniforms in the interim. Blue coats. There’s going to be some confusion. We’ll use that to smuggle a few kegs of Heat Grit into the bellows room below the reception hall.”

  “You plan to take it in?” Quarrah asked. The sketch of Ard’s face had gotten around—especially among the palace Reggies.
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  “I’ll reach out to Cinza,” he said. “She’s usually game to do a single job without asking a lot of questions. Probably do it for as little as fifty Ashings. That would keep us out of harm’s way while still managing to maneuver the Heat Grit into position.”

  “I’ll need to premix it with Compounding Grit if we have any hope of spiking the temperature high enough,” explained Raek.

  “How much do we need?” Ard asked.

  “Well, too little Heat Grit and the blast won’t encompass the reception hall. Too little Compounding Grit and the Kalignine solution on the uniforms won’t ignite. Too much, and our flesh will turn crispy.” Raek sniffed. “Really depends on the size of the room.”

  “It’s a vaulted ceiling,” said Quarrah. “Thirty-five feet at its highest point in the center. Maybe sloping down to about fifteen feet on the edges.”

  Raek stepped past Ard, dropping to one knee and wiping his sleeve across the jumble of words Ard had written on the chalkboard. Fetching the fallen piece of chalk, Raek began sketching the dimensions of the room as Quarrah listed them.

  She was proud of herself for providing valuable information that no one else on the team had. Prouder still when she saw the impressed look on Ard’s face as he observed the mathematician and the thief estimating the volume of the palace reception hall.

  Quarrah was fairly confident in her measurements. Judging length, width, and height was a valuable skill in her line of work.

  “Three hundred and thirty-seven granules of Heat Grit,” Raek said as he continued to write out his equation. “Plus five hundred and twenty granules of Compounding Grit … That ought to do the trick. I’ll run the calculations again before I mix the batch.” He circled a few numbers on the chalkboard. “Whoever is running the bellows needs to make sure they pump all of the Grit into the system before we ignite anything upstairs.”

  “Quarrah,” Ard said. “Do you think you could get yourself inside unnoticed and operate the bellows system?”

  With Ard and Raek running the ruse in the reception hall, that left only Quarrah and Lyndel available for backstage work, as it were. And there was no way a Trothian was getting into the palace.