The Republic of Thieves #1

Chapter SIX


THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: CHANGE OF VENUE

1

“FOURTHSON VIDALOS,” SAID Josten. “Would that your parents had stopped at their third! How many nights have you spent leaning against my bar, eh? How many times have I brought you in out of the rain for a glass? You two-faced son of a—”

“For the gods’ sakes,” said Vidalos, “Do you think I wanted this? It’s my duty!”

“In front of half the Konseil and the entire Deep Roots—”

“Josten,” said Locke, stepping between the innkeeper and Vidalos, “let’s talk. Herald, how do you do? I’m Lazari, an advisor.”

“Whose advisor?”

“Everyone’s advisor. I’m a solicitor from Lashain, retained in a broad capacity. I require a moment in private with Master Josten, to discuss his options.”

“I don’t see that he has any,” said Vidalos.

“Do you have orders to refuse us a few minutes for reflection?” said Locke.

“Of course not.”

“Then I’ll thank you not to enforce orders you haven’t been given.” Locke put an arm firmly around Josten’s shoulders, turned the sputtering innkeeper away from the herald, and whispered, “Josten, one thing. Are you absolutely certain your license is truly paid up?”

“I have a signed receipt in my papers. I could fetch it now and shove it up this powder-blue pimp’s ass! Until tonight, I would’ve called the bastard a good friend, on my honor. I never would’ve thought—”

“Don’t think,” said Locke. “I’m paid to do that for you. Herald Vidalos isn’t your enemy. It’s whoever summoned him to work and gave him a warrant that somehow urgently needed to be served at half past the tenth hour of the evening, do you follow?”

“Ah,” said Josten. “Ahhhhhhh.”

“We shouldn’t abuse the poor bastard whose boots are on the pavement,” said Locke. “Our troubles come from higher offices. Nikoros, get over here! Look at this seal and signature.”

“Capability Peralis,” said Nikoros. Sweat ran down his forehead in glistening lines. “Second clerk, Magistrates’ Court. I’ve heard of her.”

“She wouldn’t need an actual magistrate to sign this?” said Locke.

“No,” said Nikoros, “magistrates only sign off on, uh, arrests.”

“And this,” said Locke, “is just a little sting in the ass. Is she Black Iris? Or any of her superiors?”

“Not according to my lists,” said Nikoros. “Most of the people at the court make a point of not, uh, not declaring for either party.”

“Well, someone got her to perform a favor.” Locke suddenly became aware that most of the party, rank on tipsy rank, were watching closely to see if their mountain of fine liquor was really to be severed from them on the word of a single nervous functionary. “I don’t suppose Konseil members can just order Vidalos to make himself scarce?”

“Magistrates are, ah, co-equal with the Konseil,” said Nikoros. “Their heralds don’t have t-to take orders from anyone else.”

“Well, our drunk friends are going to hang this poor bastard from the rafters if I let this go through.” Locke turned back to Herald Vidalos, grinning broadly. “Everything seems to be perfectly in order!”

“It gives me little satisfaction,” said Vidalos.

“I’d have thought you’d be happy,” said Locke, “since there’s absolutely no need for you to shut down the party.”

“Having delivered the warrant,” said Vidalos, “it pains me to report that I’m bound to carry out my directions therein; I have to observe that Master Josten has ended this affair and sealed his doors to new customers.”

“Begging your pardon, but you’re not allowed to do anything of the sort,” said Locke. “That’s premature restraint of trade, which is forbidden under the Articles of Karthain. Whoever signed this warrant should have known that Josten is entitled, by law, to verification of these charges before a magistrate—”

“But—”

“Prior to interruption of commerce!” continued Locke. “Look, this is fairly basic stuff from that amendment business about, what—twenty years ago.”

“I … really?” Vidalos’ face lost some of its plum color. “Are you quite sure? I’m not entirely familiar with that. And I have served a number of similar—”

“I’m fully bonded for practice in Karthain. Imposition of penalty without proper verification of these charges would expose you to censure for negligence, the penalties for which could be … well, of course you know what they could be. Let’s not dwell on them.”

“Um … ,” said Vidalos. “Uh, of course.”

“So, you’ve served your warrant in front of the most credible body of witnesses the city could hope to produce. I accept the warrant on Josten’s behalf and formally request a magistrate’s verification of its charges. Since we can’t possibly have that until at least tomorrow morning, the party must continue.”

“Ha! That’s served you out,” shouted someone within the crowd. “Shuffle off, tipstaff!”

“None of that!” yelled Locke. “For shame! This man is a good friend to this house, given the awful task of serving this warrant against his will. And did he flinch? No! Obedient to duty, he stepped into the lion’s den!”

“Hear him,” cried Firstson Epitalus. Whether he realized the stupidity of needlessly making an enemy of Vidalos or merely wished his own voice to ring loudest in any acclamation, Locke blessed him. “Karthain should be proud to have such an honest and fearless fellow in its service!”

People immediately followed Epitalus’ lead. Catcalls that had barely started up were replaced with a rising swell of applause.

“I regret my harsh words,” said Diligence Josten, propelled toward Vidalos by a subtle elbow from Locke, and fully taking the hint. “Give me your pardon, and have a glass with us.”

“Oh, but …” Vidalos seemed pleased, relieved, and embarrassed all at once. “I’m on duty—”

“Surely not,” said Josten. “The warrant is served, so your duties are finished.”

“Well, if you put it that way—”

Josten and several accomplices enfolded the herald into the crowd and shuffled him toward the liquor supply.

“Oh, thank the gods,” muttered Nikoros. “I had no idea you’d picked up such a knowledge of Karthani law, Lazari.”

“I haven’t,” said Locke. “When the sky’s falling, I take shelter under bullshit. Someone’s going to figure that out soon enough tomorrow.”

“Then there’s no such statute?”

“Fake as a man with three cocks.”

“Really? Damn! It sounded so r-reasonable. Lying to an officer of the court is an offense they could—”

“That’s not worth worrying about. If pressed I’ll use the never-fail universal apology.”

“What’s the n-never-fail universal apology?”

“ ‘I was badly misinformed, I deeply regret the error, go f*ck yourself with this bag of money.’ But it shouldn’t come to that. First thing tomorrow, we need to reach this Capability Peralis. If Josten’s papers are magically found to have been ‘misplaced,’ then the whole affair dries up before it can call further attention to itself.”

“And if she won’t roll over for us?” said Jean, who’d been hovering nearby.

“We get someone else. First Clerk, maybe, or an actual magistrate. We’re buying ourselves a little corner of the Magistrates’ Court tomorrow, come hell or Eldren-fire. When do the courts open?”

“Ninth hour of the morning.”

“Be outside our door at eight.”

“Oh, uh—”

“At eight,” said Locke, reducing his voice to a cold whisper. “So don’t stuff any more of that shit down your throat tonight.”

“Oh, I, uh, I don’t have any idea what you—”

“Yes. You do. I don’t care if you’re totally out of your head on Akkadris, I’ll put a damn leash around your neck and drag you by it. We’re all going together to put this fire out before it spreads.”

2

“NIKOROS,” MUTTERED Locke, bleary-eyed and fog-brained, as he swung the apartment door open in response to a frenzied pounding. “What the hell are you about, man? It can’t be anywhere near eight yet.”

“It’s just after five.” Nikoros looked as though he’d been boot-stomped by a gang of hangover fairies. His hair was undone, his clothes haphazard, and the bags under his eyes could have been used for coin pouches. “They’ve got my office, Lazari. Just like you said.”

“What?” Locke blinked the glue from his eyes and ushered Nikoros inside. “Someone burned your office down?”

“No, it’s not arson.” Nikoros nodded to Jean, who’d come in through the connecting door from his side of the suite. Jean wore a black silk dressing gown and was carrying his hatchets casually in his right hand. “The Master Ratfinder’s office cordoned off my whole bloody building for a suckle-spider infestation. Sheer luck I wasn’t there when they showed up, otherwise I’d be getting an alchemical bath in quarantine.”

“Your scribe?”

“He dodged them too. Almost everything was copied or removed in time, but now they’ll be fumigating with brimstone for three days. Can’t use the place until they’re done.”

“I don’t suppose you’d ever seen so much as one hair on a suckle-spider’s ass?”

“The building’s two years old! Clean as an infant’s soul.”

“Another how-do-you-do from our friends across town. How many people work for this ratfinder?”

“A dozen or so. Alchemists, sewer-stalkers, corpse-hunters. They handle all things pestilent and sanitary.”

“How are they regarded?”

“Master Bilezzo’s a hero! Hells, I mostly think so, too. Keeps the city damned clean, compared to a lot of other places. Forty years without a plague in Karthain, not even cholera. People notice that sort of thing.”

“This is touchy, then,” said Jean. “We can’t be heavy-handed dealing with this or it’ll snap right back at us. Sa … someone in the opposition keeps choosing delicate instruments to poke us with.”

“We need some delicate instruments of our own,” said Locke. “We’re not going to have any time to deal with the election if we have to run around pissing on these distractions.”

“Do you think you can get my office back?”

“Hmmm.” Locke scratched his stubble. “No. Look, Nikoros, no offense, but if we’ve got you and your files, we don’t need your office. Let them smoke it out. Our job as far as this Master Bilezzo is concerned is to make sure Josten’s isn’t closed down for similar treatment.”

“Very well,” said Nikoros. “But I, uh, my rooms—I suppose I’ll have to board here for a few days.”

“That might not be a bad thing. This place is our castle, and the siege has started. Speaking of which, after we deal with the Magistrates’ Court, get me some actual solicitors. Trustworthy sorts. I presume the party has a few?”

“Of course.”

“Have them join the menagerie here, in the best suites Josten has left. Next time someone walks in with writs or warrants or gods know what, I want real paper-pushers on hand to spin authentic nonsense.”

“We seem to be off to a bad start,” said Nikoros.

“We are.”

“And I must apologize … for my, uh, you know. It’s just an occasional thing, you understand. Keeps me working through the long nights. I can … stop, if you—”

“Do. Throw that shit away. We need you steady and reliable. Dustheads are neither.”

“I’m not a dusthead—”

“Save it. I’ve seen more dustheads, gazers, pissers, burners, and stonelickers than you can imagine. I’ve even crawled into a bottle myself, once or twice. Don’t try to placate me; just do us all a favor and stay off it. Get pickled on booze like an ordinary Deep Roots man.”

“I can … as you say. I can do it.”

“And don’t sweat our situation. By tonight, we’ll be walled in with brutes and solicitors, most of the locks will be changed, Josten will secure his staff .… You’ll feel better once our basic defenses are in place. Now get a room, get what sleep you can. Master Callas and I will fetch you at eight. And hey. Tell whoever’s on duty we want enough coffee to kill a horse.”

When the coffee came a few minutes later, the maid delivering it wore a gleaming brass chain around her neck.

“That was quick work on Josten’s part,” said Jean, pouring two steaming cups. “The chains, I mean. You don’t believe it’ll keep out real mischief, though? Wouldn’t stop either of us, I should think.”

“It’s not meant to,” said Locke. “It’s a simple obstacle for the witless and unlucky. The less time we have to waste on idiots, the more we can devote to everything else Sabetha does.”

3

IT WAS a cool, mist-haunted morning. Water trickled down every window, and the pavements were slick. A few minutes before eight, Locke and Jean hustled Nikoros, who looked as though sleep had been scarce, into a carriage. Locke gnawed indelicately at half a loaf of bread stuffed with cold meat from the party. This breakfast was disposed of by the time they made their first stop of the morning, at Tivoli’s, to reinforce the coins in their purses with a few hundred comrades.

Next, they rattled north to the Casta Gravina, the old citadel of Karthain, whose interior walls and gates had been knocked down years before to make more room for a government that didn’t have to fear anything so mundane as a hostile army at its doorstep. The plazas and gardens were so beautifully laid out that the fog might have been just one more decoration, artfully conjured and shaped by crews of overambitious groundskeepers.

“Magistrates’ Court,” said Nikoros, leading the way out of the carriage. “I know the place. If you want to make any money in my business, you’ll end up party or witness in your share of lawsuits.”

Locke and Jean followed him across a circular plaza, into the clammy silver mist that opened a few paces ahead of them and swallowed their carriage an equal distance behind. The fog echoed faintly with the sounds of the city coming to life—doors opening, horses and wheels clattering, people shouting to one another.

“Clerks’ office is just over here,” said Nikoros.

“OOF!” A woman came out of the fog to Locke’s left before he could react. She collided with Locke, steadied herself against him, and was then snatched away rather ignominiously by Jean.

“Gods above!” she cried. The voice was creaky, middle-aged, Karthani.

“It’s fine, Master Callas, it’s fine,” said Locke. He patted his purse and papers, verifying their undisturbed state. The collision might or might not be innocent, but the woman seemed to be no pickpocket.

“A thousand apologies. You startled us, madam,” said Jean, releasing the woman. She was a few inches shorter than Locke, broad and heavy, dressed in a dull but expensive fashion. Her gray-dusted brown hair was pinned up under an elegant four-cornered cap, and her face was lined with whatever cares had chased her through life. Locke prayed silently that they hadn’t just upset one of the very clerks they might want to suborn.

“It’s you who startled me, looming out of the fog like a pack of highwaymen!”

“I wouldn’t call it looming, madam. Some of us simply aren’t built for looming,” said Locke.

“You, perhaps not, but I could plant your big friend in the street to shade the roof of my house.” She readjusted her coat with a sharp tug and went on her way, scowling. “Good day, oafs.”

“Nikoros,” said Jean, “was that anyone important?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Well, let’s get inside before we trip over someone we can’t afford to offend,” said Locke.

The office of the clerks wasn’t particularly large, but it was comfortably appointed. The purgatory of quiet halls and empty chairs outside the clerical chambers looked like a decent place to fall asleep in. Capability Peralis, a round and attractive woman on the kinder side of forty, was scratching away at papers behind her desk when Locke, Jean, and Nikoros entered her chamber.

“I’m sorry,” she said, irritably tossing thick dark ringlets out of her eyes as she looked up. “No appointments before half ten. Where’s the hall secretary?”

“The secretary has been taken advantage of by my excessive natural and financial charms,” said Locke, who’d been charming to the tune of a month’s salary. “I’m sure you can sympathize.”

Locke settled smoothly into one of the chairs before Peralis’ desk, and Jean casually drew the door shut. Nikoros stood off to one side and pretended to admire the walls.

“I’ve no idea who you think you are, sir—”

“Last night,” said Locke, “a warrant was signed and sent out from this office, a warrant concerning Josten’s Comprehensive Accommodations.”

“If you’re Josten’s counsel, you know bloody well when Public Proceedings are held!”

“What I know,” said Locke, “is that some miracle caused the records for the payment of Josten’s ardent spirits license, which is perfectly sound, to be misplaced. I’d like that miracle reversed. I do understand that miracles are expensive.”

Sighing inwardly at the artlessness of this approach (there was no time to waste on subtlety), Locke swept a hand across the desktop, leaving a comet-like trail of gold coins.

“Is that meant to impress me?” said Peralis softly, fiercely. Oh, her version of Offended Honest Public Functionary deserved applause! “Attempted bribery of a civic official. You’ll shed your boldness when you’re chained to an interrogation cell wall.”

“Good gods, that’s lovely,” said Locke. “I’m really sorry that I simply don’t have time to play this game with you. That’s your annual salary right there on the desktop. I propose to give you six more payments just like it, one per week until this election is over. All I ask is that no further complications to Deep Roots party business be specially conjured by you or your staff. Nothing more.”

“Well,” she said, dropping her fa?ade of outrage, “what if another benefactor is willing to provide additional funds in a contrary direction?”

“Notify us,” said Locke. “We’ll match anything you’re offered. I don’t even want you to take action against that other benefactor; merely refrain from taking action against us. Make up excuses. Imply that you’re under scrutiny, that further accommodations are temporarily impossible. Surely you can see it’s a sweet arrangement where you’re concerned.”

“It’s not without its temptations,” she mused.

“Quit being coy. Just say yes and earn a fortune.”

“Well, then—yes.”

“I have your word this warrant concerning Josten is a misunderstanding, and the record in question is going to be found, by the happiest happenstance, as soon as I leave this office?”

“You may safely consider the matter settled.”

“Good. If it remains settled next week, I’ll call again with more decorations for your desk. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a tight schedule of pushing boulders up hills.”

“You know,” said Nikoros quietly as they left the Second Clerk’s office, “not to criticize, but if no particular tact is required in these matters, I’ve a hundred Deep Roots men and women who can make these calls in their official capacities—”

“No,” said Locke. “When it comes to just laying out money, leave our official friends out of it. Save them for areas in which their authority is needed. There’s no point in blunting our tools in the wrong applications.”

“Well,” said Nikoros, “you’re damned impossible to argue with, Master Lazari.”

“Not impossible,” said Jean placidly. “About as intractable as a tortoise with its ass on fire, though.”

“If we’re going to catch up to the opposition,” said Locke, “we’ve got to step boldly at every—”

“There he is! There’s the man who stole my purse!” cried a familiar voice as Locke emerged once again onto the fog-shrouded plaza.

The middle-aged woman stood there, flanked by two men in pale blue coats reminiscent of the one worn by Vidalos. These men wore studded leather vests beneath them, however, and had clubs hanging from their belts.

Gods. So it hadn’t been an innocent collision after all.

“Your pardon, sir,” said one of the guards, stepping forward, “but I must ask to see your pockets.”

“A black silk purse,” said the woman, “with the initials ‘G.B.’ in red in one of the corners. Seven ducats in it. Or at least there were!”

Locke patted himself down hurriedly. Yes, there was a slender new weight in the lower left inside pocket of his rather excellent new coat. He hadn’t noticed the addition; he’d been so satisfied with verifying that nothing had been removed. Stupid, clumsy, amateurish—

“I say,” he sputtered, “this is an intolerable accusation! How dare you, madam, how dare you! And how dare you, sir, suggest that a gentleman might be turned upside-down and shaken like a common cutpurse!”

“Be reasonable, sir,” said the guard. “The lady has a precise description of what was taken, and surely proving that you don’t have it is worth a moment of your time—”

“It is a liberty beyond comprehension! This is Karthain, not the lawless wilds!” Into his furious gesticulations, Locke worked a number of quick hand signals for Jean’s benefit. “I take great … I take the most … I take take take … arrrrrggggggggh!”

Locke spasmed and sputtered. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he stumbled forward moaning, clutching at the approaching guard. Alarmed, the man reached for his club. While Nikoros watched in mute bewilderment, Jean sprang between Locke and the guard.

“For pity’s sake!” Jean hissed. “Don’t pull that cudgel, he’s having a fit!”

“Nnnnnggggggggghhhhh,” said Locke, spraying flecks of spittle and waving his head about furiously.

“He’s cursed,” said the other guard, making a gesture against evil with both of his hands. “He’s got a spirit influence on him!”

“He’s not cursed, you damned simpleton, it’s an illness,” said Jean. “Whenever his emotions run high, there’s a chance he’ll have a fit, and I dare say you, madam, have brought him to this state!”

In a manner that seemed perfectly accidental and natural (Jean’s interference was nothing less than expert), Locke broke away from Jean and the guard. Lurching like a marionette whose puppeteer was dying of some convulsive poison, he tumbled sobbing against the woman, who shrieked and pushed him away. Locke wound up on his back with Jean crouching protectively over him as he babbled, twitched, and kicked at the air.

“Stand back,” said Jean. “Give him some air. The fit will pass. In a moment he’ll be calm.”

Locke, taking the hint, gradually reduced the severity of his symptoms until he was only gently shuddering and mumbling.

“If you really must render such low treatment to a gentleman,” said Jean, “I suggest you examine his pockets now, while he’s not entirely himself.”

The guard Locke had initially stumbled against knelt down beside him and, carefully, as though Locke might leap back up at any moment, went through Locke’s coat.

“Private papers and a purse not matching your description,” he said, standing up. “Madam, I’m afraid it’s just not there.”

“He must have discarded it inside,” she cried. “Search the building!”

“Now this is beyond all propriety,” said Jean. “My friend is a gentleman and a solicitor, and you insult him with these ridiculous accusations!”

“He’s a pickpocket,” said the woman. “He ran into me to steal my purse!”

“This man is a convulsive,” Jean bellowed. “He has fits half a dozen times a day! What the hell kind of pickpocket do you think he’d make? Twitching and trembling and falling over? Gods!”

“Madam,” said the guard standing over Locke, “he doesn’t have your purse, and you must admit a gentleman with, ah, twitching fever hardly seems a likely cutpurse.”

“Check his friend,” she said. “Check the big one.”

“I’ll gladly hand my coat over,” said Jean, slowly and coldly, pretending to come to a realization. “Yet I must insist that you do the same, madam.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” said Jean. “I understand what’s going on now. I marvel that I didn’t grasp it before. There is a pickpocket at work, sirs, but one wearing a lady’s dress rather than a gentleman’s breeches.”

“You foreign slime!” shouted the woman.

“Constables, no doubt you’ve been in the company of this woman since she approached you with her complaint. I’d check, if I were you, to make sure of your own purses.”

The guards patted themselves down, and the one standing over Locke gasped.

“My coin bag!” he said. “It was right here in my belt!”

“You may examine me at length,” said Jean, extending his arms with his empty palms up. “But I must insist that your more fruitful course of action would be to examine my accuser.”

The guard nearest the woman put a hand on her shoulder, mumbled apologies, and gingerly sifted her coat pockets while she screeched and struggled. After a moment, he held up a small leather coin bag and a black silk purse.

“Stitched with the initials ‘G.B. ’!” he said.

“But it was missing!” she cried. “It was nowhere to be found!”

“What about my coin bag, eh?” The first guard snatched the leather purse from his partner and shook it at her. “What’s this doing in your pocket?”

“I’m bloody confused,” muttered the other guard.

“You’re meant to be,” said Jean. “Forgive me for saying so. I’ve seen this act before. Our harmless-looking friend here has been plucking purses. Clearly she meant to frame my friend for her deeds, even while plying her trade on you, sirs. Thus, when you and any other victims discovered your light pockets, you’d have a culprit already in hand, ready to soak up all the blame. I can only imagine she tried and failed to plant her purse on my friend. Perhaps age is catching up with you, madam?”

“Lying bastard,” she shouted, trying and failing to fight off the firm grip of a guard. “Lying, thieving, pocket-picking foreigner!”

“Right, you,” said the first guard, taking her other arm. “I don’t like being taken advantage of. Gentlemen, would you like to come inside with us and register your complaint as well?”

“Actually,” said Jean, “I’d like to get my friend home, if not to a physiker. I daresay this woman’s in enough trouble for having lifted your purse. I can be content with that.”

“And if you should need anything else from us,” said Nikoros, handing one of the guards a small white card, “I’m Nikoros Via Lupa, Isas Salvierro. These men are my guests.”

“Very good, sir,” said the first guard, pocketing Nikoros’ card. “Sorry for the trouble. I hope the gentleman recovers.”

“Time and fresh lake air,” said Jean, swinging Locke up and supporting him under his right arm.

“Time’s the one thing he doesn’t have,” yelled the woman as the guards dragged her toward the court offices. “And you two know it! You know it! Be seeing you, gentlemen!”

Once all three men were safely ensconced in their carriage and it was clattering away down the street, Locke returned to life and burst out laughing. “Thank you, Nikoros,” he said, wiping flecks of spittle from his chin. “That last note of respectability at the end was just what the scene needed to bring everything back down to earth.”

“I bloody well rejoice to hear it,” said Nikoros, “but what the hell just happened?”

“That woman slipped a purse into my coat when she stumbled into me. Obviously she meant to get me snared for pickpocketing,” said Locke. “I checked to see if anything was missing, but like a dolt I didn’t think to feel around for unexpected gifts. She nearly had me.”

“Who was she?”

“No idea,” said Locke. “She works for our counterpart, obviously. And she’s a jewel .… Anyone who can live to that age charming coats for a living knows their business. We’ll see her again.”

“She’ll be in a cold dark cell.”

“Oh, she’ll slip those idiots in about five minutes,” said Jean. “There’ll be arrangements. Trust us.”

“I’m ashamed to admit that I actually thought for a moment that you, uh, were genuinely ill, Lazari,” said Nikoros.

“We didn’t have any time to warn you. Pitching a fit’s a crude bit of theater, but it’s surprising how often it works.”

“How did you guess she’d lifted that guard’s purse?”

“I didn’t guess,” said Locke with an indulgent chuckle. “I borrowed it when I stumbled against him.”

“Then he passed it on to our lady friend, along with her own purse, when he stumbled against her,” said Jean.

“Gods above,” said Nikoros.

“And don’t think she didn’t realize it,” added Jean. “But there’s only so many ways you can arrange to bump tits with strangers before it starts to look fishy.”

“Ain’t we clever?” said Locke, idly examining his own pockets again. “And I’m pretty sure I still have … everything. Holy hells!”

There was a folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax, in his left inner pocket. He drew it out and stared at it.

“This wasn’t in my pocket when I came out the door, he said. “She … she stuck me with it while I was slipping her the two purses!”

Jean gave a low whistle as Locke popped the seal and flipped the parchment open in haste. He read the contents aloud:

Msrs. Lazari and Callas

Sirs—

I trust you will excuse the unorthodox means by which this letter finds its way into your hands. Karthani post-masters, enterprising as they are, rarely deliver directly to the interior pocket of a gentleman’s coat. I present my compliments, and desire that you should call upon me at the seventh hour of this evening, at the Sign of the Black Iris, in the Vel Vespala.

Your most affectionate servant—

“Verena Gallante,” said Locke in a harsh whisper. His heart seemed to expand and fill his entire chest with its beating. “She wants to … she wants to see … oh, gods—”

He looked out the window, craning his neck furiously to see behind them, into the swirling silvery fog, where of course there was nothing meaningful to be found.

“What is it?” said Nikoros.

“That was no middle-aged stranger,” said Locke. “That was her.”

“Who?”

“The opposition,” said Locke, settling back into his seat, feeling dazed. “Our counterpart. The woman we spoke of.”

“Verena Gallante?”

“It seems that’s her present alias.”

“Oh my,” said Jean. “The initials on the silk purse … now that was cheeky.”

“Only if we weren’t too dense to notice it right away,” said Locke.

“I fail to see how ‘Verena Gallante’ yields ‘G.B’,” said Nikoros.

“A private matter,” said Locke. “I have … we have a history with this woman.”

“What must we do now?” said Nikoros.

“Now,” said Locke, “you can direct our driver to wherever this Master Ratfinder keeps his office, and after we’ve persuaded him to quit being a nuisance, you and Master Callas can go scrounge up the brutes we discussed yesterday.”

“And what about you?”

“I, well … ,” said Locke, running one hand over his stubble, “I’ll need to go find a barber.”

4

THEIR UNANNOUNCED appointment with Master Ratfinder Bilezzo took less time than their protracted encounter at the court offices. After the initial exchange of greetings and the sudden appearance of a pile of ducats on Bilezzo’s desk, it rapidly became clear to Locke and Jean that Bilezzo was a fatuous, contrary, self-satisfied fellow who was deeply amused at the chance to have a bit of harmless mischief with his far-ranging civic powers.

The two Gentlemen Bastards decided to correct his attitude in a traditional Camorri fashion. Locke doubled the amount of his proposed bribe while Jean picked Bilezzo up by his lapels, scraped the ceiling with his head, and cheerfully offered to nail his tongue to the back of a carriage and whip the horses around the city.

No middle-aged civil servant in a comfortable position could easily refuse such entreaties, and they parted with a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Bilezzo’s men would continue (for appearance’s sake) to carry out the pointless fumigation of Nikoros’ building, Locke would conjure piles of gold to ensure it didn’t happen again, or anywhere else of value to the Deep Roots party, and Jean would spare Bilezzo the unwanted carriage ride.

Nikoros came away from the meeting having learned several new words, as well as some novel hyphenations of familiar ones, and a fascinating twist to the art of negotiation that his education had previously neglected.

5

LOCKE RETURNED alone to Josten’s just before the second hour of the afternoon with the autumn air cool against his freshly shaved face, chewing on the last of the half-dozen sweet cakes he’d picked up for lunch.

The place was in a fine state of near-pandemonium, with locksmiths performing surgery on at least three visible doors, while the customary crowd of businessfolk bustled about eating, shouting, negotiating, or simply trying to maintain airs of importance. At the same time, the ordinary and legitimate business of the Deep Roots party went on. Locke and Jean had agreed that there was no need for them to oversee every last detail of the Committee’s business, lest they go mad while driving everyone around them mad into the bargain.

Unusual events and setbacks, however, were very much their business, and Locke hadn’t taken five steps past the front doors before a small pack of Nikoros’ messengers and assistants descended on him waving scraps of paper. Locke flipped through them as he walked through the crowd and made his way up toward the party’s private gallery.

Constables had detained several important party supporters for public drunkenness. A district organizer had dumped his life’s savings into a bag and fled the city just before dawn for reasons unknown. A candidate for the seat in the Isas Vadrasta was going to fight a duel tomorrow, and there was no quality replacement if he ended up full of holes. Locke sighed. Casualty reports, by all the gods, like some captain on a battlefield! Sabetha’s hand could be in any of it, or none of it. No doubt the lists of complications would only get longer as the weeks wore on.

“Here’s Master Lazari now,” said Jean as Locke ascended the final step to the private gallery. Jean and Nikoros were standing before a group of eight men. Most of them looked capable to Locke’s eye—city bruisers, obvious ex-constables, and a few with the deep tans and weather-worn faces of caravan guards. They all nodded or muttered greetings.

“We’ve got a lead on some women, too,” said Jean, whispering into Locke’s ear. “Bodyguards. Nikoros found them; he’ll bring them in tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Locke. He waved the slips of paper at Jean. “Seen these?”

“If those are the notes on today’s pains in the ass, yes. You got anything to tell our new friends?”

“We want you content,” said Locke, addressing the men. “We want you to feel that you’re being treated fairly. If you’re not, bring it to us. If anyone threatens you, or makes you an offer—you know the sort of thing I’m talking about—bring it to us. Quietly. I guarantee we’ll come up with a better deal.”

There was no point in mentioning consequences or making threats; gods, no. Doing that in public was a sure sign of insecurity. Threats, when needed, would be a private affair. If these men had real quality they would appreciate not being treated like idiots.

“Go find Josten,” said Jean. “Have yourselves a bite. I’ll have shift assignments once you’ve eaten.”

As the men left the gallery, Jean turned to Locke. “Where’d you go to get your shave, back to Lashain?”

“I didn’t mean to be out so long. I, uh, just thought I’d have my driver take me around some of the Black Iris places Nikoros listed for us. See if there was anything interesting going on.”

“You were looking for her, weren’t you?”

“Uh … yes. Didn’t spot her on any street, though.” Locke ran a hand over his chin for the twentieth time. “How does it look?”

“What?”

“The shave.”

“Like a shave. Fine.”

“You sure?”

“For Perelandro’s sake. You got peach fuzz scraped off with a razor; you didn’t commission a bust of yourself in marble.”

Locke crumpled the notes he’d been handed and put them in a coat pocket. “Well, look, if you’ve got the new bruisers in hand and you’ve already heard the news, I’m, uh, going up to the room … to get ready.”

“You’ve got at least four hours before we have to leave.”

“Yeah, but if I don’t start my nervous pacing now, I’ll never have it all done in time.”

6

“HOW’S IT look?”

Almost precisely four hours later, Locke was standing before a full-length mirror in their suite, showing off a slight variation in the tying of his black neck-cloth.

“It looks like clothing,” said Jean, who’d been dressed for the better part of an hour and was now lounging in a high-backed chair, ominously juggling a hatchet in one hand.

“Too prissy? Too eastern?”

“You do realize you’ve pushed that damn thing around at least a dozen times now?”

“Just doesn’t seem right.”

“You do realize that you didn’t even own any of these outfits until yesterday? Why are you fretting about the deeper meaning of clothes that are newer than some of the crap digesting in that meager gut of yours?”

“Because,” said Locke, “I can’t help myself, and I know I can’t help myself, and it doesn’t help, you get it?”

“I do get it,” said Jean softly. “All too well. But I can’t be of service by patting you on the back for being nervous. You’ve got to stick your chin out and call yourself ready sometime.”

“Nervous,” said Locke. “I wish I was nervous! Nervous is when armed people try to kill me. This is something else. Gods, it’s been five years. She could … I just … I don’t even …” He closed his eyes and leaned against the mirror’s frame.

“You might as well practice finishing your sentences,” said Jean. “I hear that women find it irresistible.”

“Five years,” said Locke. He looked up, and the haunted expression in the mirror seemed like a self-accusation. “I’m going to have to tell her about Calo and Galdo.”

“She may already know.”

“I doubt it,” said Locke. “She was playing with us this morning. I just don’t think … that she would have done so. I wouldn’t have, in her place.”

“Five years apart, and you imagine that the two of you match moods so closely? Did you even do that when you were together?”

“Well—”

“You and I are lucky to be alive to even see her,” said Jean. “Remember that. As for what happened while she was gone, it was as much her decision to leave as it was ours to stay.”

“I know,” said Locke. “In my head. The message hasn’t reached my gut just yet. There seems to be a tiny man in there attacking me with feathers. Now … jewelry. I should—”

“Gods above,” said Jean, rising from his chair. “Do you think she’s going to fling herself out a window if your shoes have too many buckles?”

“Her fashion sense might have grown more extreme since we last met.”

“Quit making such a yammering twit out of yourself. Find your way to the door.”

Step by step out of the room, into the main hall, past the bar and the tables full of Nikoros’ people with their lists and plans and dull assignments. Gods, he was really on his way! His knees seemed to be made of wet cotton; his pulse was like the sound of the ocean in his ears.

New solicitors watched from the Deep Roots gallery; new bruisers studied him from the front doors; new chains gleamed around the necks of all the waiters. So many cordons of security drawn tight against every possibility, and here he and Jean were planning a social call to the heart of Sabetha’s power.

Out loud he would have been careful to say, ‘the opposition’ or ‘his counterpart,’ but in the privacy of his own thoughts there was no hiding from her.

Nikoros met them and saw them to the door. “You were right about the guards and solicitors,” he whispered. “I do feel better!”

“Uh … good, good,” said Locke, ashamed at his own distraction.

“Now that we have some security,” said Jean, immediately taking the weight of confidence and authority that Locke had let slip, “it’s time we started reaching out and handing our friends some difficulties of their own. Think on it for us, would you? Weaknesses we can exploit, fast and easy ones.”

“My pleasure,” said Nikoros. “You know, two days in, this has already been more interesting than anything that happened last time. I’ll wait up for you, shall I? I’d love to find out what sort of woman our, ah, opposition is.”

“So would we,” said Jean.

7

THE CARRIAGE ride through the wet curtains of evening fog was no help for Locke’s nerves, but as the minutes passed he mastered himself well enough, he thought, to be able to handle simple sentences and walking.

The Vel Vespala, the Evening Terrace, was one of Karthain’s more fashionable quarters, its plazas dotted with taverns, chance houses, coffee bars, and bordellos. All of these places were so many blurry amber and aquamarine lights in the mist as Locke and Jean’s carriage pulled up before the Sign of the Black Iris, the place Nikoros and his friends referred to as the Enemy Tavern.

“Well then,” said Locke. “So here we—”

“I’m not taking a quarter of an hour to get out of the carriage,” said Jean. “It’s out the door on your feet or out the window on your head. Think fast.”

Locke managed the former.

The Sign of the Black Iris was a comfortably appointed place, not as large as Josten’s Comprehensive but perhaps slightly more luxurious, the wood paneling a touch richer, the marble of the exterior facings a trifle shinier. No doubt the rivalry between the two inns kept the pockets of many Karthani craftsfolk admirably lined.

Locke’s nervous distraction abated as his old street instincts kicked to life. The porter at the door was nothing special, but the two men at the rear of the darkened foyer were interesting. They were not at ease in their fine clothes, and what a coincidence that two lean fellows with such scars and crooked noses should be passing the time together! Muscle for sure. Sabetha, too, had set alley hounds to guard her lair.

“Ahh, sirs.” Another sort of creature entirely entered the foyer to greet them. This man was silver-haired, thin as a scabbard, with a drooping black flower pinned to the right lapel of his coat. “Firstson Vordratha. I’m Mistress Gallante’s confidential secretary. You gentlemen do move at a relaxed pace. She’s been expecting the two of you for some time now, yes, some time indeed.”

“I would point out,” said Jean, gesturing to a mechanical clock on the foyer wall, “that it’s not yet five minutes to seven.”

“Of course. I made no reflection upon the accuracy of the clock, mmmm?” The lines at the edges of Vordratha’s mouth moved up a fraction of an inch. So he was that sort of fellow, supercilious and needling, unable to resist amusing himself with lame little digs. Locke’s concentration came into even sharper focus as the urge rose to slam Vordratha’s head against the door. “Come now, she wishes to see you directly. In private.”

Locke and Jean followed him up to a hallway on the second floor. They brushed past a surprising number of men and women for a direct route to a private audience … ah, but of course, they were all studying Locke and Jean while feigning indifference. Stealing a glimpse of faces and builds and manners in case the two of them ever attempted another visit without an invitation. It was flattering, really.

At the end of the hall, Vordratha held a door open. The space beyond was dim, lit by the golden glow of small lamps on a number of tables. A private dining space, with high windows looking out into the evening fog.

A woman stood alone at the far end of the room, her long hair unbound, a cascade of dark copper falling to the middle of her back. She turned slowly, and before Locke knew what was happening he and Jean were through the door, the door fell closed with a click, and Sabetha was coming toward them down the shadowed passage between the rows of lamplight.

8

SHE WORE a velvet jacket the color of blood, a shade darker than her hair. Her outfit had the dash of a riding habit, narrowing to emphasize her slender waist, and beneath the long dark skirt she wore seasoned leather boots. A scarf, white as dove’s feathers, was wrapped tightly around her neck. Other than a single lapel iris matching that of Vordratha, she had no ornaments but contrast—the harmony of skin, scarf, hair, and coat. She’d made an artist’s palette of herself, emphasizing a beauty that had bloomed in the five years they’d been apart.

Locke stepped out in front of Jean and removed his leather gloves with shaking hands. Five years of dreaming and planning for this moment deserted him in an instant, leaving him with nothing but a half-wit’s hypnotized stare and the air in his throat.

“H-hello,” he said.

“Hello, Locke.”

“Yes. Sabetha. Hello. Uh.”

“Meant to say something grander and wittier, didn’t you?”

“Well …” The sound of her voice, her ordinary voice, unaffected, undisguised, unaccented, was like a glass of brandy gulped on an empty stomach. “Whatever it was it seems to have business elsewhere.”

“It’ll come back to you when you least expect it.” She smiled. “Write it down then and have it sent to me. I’ll give it a favorable hearing.”

They were just a few feet apart now, and in her face he could see time’s peculiar alchemy—every line was where it ought to be, but all the softness and reediness of the girl was gone. Her figure and features were fuller. Her eyes had changed, moving from a lively hazel to a truer, darker brown, a shade that was faintly reflected in her hair.

“Take my hands,” she said, and gently redirected his fingers when he tried to entwine them with hers. Palm against palm they stood while she returned his stare; her touch was soft and dry. For a moment of pure anticipation Locke thought she might pull him into an embrace, but she maintained the respectable distance between them. “You’re too gods-damned thin,” she said, losing some of her dominating composure.

“I’ve been ill.”

“They told me you were poisoned.”

“Who’s they?”

“You know,” she said. “And you’ve been out of the sun. Your Vadran is showing.”

“We both seem to have gone back to our roots.”

“Ah, the hair?”

“No, the backs of your knees. Of course the hair.”

“It’s strange. I’ve been every shade of black, brown, and blonde these past few years, so I can disguise myself best now by going back to what’s natural. Does it please you?”

“You know it distracts the hell out of me.” Locke felt himself blushing. “Puts me at the most severe disadvantage.”

“I know,” she said, again allowing a touch of a smile. “Perhaps I wanted us on familiar ground for the evening.”

She released his hands, gave a playful half-bow, and moved around him.

“Hello, Jean,” she said. “You’ve lost at the belly and gained at the shoulders, I think.”

“Hello, Sabetha.” He extended his left hand. “You’ve gained a great deal and lost nothing I can see.”

“Dear heart.” She met his hand with her own, and her eyebrows rose when he took her by the forearm and shook politely. “What’s this? Five years apart and suddenly I’m just a business associate?”

Locke bit the inside of his lip as she put her arms around Jean and set her head against the lapels of his jacket. After the tiniest pause, Jean returned the embrace, his own arms easily folding around her and overlapping in the middle of her back.

“I’ll just need a moment to make sure everything’s still in my pockets,” he said as they parted. She laughed.

“What, you don’t think I’m serious?” Jean examined his jacket carefully. He didn’t bother grinning to lighten the moment.

“Ahh,” Sabetha said, stepping away from both of them and folding her hands in front of her. “So how long did it take you to figure it out?”

“About a minute,” said Locke.

“Not bad.”

“A minute too long. The initials on that purse were cheeky as hell. But that getup was excellent.”

“You liked it? Good. It wasn’t easy, taking a few inches off my regular height.”

“One of the hardest things in false-facing,” said Locke with a nod. “You were showing off.”

“No more than you, before we were done. Still feigning illness in public.”

“It worked,” said Locke. “After a fashion. But you’d seen it before; surely that’s why you weren’t caught too off-guard.”

“That,” she said, “and you two should remember I can still read most of your hand signals.”

Locke exchanged a glance with Jean; the fact that he hadn’t been alone in neglecting this point was little comfort.

“You get that one for free,” she said.

“So why’d you do it?” said Locke.

“I wanted to see you both,” she said, glancing away. “I found that I was impatient. But I wasn’t ready for … for this, just yet.”

“We might have been a little late for this appointment if they’d thrown us in a hole,” said Jean.

“Tsk,” she said. “You’re insulting us all. As if you couldn’t have clever-dicked your way clear of those imbeciles before lunch. After all, your friend Josten still has his ardent spirits license. Clearly you two haven’t forgotten how to stay on your toes.”

“That was cute,” said Locke.

“As was your riposte. It’s a wonder to me, how many people are so willing to believe the best of the laws that they live under.”

“They haven’t had our advantages. Anyway, you shouldn’t have sent a fat, good-natured fellow for that sort of work,” said Locke. “You should have arranged to put the warrant in the hands of some shriveled tent-peg like your Vordratha.”

“Isn’t he a treasure? Such a smirking dry bitch of a man. He can’t have spent more than a minute with you, and you’d crawl over broken glass to kick him in the precious bits, I’d wager.”

“Point me to the glass,” muttered Jean.

“Perhaps … once he’s given me a good six weeks of work.” She tossed her hair back and matched gazes with Jean. “Jean, may I ask you to … allow Locke and myself a few moments alone? I told Vordratha to have a chair set up just outside the door.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

“Don’t sit in it, then.”

Jean’s only response was to clear his throat.

“May I beg to point out,” said Sabetha, “that the last reasonable chance you had to be cautious was when you stepped out of your carriage? I could have twenty armed men crouched in the next room. If I did, why would I bother to ask for privacy?”

“Well,” said Jean with a sigh. “I suppose I can feign civility with the best of them.”

He was gone in a moment. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Locke and Sabetha alone with four feet of darkened floor between them.

“Have I offended him?” said Sabetha.

“No.”

“He seemed pleased to see me for a moment, and now he’s sour.”

“Jean had … Jean met someone. And lost her, in the worst way. So don’t think … it’s just that he can’t be terribly at ease, concerning the matters that lie between me and you.”

“What matters could you be referring to?”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Invite me to name my troubles as though they were somehow unknown to you.”

“The device you’re mistaking me for is called a mirror, Locke. I don’t reflect your feelings as well as you seem to imagine, so I’m afraid you may have to name them for everyone’s benefit.”

“Five years, Sabetha! Five years!”

“I can count! And so what? I’m not leaping into your arms? I’m not tearing your clothes off under one of these tables? You may have noticed that I passed those five years without crawling back to Camorr in search of you. Nor did I find you exactly dogging my heels!”

“I meant … I meant to—”

“You meant,” she said. “There’s a worthless coin, Locke. The past isn’t something we can negotiate. I might not have come back for you, but you certainly didn’t strike out after me.”

“There were difficulties.”

“Oh,” she said, “so you’re the man whose life develops complications! I’ve so longed to meet you; the rest of us here in this world have it much too easy, I’m afraid.”

“Calo and Galdo are dead,” said Locke.

Sabetha leaned back against the nearest table, folded her arms, and stared out the windows for some time. “I had my suspicions,” she said at last.

“When Jean and I came alone to Karthain?”

“I passed through Camorr about a year ago,” she said. “I thought it best not to announce myself. It’s like it was in the old days, before Barsavi. Thirty capas and no Secret Peace. I heard some confusing things … You’d been cast out by Barsavi’s usurper, and no one had seen you since the mess.”

“The hammer came down on everyone,” said Locke. “Capa Raza used us, then betrayed us. We were all meant to die, but they only got the Sanzas. The Sanzas, and a younger friend .… We had a new apprentice. You’d have liked him.”

“Well,” she said, “whoever he was, you certainly did him a grand turn as a garrista, didn’t you?”

“I’d have died, Sabetha, I’d have died if it would have saved them! I didn’t have a f*cking chance. And some help you were, wherever the hell you’d gone off to—”

“How could I stay?” she said. “How could I help you pretend to keep house? You wanted everything the same—same glass burrow, same temple, same schemes, and now I learn that you even started taking apprentices. Boys, of course.”

“Of all the damned unfair—”

“Roots are for vegetables, Locke, not criminals. Chains had enough blind spots of his own, thank you very much. The last thing I ever could have done was prance along hand in hand to your pale imitation!

“I might have been able to live with you as a partner,” she continued. “As priest, garrista, father figure, no. Not for an instant! Gods, that f*cking pile of money Chains left us was the biggest curse he could have dreamed up if he’d spent his whole life planning it. I wish he’d thrown it into the sea. I wish we’d burned that temple ourselves.”

“We did burn it ourselves,” said Locke. “And I did throw the money in the sea.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had the whole mess of it sunk in Camorr’s Old Harbor. As Calo and Galdo’s death-offering.”

“It’s really all gone?”

“To the sharks and the gods, every last copper.”

“Thank you for that,” she whispered, and she reached out to set the back of her right hand against his cheek.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, reached up, and felt the heat surge in his blood when she didn’t draw away from the pressure of his hand on hers.

“For losing everything?” he said

“For the Sanzas.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve grown some lines since I saw you last,” she said.

“It was a bad poisoning,” said Locke. “And it wasn’t my first.”

“I can’t imagine how anyone as charming and easy to get along with as yourself could ever incite someone to poison you,” she said. “I am sorry about Calo and Galdo. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help. For what it’s worth.”

“I suppose I’m sorry I was such a shitty garrista,” said Locke.

“Maybe in a better life I could have stayed to watch these lines grow on you. Perhaps put them there myself,” she said with a thin smile. “But it’s not as though I didn’t arm you with the clearest possible expression of my feelings before I chose to go.”

“Frankly, sometimes, I was surprised you stayed with us as long as you did.”

“I didn’t nerve myself up to leave overnight.” She lowered her hand and slipped it out of his grasp. “When Chains died, you thought you had to preserve everything the way it had been. Freeze our lives in amber. Maybe that was your way of mourning. It couldn’t be mine.”

“Well, I, uh … did trace you as far as Ashmere,” Locke said. “I never told anyone but Jean. I had someone up there that owed me a favor. After that …”

“Come here,” she said, pulling out the nearest chair. “Sit down. We’re pacing like servants.”

“Is that the chair with the trapdoor beneath it?”

“Oh, don’t be an ass. Choose any one you like.”

Locke pulled a chair away from a table on his side of the aisle and set it down next to the one Sabetha had offered. He gestured for her to go first, and when she was seated he eased into his, facing the door to the room. They were not quite facing one another, but turned inward at an angle with their knees almost touching.

“I did what I’d planned,” said Sabetha. “I circulated in the Kingdom of the Marrows. Started in Emberlain and moved west, hitting rich bachelors and the occasional married lord with a wandering eye.”

“Did they come up with a legendary name for you?”

“I’m sure they came up with a lot of names for me,” she smirked. “But once I was in the thick of things I decided it was better to stay anonymous than to build a myth.”

“You know I didn’t start that Thorn of Camorr bullshit—”

“Peace, Locke, it wasn’t a rebuke.”

“So why’d you leave the Marrows? Get bored?”

“The Marrows are getting dangerous. Emberlain means to break from the rest of them. All the cantons are buckling on their swords. It seemed a good time to be elsewhere.”

“I’ve been hearing this for years,” said Locke. “Emberlain is always about to secede. The king is always about to fall over in his tracks. I even used this nonsense as the basis for a scheme. Hells, I fully expect the peace in the Marrows to outlive me.”

“Then you must be planning to die in the next month or two,” she said. “Trust someone who’s been up there, Locke. The old king is heirless and out of his wits. It’s an open secret that he’s ordered his privy council to choose his successor when he finally dies.”

“How does that guarantee a war?”

“It means that there are about ten noble families that would get a vote, and a hundred that wouldn’t. Do you think they won’t prefer to just pull steel and get to work? They’ll be hip-deep in corpses once they start really trading opinions.”

“I see. So, you were dodging that, and you got a job offer for a sojourn here in Karthain?”

“I was leaving Vintila,” she said. “One moment I was alone in my carriage; the next I was having a conversation with a Bondsmage.”

“I know what that’s like.” Locke took a deep breath before asking the next question. “And … they told you about Jean and I before you took the job? That you’d be set against us, I mean.”

“I was told.”

“Before—”

“Yes, before. And I agreed to the job anyway. Do you want a moment to think very, very hard before proceeding on this point?”

“I … You’re right, I have no cause to say anything.”

“We’re not enemies, Locke; we’re rivals. Surely we’re both accustomed to the situation. And tell me, how would you have answered if our positions were reversed?”

“If I hadn’t said yes, I’d be dead.”

“Well, if I hadn’t said yes, I’d still be somewhere in the Marrows with Graf kul Daros’ agents one step behind me. I have to confess I didn’t manage to get out with as much money or anonymity as I might have hoped. In fact, I’ve … understated the mess I left behind me. I’m sorry.”

“Jean and I … weren’t coming off one of our more lucrative exploits, either.”

“So neither of us had any sensible reason to refuse this engagement.” Sabetha leaned forward. “The magi offered to get me out. To erase my tracks, help me disappear in complete safety. That was their end of the bargain. And for my part, the chance to see you and Jean again was agreeable.”

“Agreeable?”

“No doubt you find it a mild term. But this conversation’s too young to go back on our steps just yet. I’ve given you my facts; now give me yours. Tell me what happened in Camorr.”

“Ah. Well.” Locke found himself trying to scratch at the stubble that was no longer present on his chin. “We had a scheme going. A good one, that would have added a fair sum to that pile of treasure you detested.”

“This was when the Gray King was abroad in the city?”

“Gray King, Capa Raza, same man. Yes, we were chosen for the dubious honor of assisting the bastard in his war against the Barsavis. He had a Bondsmage working for him.”

“My … principals told me about him,” said Sabetha.

“The murdering shit-stain was no credit to your principals, whatever they think. Anyhow, he must have spied us out along with the money in our vault. I’ve had a long time to think about the situation, and it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

“We did our job,” he continued, “and then it turned out that the Gray King coveted our good fortune. He had a lot of bills to pay. So we got the chop. It was—”

Every fiber of his being, already unhinged by his more recent illness, revolted at the recollection of those moments drowning in a cask of warm, soupy filth.

“ … it was a near thing.”

“Did any of the Barsavis survive?”

“None. Nazca was murdered to put her father’s nerves on edge. With our help, the Gray King tricked Barsavi into thinking he’d avenged her. He threw a party at the Floating Grave, and that’s where he and his sons were taken apart. Hell of a spectacle. Remember the Berangias sisters?”

“How could I forget?”

“They were in on it. Turns out they were actually the sisters of the Gray King. They served Barsavi all those years, waiting for the moment to strike.”

“Gods, what happened to them?”

“Jean happened.”

“And this Gray King?”

“Ah.” Locke cleared his throat. “He was my affair. We crossed swords.”

“Now, to that I must admit some pleasant surprise,” said Sabetha, and Locke felt a fresh warmth around his heart at the sparkle of interest in her eyes. “Did you finally start paying attention to your bladework?”

“Ah, don’t be misled. I’m afraid he opened me up like a physiker. I had to trick him into letting me sheath a dagger in his back.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I’m pleased you killed him. Still a pity you never amended your clumsiness with long steel.”

“Well, Sabetha, unlike some, I’m afraid I’ve just never had it in me to instantly presume a flawless expertise in every last sphere of human endeavor.”

“There was nothing instant about it. You might have thrown yourself into training as vigorously as I did, if you hadn’t lived with the expectation of having Jean Tannen at your back for the rest of your life.”

“No. Gods damn it, I would gladly listen to you berate me until the sun comes up, but not on this subject. Jean isn’t some dog I tricked into a leash. He’s my true and particular friend. He’s still your true and particular friend, though both of you may need some time to recall it.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “I had your best interests at heart.”

“For someone whose primary insistence in life has always been that she must be taken true and unalloyed, unbending to the whims of those around her, you have a curious interest in the correction of my condition!”

“Ouch,” she said softly.

“F*ck.” Locke slammed his fists down on his legs. “Forgive me. I know you mean well—”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “I’m an extraordinarily accomplished hypocrite. Anything that displeased you is unsaid. Please go on with your story.”

“Ahhh … all right. Well. Not much more to say about Camorr. We took ship for Vel Virazzo the night the Gray King died. Oh! I met the Spider.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“When the Gray King business reached its conclusion, the duke’s people had no choice but to get involved. After an initial misunderstanding, the Spider and I worked together. Very briefly.”

“Sweet gods, were you pardoned for your crimes?”

“Oh, hells, no. Once the Gray King was dead, Jean and I bolted like rabbits.”

“And did you learn the actual identity of the Spider?”

“Yes, she and I had words on several occasions.”

“So it was a woman! As I’d always thought.”

“How did you know?”

“All those years of rumors,” said Sabetha, “and the one detail that emerged with absolute clarity from the fog was that the Spider was a man. Everyone was certain. Now, if this person could maintain total control over every other shred of their identity, why was such a fundamental truth allowed to slip? It had to be misdirection.”

“Heh. So it was.”

“And who was she, then?”

“Ahhh,” said Locke. “I see I’ve got something that genuinely intrigues you. I think I’ll hold onto it for a while.”

“Oh? I’ll remember this, Master Lamora. On that you have my word. So you took ship. What next?”

Warmed to the subject, Locke spent about ten minutes summarizing the two years spent in and around Tal Verrar—the nature of the scheme for Requin’s Sinspire, the interference of Maxilan Stragos, the time in the Ghostwinds, the battles at sea, the loss of Ezri, the loss of nearly everything.

“Incredible,” Sabetha said when he drew his story to a close. “I’d heard about the trouble in Tal Verrar. You caused all that. You brought the gods-damned Archon down! You silly, stupid, lucky little wretches!”

“And for our genius, we left Tal Verrar without Jean’s love, without a fortune, and without an antidote.”

“I’m sorry for all of that. Especially for Jean.”

“I’d say something comforting, like how he’ll get over it in time, but I know he won’t.” Locke paused, and lowered his voice. “I know I didn’t.”

“Ah,” said Sabetha. It was a completely noncommittal noise. “And here we are, then.”

“Here we are,” said Locke. “Stories told.”

“I have … instructions from my principals,” she said. “We’re not forbidden from talking to one another, but in the matter of the election … Look, we’ve got to fight it out to the last. Sincerely. All of our tricks, all of our skills. The consequences for holding back would be severe. So severe, I could never—”

“I understand,” he said. “I have similar directions from my … uh, principals.”

“Gods, I wish we could talk all night.”

“Then why don’t we?”

“Because I didn’t expect to get this much honesty out of you.” She rose. “And if I don’t do what I really brought you here for, I might lose my nerve.”

“Wait, what do you mean—”

She answered him by pulling him out of the chair and into her arms. Reflexively, he fought back for a moment, but the intensity of the embrace subdued him.

“I am glad you’re alive,” she whispered. “Please believe me, whatever else happens, I’m so glad to see you.”

“I can’t believe I have two reasons to be grateful to the Bondsmagi,” said Locke. Gods, she was warm and strong, and her scent so instantly familiar beneath the slightest sweet-apple scent of perfume. He ran a hand through the gentle curls of her hair and sighed. “A*sholes. I’d work for free for any chance to be near you. They’re offering a fortune, and I’d throw it in the Amathel for this. I—”

“Locke,” she whispered. “Indulge me.”

“Oh?”

“Kiss me.”

“With every—”

“No, not like that. My preferred way. You know what I mean. From back when we were—”

“Ahhh,” he said, laughing. “Your servant, madam.”

Sabetha had always had a peculiar ticklish weakness, something he’d discovered by accident when they’d first become lovers so many years before. He gently placed his left hand beneath her chin and tilted her head back, then planted his lips high up the side of her neck, beneath her ear.

The way she moved in his arms instantly folded his better judgment up and hid it away in a deep, dark place.

“So this is what you really brought me here for?”

“Keep going,” she said breathlessly, “and we’ll find out.”

He kissed her several more times, and when he felt he’d teased her enough, ran his tongue up and down those same few inches of warm skin. She actually gasped, and clutched him more tightly still.

“Oh, dear,” he said, laughing and smacking his lips. He swallowed several times to clear a curious dry taste from his tongue. “Your perfume. I seem to have removed some of it. I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

“A special formulation, just for you,” she whispered. She continued to cling to him, digging her hands into his shoulders, and for one more moment Locke was at peace with the entire world.

The numbness began at the edge of his tongue, and in a few seconds it spread, tingling, around his mouth and up to the tip of his nose.

“No,” he whispered, hit as hard by shock as he was by whatever he’d just swallowed. He tried to pull away, but she was too strong for him; his limbs were already taking on a curious foggy dissociation. “No, no … Jnnnn … Jnnnn!”

“Shhhhhh,” Sabetha whispered, no longer shuddering, no longer breathless with shared anticipation. “A special formulation. Throat and voice go first. Just relax. Jean can’t hear you.”

“Whhhh … whhhhy?”

“Forgive me,” she said. She cradled him as his legs turned to jelly. She knelt slowly, bringing him down with her, laying him across her knees. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d really do it or not. If it’s any consolation, your story about Tal Verrar was the convincer. You’re not as good as I am, Locke, but you’re too damn good to let you run around fighting fairly. I have to beat you, for both our sakes.”

“Nnngh—”

“Don’t talk. Just listen; you don’t have much time left. There’s a second reason. I can see now how ill you’ve been, and how you’ll have to push yourself to keep up with me. I can’t let you do it, Locke. I can’t watch you do it. You’ll kill yourself trying to best me, and you can’t ask me to permit that. Not when I could stop it. I once cared for you a great deal. I care for you now. Remember that.”

She kissed him gently on the forehead, and he barely felt it.

“Remember that, and forgive me.”

9

“NNNNGH,” SAID Locke, coming up from layers of blackness that seemed draped over him like burial shrouds. “Nnngh—Sab … no, please!”

He gasped, with the disbelieving gratitude of someone finally fighting back to wakefulness after an interminable nightmare of suffocation. He smelled his own sweat, and the familiar odors of wet wood and fresh lake air.

His eyes slid grudgingly open. He was lying on his back in yet another ship’s great cabin, this one more luxuriously appointed than any he’d ever seen, even Zamira Drakasha’s. Soft orange alchemical globes cast the fixtures and finery in an inviting light. Gulls cried somewhere nearby, and the world creaked gently around him.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” muttered Locke, reveling in the full recovery of his powers of speech. He sat up, and instantly became aware of the fierce gnawing hunger in his belly. “Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid—”

“You can’t blame yourself,” said Jean.

Locke turned to see him sitting against the opposite wall on a hanging bed furnished with embroidered sheets. Jean had fresh bruises on his bare forearms and around his eyes.

“Gods,” said Locke. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Remember how she joked about twenty armed men in the next room?” said Jean with a resigned sigh. He set down the book he’d been reading. “There were twenty armed men in the next room.”

“F*ck me sideways with hot peppers and a pinch of salt,” said Locke. “How long have I been out?”

“Half a day.”

“Where are we?”

“On the Amathel, headed west. Bound for the sea.”

“Are you kidding?”

Jean pointed at something behind Locke, and Locke turned. The rear windows of the cabin, which were open to let in a view of a gray morning over blue water, were girded with a network of thick iron bars on their outer surface. The gaps in the bars were too small for even Locke to contemplate wiggling through.

“She’s put us on quite a luxurious prison ship,” said Jean. “We’re the only passengers. And we’re chartered for a nice, slow voyage out to sea and around the continent.”

“Are you f*cking kidding?”

“If all goes as she planned, we’ll get back to Karthain a week or two after all the votes have been counted.”
INTERSECT (II)


TINDER

I have to tell you, we’re not terribly impressed with your boys so far.

We thought they did very well, up to their meeting with your exemplar.

It’s that meeting with our exemplar that inspires a certain lack of foreboding on our part.

They’ll be back soon enough.

They’re headed out to sea in irons.

You know who else thought lightly of them, once? The Falconer.

Very amusing.

Interesting things are going to be happening around Lamora, my friend. Just keep your attention focused very closely on him at all times.





INTERLUDE


THE MONCRAINE COMPANY

1

“HE’S BEEN ARRESTED for punching a nobleman?” said Locke.

“Hauled off in irons,” said Jenora.

“Of all the gods-damned … how bad is that here? They’re not going to hang him, are they?”

“Dungeon for a year and a day,” said Alondo. “Then he loses the offending hand.”

“I suppose Moncraine’s lucky he didn’t kick the fellow,” said Jean.

“Certainly, he’s lucky,” said Sylvanus, looking up from his bottle. “He’s in the one place in the city where his creditors can’t skin his balls and salt them! They should let us keep the hand when they chop it off … embalm it with tar … make a damn fine prop, especially when I play a thaumata … thaumur … magic person.”

“How do we get him back?” said Sabetha.

“Back?” said a woman who appeared out of the shadows behind Alondo and Jenora. Approaching middle age, she was well muscled and stout, with mahogany skin and hair gray as wood ash. “Why would anyone want Jasmer Moncraine back, having so easily gotten rid of him? And why are there strangers in my inn-yard?”

“I imagine they’re called customers, Auntie,” said Jenora. “You do remember when they used to come voluntarily?”

“Yes, I’m an attentive student of ancient history,” said the older woman. “Alizana Gloriano, proprietor and semiprofessional martyr, at your service. Are you really looking for Jasmer Moncraine?”

“He’s our employer,” said Sabetha. “Or at least he’s meant to be.”

“My gods above,” said Mistress Gloriano, putting her arms around the shoulders of Alondo and Jenora. “The Camorri. They’re real!”

“We’re as shocked as you, Auntie,” said Jenora.

“It’s pleasant to be thought of as such freakish wonders,” said Locke, “but we need to reach Moncraine.”

“Well then,” said Mistress Gloriano, “all you need to do is wait for his conviction, the day after tomorrow. Then wait another year and a day, and then stand outside the Weeping Tower. He’ll be the one coming out with his right hand missing.”

“What about a solicitor?”

“We don’t exactly retain one,” said Alondo.

“Tell us what we can do, then,” said Locke. “Can we see him?”

“Oh yes, dear boy,” said Sylvanus. “Enquire after the nearest gentleman or lady of high birth and smash ’em across the teeth. You could end up sharing Jasmer’s cell.”

“Damn it,” said Locke. “No offense, but the four of you sound like you’d just as soon slit Moncraine’s throat as give him the time of day .… Is there a Moncraine Company at all? Are you putting on a play this summer? Our situation requires that we be employed, so for Perelandro’s sake be clear.”

“We’re still a company,” said Jenora, “though we’ve had some defections. Alondo, Sylvanus, and Jasmer are the remaining full players. One or two more might come back if Jasmer could show his face in public.”

“You’re not an actress?” said Jean.

“Stage-mistress,” said Jenora. “Costumes, scenery, props. If it doesn’t walk around on its own legs, it’s my business.”

“And assuming,” said Locke, “that a miracle occurred, and the gods themselves transported Moncraine out of gaol, would we have work for the summer?”

“We’ve lost some rehearsal time,” said Sylvanus, easing himself onto his back with a sigh.

“That sounds like a hint at a yes,” said Locke.

“The real problem is money,” said Mistress Gloriano. “I invested in Moncraine two years ago for my niece’s sake, and he’s still down to me for twelve royals. And I’m the least troublesome of those he’s bound to—”

“Money troubles can be finessed,” said Locke.

“There’s no credit to be had,” said Alondo. “None of us can buy so much as a grain of rice on a promise. We can find scut-work to stay fed, or even do morality plays in the streets, but the company has no funds … for scribing, for costumes, masks, lights—”

“And we have no venue, nor transport to it,” said Jenora. “There’s two rooms of old props and clothes we can work with, all stored here, but we’ll make a laughingstock of ourselves if we’re seen hauling it around on foot.”

“More of a laughingstock,” muttered Alondo.

“We have a wagon,” said Locke. “Give us a moment.” He pulled Jean and Sabetha away from the tattered remnants of the Moncraine Company.

“That’s a lot of our money sewn up in the wagon and horses,” said Jean.

“I know,” said Locke. “What if we sold two horses and kept the other pair?”

“Taking care of them is going to use up more time and money we hadn’t planned on spending,” said Sabetha.

“Yeah,” said Locke, “but if we can’t get this troupe back to work, we might as well turn around and roll straight back to Camorr. If that’s the plan, I’m sure as hell going to develop a speech impediment when we explain things to Chains.”

“Hardly our fault Moncraine punched a swell,” said Jean.

“Chains will expect more from us than a quick sniff around before we give up,” said Sabetha. “We were sent here expressly to restore Moncraine’s fortunes. We’ve got to pry him out of this mess somehow.”

“And what if we can’t?” said Jean softly.

“Then at least we tried,” said Locke. “Sabetha’s right. It’s one thing to go home with our options exhausted; it’s another to fold at the first sign of trouble.”

“We’ll need more money,” said Sabetha. “I don’t see much chance of any thoughtful schemes just yet, but pockets are pockets and purses are purses. If we—”

“No,” said Locke. “We can’t be thieves, remember? We’ve got more trouble than we bargained for just pretending to be actors.”

The expression on Sabetha’s face was so dangerous that Locke became aware of it, like the heat from an oil lamp, before he even turned to see it. He put his hands up, palms out.

“Sabetha, I know what you’re thinking .… I’ve been dwelling on what you said, believe me. I can’t insist that you follow my orders. But I am asking you to consider my points, and let me convince you.”

Her expression softened. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all,” she said. “So make your case.”

“We don’t know this place,” said Locke. “We don’t know the constables, the gangs, or the hiding places. What would we think of some a*shole from the outlands trying to come it the slick coat-teaser back in Camorr? We’d laugh at the yokel and watch him hang. Well, in Espara we’re the yokels. And if we make a mistake, there’s no Secret Peace to fall back on.

“It’s not that we might not need to clutch and tease a bit,” he continued. “Just not yet. Not until we’ve learned our way around.”

“I see your point,” she said. “In fact, I’m sure you’re right. Maybe I’m a little too used to the conveniences of home.”

She put out her hand, and Locke, after a moment, smiled and shook it firmly.

“Who the hell are you people,” said Jean, “and where did you get those excellent Locke and Sabetha disguises?”

“Quit gaping, Jean. Let’s move fast,” said Sabetha sweetly. “We need horses sold, horses stabled, Moncraine freed, money changed, and rooms. And that’s just off the top of my head.”

“Mistress Gloriano,” Locke yelled, turning back toward her, “we don’t mean to put you to any trouble, but we need rooms in a hurry so we can unload our wagon.”

“You’re really staying, then?”

“Of course,” said Locke. “And keep a tab separate from the rest of the company. We’ll pay actual money.”

For a few days at least, he thought.

“Well,” said Mistress Gloriano, as though coming out of a trance. “I’ve no shortage of rooms.”

“Giacomo,” shouted Sabetha, “Castellano!”

Calo and Galdo came at a near-run and skidded to a halt in front of Sylvanus.

“These are the Asino brothers,” said Sabetha. “You two, find out where Mistress Gloriano’s putting us, and get our things heaved out of the wagon as quick as you can.”

“What, first we’re the bloody wagon guards, now we’re f*ckin’ stevedores?” said Calo. “You want a foot massage and some chilled wine while you watch us work?”

“We’ve all got jobs,” said Sabetha, “and if you touch my feet I’ll cut your ears off. Move!”

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of activity for everyone except Sylvanus, for whom they were merely a blur. Jean took a moment to pitch a little tent over the prostrate actor using the wagon tarp and some sticks, and then the Gentlemen Bastards heaved their possessions into two rooms selected by Mistress Gloriano. These were fine examples of how middle age, while charming in some humans, is less endearing in wood-panel construction and unpreserved wall tapestries. The twins claimed one room, Locke and Jean the other, and Sabetha accepted Jenora’s invitation to share her room down the corridor.

Once the wagon was emptied, Jean selected the less healthy pair of horses and with Jenora’s aid got them stabled. Alondo claimed to have a cousin working as a hostler near the Jalaan Gate, so Jean enlisted the young actor to help walk the best two horses back to the caravan staging area for resale.

“Now,” Locke said to Mistress Gloriano, “we need Jasmer back. For that I think we’ll need a solicitor.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “I’ve given Jasmer so much slack these past few years in the hope my investment might find its way home again.”

“Let him have a bit more,” said Locke. “We’re here now, for what it’s worth. And we need a Moncraine play. There’s no work for us back home.”

“I had wondered at the nature of your devotion. Jasmer’s a Syresti, you know. Capricious and moody. Barely reliable! Not an even-tempered Okanti like myself or Jenora. Let me tell you, boy, if I knew then what a hole I’d be throwing my money down—”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re quite right,” said Locke in a placating tone of voice. “But a solicitor … ?”

“There is a fellow,” said Mistress Gloriano, “back up the avenue the way you came. Stay-Awake Salvard, he’s called, on account of his peculiar hours. He’s done papers for me. I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse him of being a gentleman. Works for a lot of … colorful sorts.”

“That’s good,” said Locke. “That’s great. We’re colorful sorts.”

2

“ETIENNE DELANCARRE Domingo Salvard,” said Sabetha, reading out loud from the lantern-lit plaque beside the building’s street entrance. “Master solicitor, bonded law-scribe, authorized notary, executor of wills and estates, Vadran translator and transcriber. Fortunes assured, justice delivered, enemies confounded. Reasonable rates.”

Locke and Sabetha alone had come on this errand, after washing the smell of the road from their more accessible parts and swapping their filthy caravan clothes for less offensive outfits. Salvard’s office was perched on the edge of the increasing desolation that led to Solace Hill, a way station between the couth and uncouth districts of the city.

The comfortless wooden furniture and empty walls inside seemed, to Locke’s eye, to indicate a certain desire to avoid giving rowdy clientele any objects for vandalism. A thin man with slicked-back hair sat behind a little podium, and near the stairs on the far side of the room lounged an uncommonly large woman. Her quilted black tunic had obvious armor panels behind the facing.

“Evening,” said the thin man. “Appointment?”

“Do we really need one?” said Sabetha. “We’re on urgent business.”

“Two coppins consultation fee,” said the thin man, “plus one for expedited consideration.”

“We’re just in from Camorr,” said Locke. “We haven’t changed our money yet.”

“Camorri barons accepted,” said the thin man. “One for one basis, plus one for changing fee.”

Locke shook four copper coins out of his purse. The clerk inked a quill and began scrawling on a card.

“Names?”

“Verena Gallante,” said Sabetha, “and Lucaza de Barra.”

“Camorri subjects?”

“Yes.”

The clerk set down his quill, slid open a hatch in the wall behind him, placed the card within this compartment, and turned a hand crank. A miniature dumbwaiter went up, and a minute later the muffled jingling of a bell could be heard from within the shaft.

“Weapons not allowed upstairs,” said the clerk, rapping his knuckles on the surface of his podium. “Cheerfully guarded here. Arms out for search.”

The big woman gave them both a thorough pat-down. A garrote or a fruit-paring blade might have slipped through, but Etienne Delancarre Domingo Salvard clearly had strong feelings about allowing anything more conveniently deadly into his presence.

“They’re clean,” said the woman, with a half-smile. “Of weapons, that is.”

“Proceed,” said the clerk, pointing to the stairs. “Pleasant consultation.”

Stay-Awake Salvard sat behind a desk that completely bisected the floor of his office, ensuring that anyone attempting to leap at him would have one final obstacle to surmount while he escaped or armed himself. Locke wondered if it was the nature of his clients or the quality of his advice that had made him such a cautious fellow.

“Have a seat. You two are a bit young to be caught up in the grasping tentacles of the law, aren’t you?” Salvard was a wiry man in his forties with a leonine mane of graying hair, swept back as though he’d just spent twenty minutes on a galloping horse. His nose was built to support the weight of optics much heavier than the dainty piece actually perched there. Two pipes rested in wooden cradles on his cluttered desk, framing him in gray pillars of aromatic smoke. “Or is it some matter of a marriage, perhaps?”

“Certainly not,” said Sabetha. “We have a friend in trouble.”

“Supply the details.”

“He struck a gentleman above his station,” said Sabetha.

“Is your friend taken? Or has he fled?”

“They put him in something called the Weeping Tower,” said Locke.

“Tricky. I’m afraid the weight of the law is against him, and he should expect to be trimmed like a hedge,” said Salvard. “But these incidents can sometimes be portrayed in a sympathetic light. What else should I know?”

“He’s a bit of a drunkard,” said Locke.

“Many of my clients have crawled inside a bottle for solace. It’s no unusual challenge.”

“And he’s a member of a night-skinned race,” said Locke. “A black Syresti.”

“A noble people, as ancient as our own, with many admirers at court.”

“Our friend is … next to penniless.”

“Yet obviously he has allies,” said Salvard warmly, extending his arms toward Locke and Sabetha, “who can be relied upon to take up his interests. My fee schedules are quite elastic. Anything else?”

“He’s the owner and manager of a theatrical troupe.”

Salvard lost his smile. He took a long pull on his left-hand pipe, set it down, then smoked its counterpart. He alternated pipes several times, staring at Locke and Sabetha. Finally, he said, “So, we’re talking about Jasmer Moncraine, then?”

“You know him?” said Locke.

“I should have guessed his identity sooner from the particulars, save for the fact that you genuinely seemed to want him back. That put me off the true scent. What’s your interest in his cause?”

“We’re actors, engaged by him for the summer,” said Sabetha. “We’ve only just arrived in the city.”

“My condolences. I have one piece of relevant advice.”

“Anything,” said Sabetha.

“Many men in low trades adapt to the loss of a hand and wear hooks. In Jasmer’s case, his vanity will never allow it. If you’re still in Espara next summer as his stump heals, get him a simple leather cap for it, and—”

“We need him back now,” said Sabetha. “We need him out of custody”.”

“Well, you won’t get him, not through the workings of anyone in my profession. Now, now, my dear, it pains me to see that look on your face as much as it pains me to refuse work, so let me explain. My happy fortune is your hard luck. You must have heard of Amilio Basanti.”

“Actually, no,” said Locke.

“You truly are fresh off the wagon, aren’t you? Basanti is the impresario of the city’s other major company of actors, the stable and successful one. In a fortnight, Demoiselle Amilyn Basanti, his youngest sister, will become Mistress Amilyn Salvard.”

“Oh,” said Sabetha.

“If I were to become an advocate for the very rival my future brother-by-bonding loathes so famously, well, surely you can see that the effect upon my marital relations could only be … chilling.”

“Can you recommend someone who wouldn’t be at cross-purposes?” said Locke.

“There are five other solicitors-at-law in Espara,” said Salvard, “and none of them will touch the case. You must understand, if I weren’t taking a bride I’d argue it for pleasure. I enjoy annoying magistrates, and I handle even the lowest and most difficult clients. No offense. My peers, however, prefer to win their cases, and this one cannot be won.”

“But those excuses you just came up with—”

“Could mitigate the situation, perhaps. Surely you understand that those of elevated blood don’t keep laws on the books that would require them to take abuse from their inferiors. I wouldn’t cite law; I’d beg for mercy! I’d spin yarns about destitute friends and children. But since I’m not going to do those things, Moncraine’s trial will last about as long as this conversation.”

“Do we have any other options?” said Locke.

“Apply to Basanti’s troupe,” said Salvard gently. “At the Columbine’s Petal, up in Grayside. That’s where they drink. I could mention you to Amilyn. They’d find work for you, even if it’s just carrying spears. Don’t tie yourselves to Moncraine.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Sabetha, “but if we’d wanted to be part of the scenery we could have stayed at home. In Moncraine’s company we can have our pick of roles. In a settled troupe we’ll be at the end of a long line.”

Salvard again smoked his pipes in alternating fashion, then rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I can’t fault ambition, even if it’s bound to end in tears. But there’s no way Moncraine’s slipping the hook, children. Not unless one of two miracles occurs.”

“Miracles,” said Locke. “We’re in the market for those. What are they?”

“First, Countess Antonia could issue a pardon. She can do anything she pleases. But she won’t save him. Moncraine’s far from her good graces. Anyway, she’s more interested in the advice of her wine steward than her privy council these days.”

“What else?” said Locke.

“The noble that Moncraine attacked could grant a personal pardon by declining to make a complaint before a magistrate. The case would be dismissed. However, I’m sure you can imagine how keen bluebloods are to show weakness in front of their peers.”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “Hells. Can we even talk to Moncraine?”

“There I can offer some cheer,” said Salvard. “Anyone with a blood or trade connection to a prisoner can have one audience before a trial. Claim it whenever you like, just don’t try to give him anything. You’ll share his sentence if you’re caught.”

“An audience,” said Locke. “Good. Uh … where?”

“At the heart of Espara, atop the Legion Steps, look for the black stone tower with the moat and the hundred terribly serious guards. Can’t miss it, even in the rain.”

3

A THOUSAND dead soldiers loomed out of the mist beneath the gathering night as Locke and Sabetha climbed the heights of the Legion Steps.

The marble marchers, cracked and weathered from their vigil of six hundred years, wore the armor of Therin Throne legionnaires. Locke recognized the costume from paintings and manuscripts he’d seen in Camorr. He even recalled a bit of their story—that some emperor or another, dissatisfied with Espara’s lack of prominent Elderglass monuments, had commissioned a work of human art to grace the center of the city.

Each statue was said to be a likeness of an actual soldier from a then-living legion, and it was part of their melancholy fascination that they were not posed in martial triumph, but with heads down and shields slung, as they might have been seen trudging along the roads that had once knit the fallen empire together. Now they marched in place, rank on rank forever, in columns evenly spread across the two-hundred-yard arc of the stairs.

“We’ve got to find his accuser and arrange to have him forgiven,” said Locke.

“It’s the only chance we seem to have left,” said Sabetha.

“Gods, I wish we had more money,” said Locke. “Going visiting in society on scraps of a pittance won’t be easy.”

“Tempted to go back on your plan to avoid thieving?”

“Yes,” said Locke. “I won’t do it, though.”

“Just so long as you’re tempted,” she said, smiling.

“Honesty doesn’t suit any of us,” said Locke.

“I know. Isn’t it strange? I keep asking myself how people can stand to live like this.”

What Salvard had called a “moat” around the tower of dark stone was actually more of a gaping jagged-sided pit, at least thirty feet deep, into which drainage channels were directing streams of gray water. The only way across was a covered, elevated bridge with a well-lit guardhouse for a mouth. As Locke and Sabetha approached, a quartet of guards fanned out across the entrance.

Locke picked up immediately on the importance of what these guards weren’t carrying. They had no batons, no polearms. Those were weapons that could be used gently if the wielder wished. These guards carried only swords, which had a more straightforward employment.

“Stand fast,” said a weathered woman, just shy of middle age, her neck and face thick with scars. All the guards had the look of hard service. The Weeping Tower was no joke, Locke realized. Trying to bribe or suborn one of these old hounds would be suicide. “Name your business.”

“Good evening,” said Sabetha, instantly adopting a poise that was assertive but not imperious. Locke had seen her use it before. “We’re here to speak with Jasmer Moncraine.”

“Moncraine’s not going to be entertaining for a long time,” said the guard. “What does a Camorri have to say to him?”

“We’re members of the Moncraine Company, and we need to make business arrangements now that he’s indisposed. Our solicitor advised us that we’re entitled to one audience before his trial.”

Gods, as far as Locke was concerned, watching Sabetha handle people was as good as watching any other girl in the world take off her clothes. The way she chose her words—“entitled,” not something meeker like “allowed.” And the specific mention of one audience—a signal to the guard that the rules had been researched, would be obeyed. Sabetha had asserted all their wants while giving the firmest support to the notion that she and Locke were completely enfolded in the power of the law and these guards that served it.

It turned out the woman was quite pleased to let them in. Not, of course, without an embarrassing full-body search, or their marks on parchment, or an inventory of their purses, or a forty-minute wait. But that was all for the best, Locke thought. Only prisoners were ever granted easy passage into a prison.

4

FOR THE second time that day Locke and Sabetha found themselves in a chamber cut in half by a physical barrier, but now it was bars of black iron. The audience room of the Weeping Tower had smooth stone walls and a rough stone floor, with no windows, no decorations, no furniture. The guards locked the door behind them and remained at attention in front of it.

They were made to wait another few minutes before the door on the opposite side of the room slid open. Two more guards brought in a man, manacled at hands and feet, and clipped a chain to a bolt in the floor. They attached this to the prisoner’s leg irons, giving him a range of movement that ended about two feet from the iron bars. The prisoner’s guards withdrew to a position mirroring that of the ones on Locke and Sabetha’s side of the room.

The man in chains was tall, with skin like polished boot leather and hair scraped down to a gray shadow. He was heavyset but not ponderous. The weight of his years and appetites seemed to have spread evenly, settled in all his joints and crevices, and there was still a hint of dangerous vitality to him. His eyes were wide and bright against the darkness of his face, and he fixed them hard on Locke and Sabetha as though blinking were somehow beneath his interest.

“An opportunity to walk down two flights of stairs and be chained up again,” he said. “Hooray. Who the hell are you?”

“Your new actors,” said Locke. “Your very surprised new actors.”

“Ahhhhhhh.” Moncraine’s seamed jowls moved as though he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Weren’t there supposed to be five of you?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be at liberty?” said Sabetha. “The other three are trying to hold your troupe together at Gloriano’s.”

“Too bad you didn’t come sooner,” said Moncraine. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to look forward to but packing for your return. Tell your master I appreciate the gesture.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Locke. “We were sent here to go on stage. We were sent here to learn from you!”

“You want a lesson, boy? If you find yourself being born, climb back in as quick as you can, because life’s a bottomless feast of shit.”

“We can get you out of here,” said Sabetha.

“If you cooperate,” said Locke.

“Oh, you can spring me, can you?” Moncraine knelt and ran one manacled hand across the floor. “You have an army of about a thousand men hidden outside the city? Let me know when they’re storming the tower, so I can be sure to have my breeches on.”

“You know our master,” said Locke, lowering his voice. “You can surely guess the nature of his students.”

“I knew your master,” said Moncraine. “Years ago. And I thought he was sending me actors. Is that what you are? Is that where the gods have reached down and touched your little Camorri souls, eh? Given you the gift of silver tongues?”

“We can act,” said Sabetha.

“Can you? But are you lions? There’s no room for any but lions in my company!” He turned his head to the guards at his door. “Lions, aren’t we boys?

“Only if you don’t lower your f*cking voice,” said one of them.

“You see? Lions! Can you roar, children?”

“On stage and off,” said Sabetha coolly.

“Hmmm. That’s fascinating, because from where I’m sitting, you look about what, sixteen? Seventeen? You’ve certainly never been wet for anything but dreams in the night, have you? Well, you might pass onstage, love … let your hair down and fly your tits like flags—you could certainly keep the groundlings awake. But you,” he said, turning to Locke. “Who are you fooling? Small-boned sparrow of a lad. Got fig seeds in your sack where men should have the full fruit, eh? Do you even shave? What the hell do you mean by coming in here and trying to shove good cheer up my ass?”

“We’re your only chance to go free,” said Locke, fuming, considering saying a number of less productive things.

“Go free? Why? I like it here. I’m fed, and my creditors can’t reach me for at least the next year. The state of Espara will stop at one hand. Hells, that’s a bargain compared to what I might get when my markers are called in on the street.”

“What’s the name of the noble you struck?” said Sabetha.

“Why do you care?” said Moncraine. “How can it possibly be of aid to you as you SCURRY BACK WHERE YOU F*ckING CAME FROM?”

“Keep your voice down,” said one of the guards. “Or you’ll have to be carried into court tomorrow.”

“You know, that might be pleasant,” said Moncraine. “Can we give that a try?”

“Jasmer,” said Sabetha sharply. “Look at me, you stupid ass.”

Jasmer did indeed look at her.

“I don’t care what you think of us,” she whispered. “You know what kind of person our master is. What kind of organization we come from. And if you don’t stop braying like a jackass, this is what’s going to happen. We’ll leave.”

“I love this plan,” said Moncraine. “Take this plan all the way!”

“You’ll spend your year and a day inside this tower. Then they’ll cut your gods-damned hand off and throw you out the door. And do you know who’ll be standing there? More Camorri than you’ve ever seen in your f*cking life. Not just us, or the other three currently toiling on your behalf on the other side of this pimple of a city. I mean big, unreasonable, cross-eyed motherf*ckers straight out of the wombs of hell, and they’ll take you for a ride. Locked in a box, ten days, all the way to Camorr sloshing in your own piss.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Moncraine.

“You don’t have any other f*cking creditors, get it? We’re the front of the line now. We’re all you need to worry about. You made a deal with our garrista. You know what that word means?”

“Of course—”

“Obviously you don’t! Our master sent you five of us, free and clear, ready to get your troupe back on its feet. All you had to do was teach us about your trade. You’d rather break the deal and insult a garrista. So, you have a comfortable year, you stupid clown. As soon as it’s over you’ll see us again. Come on, Lucaza.”

She turned sharply, and Locke, supporting her act wholeheartedly, favored Moncraine with a sour smirk before he did the same.

“Wait,” Jasmer hissed.

“What’s the name of the noble you struck?” Sabetha didn’t give him any more time to think or plead or stew; she whirled on him just as quickly as she’d pretended to leave.

“Boulidazi,” said Moncraine. “Baron Boulidazi of Palazzo Corsala.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I was drinking,” said Moncraine. “He wanted … he came down to Gloriano’s. He wanted to buy out my debts, install himself as the company’s patron.”

“For this you punched him in the teeth?” said Locke. “What are you going to do if we get you out of here, try to cut our hearts out?”

“Boulidazi’s an ass! A stuck-up little ass! He’s barely older than you, and he thinks he can buy and sell me like gods-damned furniture. A theatrical company with his name on everything, wouldn’t that be sweet! It took me twenty years to build my own troupe. I won’t be anyone’s hired man again. I’ll take the Weeping Tower to that, any day, any year.”

“How was assaulting him preferable to letting him save your troupe?” said Sabetha. She sounded as incredulous as Locke felt.

“He doesn’t care about the troupe,” said Moncraine. “He wants it mounted on his wall like a f*cking hunting trophy! He wants some charity project he can dangle at whatever gilded cunt he’s chasing to show what a sensitive and artistic fellow he is. I refuse to sell my good name to help rich puppies dip their wicks!”

“What good name?” said Locke. “Even the members of your own company want to see you get eaten by a bear.”

“And I’d be glad to supply one,” said Sabetha. “Unfortunately for everyone, we’re still going to rescue you. So I want you to sit quietly in your cell and bite your tongue.”

“Tomorrow,” said Locke, “this Baron Boulidazi will forgive your insult and decline to make charges.”

“What?” said Moncraine. “Boy, listen to me. Even if Boulidazi had a thousand cocks in his breeches and you blew every last one like a flute from sunrise to sunset—”

“He’ll forgive your insult,” said Sabetha through gritted teeth, “because that is the only possible salvation we can arrange for you. Understand? We have no other cards to play. So this is how it’ll be. Once you’re out, we’ll discuss what you need to get your Republic of Thieves back into production.”

“The trouble with this fantasy, girl, is that it requires both of us to not be mad,” said Moncraine softly.

“All it requires is that you shut up and behave,” said Sabetha. “And my name isn’t girl. Most times you can call me Verena Gallante. But when I’m onstage, you’ll call me Amadine.”

“Will I?” Moncraine laughed. “That’s a presumption a few steps ahead of my grasp. You show me your mythical thread of kindness in Boulidazi. Then we’ll chat on the matter of plays.”

“Go back to your cell,” said Sabetha. “I guarantee we’ll speak again tomorrow.”

5

“EVEN IF we get him out,” said Locke, “we’ll need to put that man on a leash.”

“He’s a menace to himself and the rest of us,” said Sabetha. “When we spring him, we should crowd him. Make it clear that he’s being watched and judged at all times.”

“By the way, who’s Amadine?”

“The best role in The Republic of Thieves,” said Sabetha, grinning.

“I haven’t read any of it yet.”

“You should, before all the good parts get snapped up.”

“Someone kept it to herself all the way here!”

“Moncraine’s got to have more copies of it somewhere in his troupe’s mess. Jenora might know. But first, we’ve got our miracle to deliver on.”

“Miracle indeed,” said Locke. They were moving back down the Legion Steps, through the still ranks of the marble soldiers. The drizzle had let up, but there were soft rumbles of thunder from above. “We need to reach this Boulidazi, more or less as we are, and convince him to forgive one of the craziest a*sholes I’ve ever met for a completely unjustified drunken assault.”

“Any ideas?”

“Uh … maybe.”

“Spit them out. I managed to shut Jasmer up long enough to make our point; I’ve earned my day’s pay.”

“And you were a pleasure to watch, too,” said Locke. “But then, you’re always—”

“You do not have the time to be charming,” said Sabetha, giving him a mild punch to the shoulder. “And I certainly don’t have time to be charmed.”

“Right. Sure,” said Locke. “We need an angle of approach. Why should he open his door for us? Hey, what if we were Camorri nobles going incognito?”

“Hiding in Espara,” she said, clearly liking the notion. “Trouble at home?”

“Hmmm. No. No, if we’re not in favor at home we can’t offer him anything. We might actually be a risk to him.”

“You’re right. Okay. You and I … are cousins,” said Sabetha. “First cousins.”

“Cousins,” said Locke. “So many gods-damned imaginary cousins. You and I are cousins .… If we have to show Jean and the Sanzas, they’re family retainers. We are, uh, grandchildren of … an old count that doesn’t get out much.”

“Blackspear,” said Sabetha. “Enrico Botallio, Count Blackspear. I was a scullery maid in his house a few years ago, that summer you spent on the farm.”

“A Five Towers family,” said Locke. “Would we live in the tower ourselves?”

“Yeah, most of his family does. And he hasn’t been out of the city in twenty years; he’s as old as Duke Nicovante. I’ll be the daughter of his oldest son … and you’re the son of his youngest. He has no other children. Oh, your father’s dead, by the way. Fell off a horse two years ago.”

“Good to know. If we need any real details of the household, I’ll pass the game to you whenever I can.” Locke snapped his fingers. “We’re in Espara because you want to indulge your wish to be onstage—”

“—which could never be allowed under my real name in Camorr!”

Sabetha had never finished one of his thoughts before, in the way that Jean did all the time. Locke felt a flush of warmth.

“That’s great,” she went on, heedless. “So we’re incognito, but with our family’s permission.”

“Thus whoever helps us makes himself a powerful and wealthy friend in Camorr.” Locke couldn’t help smiling at the improbable thought that they might have found a way out after all. “Sabetha, this is great. It’s also the thinnest line of bullshit we’ve ever hung ourselves on.”

“And we haven’t even been here a full day yet.”

“We need given names.”

“There we can be lazy. I’m Verena Botallio, you’re Lucaza Botallio.”

“Hells, yes.” Locke glanced around, affirming that they were still within the limited corridor of Espara he’d managed to half familiarize himself with. “We should head back to Gloriano’s and see how they did with the horses. Then we can go visit this Boulidazi and beg him not to think too hard about where we’ve come from.”

6

“ALONDO’S COUSIN was as good as promised,” said Jean. He waved at a young man, a bearded and heavier version of Alondo, who was sitting against the wall at the back of Gloriano’s common room, accompanied by Alondo, Sylvanus, the Sanzas, and several half-empty bottles. Nobody else new or unknown was in the room. “He got us just over a royal apiece for the horses. All it cost us was a couple bottles of wine. And, ah, I promised we’d give him a part in the play.”

“What?”

“No lines. He just wants to dress up and get stabbed, he says.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t expect to get paid,” said Sabetha.

“Not in anything except hangovers,” said Jean. “I do notice you haven’t dragged a large Syresti impresario back with you.”

“That game’s afoot,” said Locke. “Come spill your purse. Asino brothers! On your feet a moment, we’d have a word concerning finance.”

“Oh let them stay,” said Sylvanus. “This is the fun side of the room, and our young hostler was about to take hoof for more wine.”

“You’re not finished with the three bottles you have,” said Locke.

“They’re writing farewell notes to their families,” said Sylvanus. “Their holes are already dug in the ground. Oh, I suppose I really must get up before I piss, mustn’t I?” He rolled sideways in the vague direction of the door that led back to the soaked inn-yard. “Give us a hand, hostler, give us a hand. I shall go on all fours to make use of your expertise.”

“Marvelous,” said Locke, pulling Calo and Galdo to their feet. “Lovely. Are you two following Sylvanus down the vomit-strewn path?”

“We may be sociably fuzzed,” said Calo.

“A little blurry at the edges,” said Galdo.

“That’s probably for the best. I need you to come over here and dump out your purses.”

“You need us to what now?”

“We need a flash bag,” said Sabetha.

“What the hell’s a flash bag?” said Jenora, wandering by at a moment precisely calculated to overhear what the huddled Gentlemen Bastards were up to.

“Since you ask,” said Jean, “it’s a purse of coins you throw together to make it look like you’re used to carrying around big fat sums.”

“Oh,” she said. “That must be a nice thing to have.”

Using a spare table, the five Camorri dumped out their personal funds, to which Jean added the take from the horses and Locke mixed in the remnants of the purse Chains had given them. Camorri barons, tyrins, and solons clattered against Esparan fifths and coppins.

“Get all the coppers out of the pile,” said Locke. “They’re as useless as an Asino brother.”

“Suck vinegar from my ass-crack,” said Calo.

Five pairs of hands sifted through the coins, pulling coppers aside, leaving a diminished but gleaming mass in the center.

“Copper gets split five ways so everyone’s got something,” said Locke. “Gold and silver goes in the purse.”

“Do you want Auntie to change any of that Camorri stuff for you?” said Jenora, peering over Jean’s right shoulder.

“No,” said Locke. “For the moment, it’s actually a point in our favor. What’s the flash count?”

“Five crowns, two tyrins,” said Sabetha. “And two royals, one fifth.”

“That’s more money than any of Auntie’s customers have seen in a long time,” said Jenora.

“It’s shy of what I want,” said Locke. “But it might be convincing. No journeyman actor carries around a year and a half’s pay.”

“Unless they’re not getting paid a damn thing,” said Jenora.

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow,” said Locke as he cinched the flash bag tightly closed. “Hopefully with Moncraine listening very attentively.”

“Where are you going now?” said Jean.

“To see Moncraine’s punching bag,” said Sabetha. “And if that Syresti son of a bitch can teach us better acting than what we’ll need to pull this off, he’ll actually deserve this rescue.”

“Want an escort?” said Jean.

“Based on what you’ve seen tonight,” muttered Locke, “who needs it more, Sabetha and me or the twins?”

“Good point.” Jean polished his optics against the collar of his tunic and readjusted them on his nose. “I’ll keep them out of trouble, and see if I can trick Sylvanus into sleeping indoors.”

“Where’s Palazzo Corsala?” said Sabetha to Jenora.

“That’s on the north side, the swell district. Can’t miss it. Clean streets, beautiful houses, people like Sylvanus and Jasmer beaten on sight.”

“We’ll spring for a hired coach,” said Locke. “We won’t look respectable enough without one.”

“Shall we go call on Baron Boulidazi, then?” said Sabetha.

“Yes,” said Locke. “No. Wait. We’ve forgotten one terribly important thing. Let’s run back up to Stay-Awake Salvard and hope he’s still feeling sympathetic.”

7

“TRADESFOLK ENTRANCE is around back,” growled the tree trunk of a man who opened Boulidazi’s front door. “Tradesfolk hours are—”

“What kind of tradesman hires a coach-and-four to make his rounds?” said Locke, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Their hired carriage was waiting beyond the rows of alchemically miniaturized olive trees that screened Boulidazi’s manor from the street. The driver hadn’t liked their clothes, but their silver had vouched for them quite adequately.

“Pray give your master this,” said Sabetha, holding out a small white card. This had been scrounged from the office of Stay-Awake Salvard, who had bemusedly agreed to charge them a few coppins for it and some ink.

The servant glanced at the card, glared at them, then glanced at the card again. “Wait here,” he said, and closed the door.

Several minutes went by. The slow drip of water from the canvas awning above their head became a soft, steady drumbeat as the rain picked up again. At last, the door creaked open and a rectangle of golden light from inside the house fell over them.

“Come,” said the bulky servant. Two more men waited behind him, and for an instant Locke feared an ambush. However, these servants wielded nothing more threatening than towels, which they used to wipe Locke and Sabetha’s shoes dry.

Baron Boulidazi’s house was unexceptional, among those of its type that Locke had seen. It was comfortable enough, furnished to show off disposable wealth, but there was no grand and special something, no “hall-piece” as they were often called, to evoke wonder from freshly arrived guests.

The servant took them out of the foyer, through a sitting hall, and into a warmly lit room with felt-padded walls. A blandly handsome man of about twenty, with neck-length black hair and close-set dark eyes, was leaning against a billiards table with a stick in his hands. The white card was on the table.

“The Honorable Verena Botallio and companion,” said the servant without enthusiasm. He left the room immediately.

“Of the Isla Zantara?” said Boulidazi, more warmly. “I’ve just read your card. Isn’t that part of the Alcegrante?”

“It is, Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, giving the slight nod and half-curtsey that was usual in Camorr for an informal noble reception. “Have you ever been there?”

“To Camorr? No, no. I’ve always wanted to visit, but I’ve never had the privilege.”

“Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, “may I present my cousin, the Honorable Lucaza Botallio?”

“Your cousin, eh?” said Boulidazi, nodding as Locke bowed his head. The Esparan lord offered his hand. As they shook, Locke noted that Boulidazi was solidly built, much the same size as Alondo’s hostler cousin, and he didn’t hold back the strength in his grip.

“Thank you for receiving us,” said Locke. “We would have both sent our cards, but only Verena is carrying one, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? You weren’t robbed or anything, I suppose? Is that why you’ve come dressed as you are? Forgive my mentioning it.”

“No, we haven’t been mistreated,” said Sabetha. “And there’s nothing to forgive; we’re not traveling in our usual capacity. We’re incognito, with just a bodyguard and a pair of servants, though we’ve left them behind for the moment.”

“Incognito,” said Boulidazi. “Are you in some sort of danger?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Sabetha with a laugh. She then turned and feigned surprise (Locke was confident that only long familiarity allowed him to spot the fact that it was a willful change) at the sight of a saber resting in its scabbard on a witchwood display shelf. “Is that what I think it is?”

“What, exactly, do you think it is?” said Boulidazi, and it seemed to Locke that he was a touch more curt than before.

“Surely it’s a DiVorus? The seal on the hilt—”

“It is,” said Boulidazi, instantly losing his tone of impatience. “One of his later blades, but still—”

“I trained with a DiVorus,” said Sabetha, poising one hand above the hilt of the saber. “The Voillantebona rapier. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t mine. My instructor’s. I still remember the balance, and the patterns in the steel … your hilt looks honorably stained. I assume you practice with it?”

“Often,” said Boulidazi. “This one’s called Drakovelus. It’s been in my family for three generations. It suits my style—not the fastest on the floor, but when I do move I can put a bit of strength behind it.”

“The saber rewards a sturdy handler,” said Sabetha.

“We’re neglecting your cousin,” said Boulidazi. “Forgive me, Lucaza, please don’t allow my enthusiasms to shove you aside from the conversation.”

“Not at all, Lord Boulidazi. I’ve had my years with the fencing masters, of course, but Verena’s the connoisseur in the family.”

Boulidazi’s heavy servant returned and whispered into the baron’s ear. Locke silently counted to ten before the servant finished. The big man withdrew again, and the baron stared at Locke.

“You know, I just now recall,” he said. “Botallio … isn’t that one of the Five Towers clans?”

“Of course,” said Sabetha.

“And yet you give your address as the Isla Zantara,” said Boulidazi.

“I’m fond of Grandfather,” said Sabetha. “But surely you can understand how someone my age might prefer a little manor of her own.”

“And your grandfather … ,” said Boulidazi expectantly.

“Don Enrico Botallio.”

“Better known as Count Blackspear?” said Boulidazi, still cautiously.

“Verena’s father is Blackspear’s eldest son,” said Locke. “I’m the son of his youngest.”

“Oh? I believe I might have heard something of your father, Lucaza,” said the baron. “I do hope that he’s well?”

Locke felt a surge of relief that they’d pretended to be from a family Sabetha had knowledge of. Boulidazi obviously had access to some sort of directory of Camorri peers. Locke allowed himself to look crestfallen for just an instant, and then put on an obviously forced smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must inform you that my father died several years ago.”

“Oh,” said Boulidazi, visibly relaxing. “Forgive me. I must have been thinking of someone else. But why didn’t the pair of you simply give the name of the count when you—”

“Noble cousin,” said Sabetha, shifting instantly into her excellent Throne Therin, “the name of Blackspear commands instant attention in Camorr, but surely you wouldn’t think us so vulgar as to try and awe you with it in Espara, as the freshest of acquaintances, as guests in your house?”

“Oh—vulgar, oh no, never!” said Boulidazi in the same language. Anyone of breeding was expected to endure years of tutelage in it, and he’d clearly done his time in the purgatory of conjugation and tenses. “I didn’t mean that I expected anything uncouth of you!”

“Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke, returning the conversation to plain Therin, “we’re the ones who should be apologizing, for imposing ourselves upon you in our present state. We have our reasons, but you needn’t regret being cautious.”

“I’m glad you understand,” said the baron. “Tymon!”

The large servant, who must have been lurking just past the door, stepped inside.

“It’s all right, Tymon,” said the baron. “I think our guests will be staying for a while. Let’s have some chairs.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the servant, relaxing out of his cold and intimidating aspect as easily as removing a hat.

“I hope you don’t mind if we talk in here,” said Boulidazi. “My parents … well, it was just last year. I can’t really think of the study as my room quite yet.”

“I know how it is,” said Locke. “You inherit the memories of a house as well as its stones. I didn’t touch anything in my father’s library for months.”

“I suppose I should call you Don and Dona Botallio, then?” said the baron.

“Only if you want to flatter us,” said Locke with a smile.

“While Grandfather still holds the title,” said Sabetha, “my father, as direct heir, is called Don. But since we’re two steps removed, we are, at present, just a pair of Honorables.”

Tymon returned, along with the shoe-towelers, and three high-backed chairs were set down next to the billiards table.

Boulidazi seemed reasonably convinced of their authenticity now, and Locke felt a pang of mingled awe and anxiety. Here was a lord of the city, capable of putting them in prison (or worse) with a word, opening to their false-facing like any common shopkeeper, guard, or functionary. Chains was right. Their training had given them a remarkable freedom of action.

Still, it seemed wise to seal the affair as tightly as possible.

“Gods above,” said Locke. “What a boor I’ve been! Lord Boulidazi, forgive me. Is it usual in Espara to give a consideration to house servants—damn!”

Locke pulled out his purse and made what he thought was an excellent show of stumbling toward the withdrawing Tymon. He fell against the billiards table, and a stream of clinking gold and silver just happened to scatter across the felt surface.

“Are you all right?” The baron was at Locke’s side in an instant, helping him up, and Locke was satisfied that Boulidazi had a full view of the coins.

“Fine, thank you. I’m such a clumsy ass. You can see all the grace in the family wound up on Verena’s side.” Locke swept the coins back into the purse. “Sorry about your game.”

“It was just a solitary diversion,” said Boulidazi, as he helped Sabetha into a chair. “And yes, on holidays, we do give gratuities to the help, but there’s a little ceremony and some temple nonsense. You needn’t worry about it.”

“Well, we’re obliged to you,” said Locke, relieved that he could escape without surrendering any of the flash bag funds. All Boulidazi had to do was believe that money was no real object to them.

“Now,” said Sabetha, “I suppose you’d like to find out why we’ve come to you.”

“Of course,” said Boulidazi. “But first, why not tell me what it would please you to be called, if not Dona Botallio?”

“That’s easy,” said Sabetha, flashing a smile that hit Locke like a boot to the chest even though he wasn’t positioned to catch its full effect. “You should call me Verena.”

“Verena,” said the baron. “Then I beg that you’ll call me Gennaro, and let no more ‘Lord Boulidazis’ clutter the air between us.”

“With pleasure,” said Sabetha.

“Gennaro,” said Locke, “we’re here to discuss the situation of a man named Jasmer Moncraine.”

“What?”

“To put it even more plainly,” said Sabetha, “we’ve come to ask that you decline to state your charges against him.”

“You want me to forgive him?”

“Or appear to,” said Sabetha sweetly.

“That arrogant piss-ant struck me before witnesses,” said Boulidazi. “With the back of his hand! You can’t expect me to believe that a Camorri would bear such a thing, were either of you in my place!”

“If I had nothing to win by a display of mercy,” said Locke, “I’d have whipped the stupid bastard’s face into bloody mince. And if none of us stood to gain right now, I’d go to court with you merely for the pleasure of hearing the sentence read.”

“We’re not strangers to Moncraine,” said Sabetha. “We’ve been to see him at the Weeping Tower—”

“Why?”

“Please,” said Sabetha, “just listen. We know what a fool he is. We’re not here to discuss the brighter facets of his character, because we know he doesn’t have any, and we’re not asking for mercy for its own sake. We’d like to propose a mutually profitable arrangement.”

“How could I possibly profit,” said Boulidazi, “by accepting disgrace in front of the entire city?”

“First, tell us: Were you serious about wanting to fund Moncraine’s troupe and buy out his debts?” said Locke.

“I was,” said the baron. “I certainly was, until he decided to thank me by lunging at me like an ape.”

“Why did you make the offer?”

“I grew up attending his plays,” said Boulidazi. “Mother loved the theater. Moncraine really used to be something, back before … well, years ago.”

“And you wanted to be a patron,” said Locke.

“All my family money is sitting safe in vaults, gathering dust and shitting interest. I thought I’d do something meaningful for a change. Pick Moncraine up, run things properly, associate my name with something.” Boulidazi drummed his fingers against one arm of his chair. “What the hell can Moncraine possibly mean to you?”

“I came here to be part of his troupe for the summer,” said Sabetha. “I, ah, I have a certain inclination. It’s awkward to talk about myself, though. Lucaza, would you?”

“Of course,” said Locke. “Cousin Verena has always loved the theater, as much of it as she could get in Camorr. Grandfather’s hired players a dozen times for her. But she’s always wanted to be on stage. To act. And that’s just not done.”

“If I’d taken up alchemy,” said Sabetha, “or gardening, or painting, or investment, that’d be fine. I could even ride off to war, if we had ever had any. But noble heirs don’t go onstage, not in Camorr.”

“Not if they want to inherit,” said Locke. “And grandfather won’t be with us forever. After him it’s uncle, and after uncle it’s Verena.”

“Countess Blackspear, eh?” said Boulidazi.

“Whether or not we keep Blackspear is up to the duke; the Five Towers are his to dispose of. But our lands wouldn’t go anywhere. If Blackspear was rescinded, I’d be countess of the old family estates.”

“So you’ve come here posing as an actress to avoid a scandal in Camorr.”

“You understand perfectly,” said Sabetha. “Verena Gallante can have a summer or two onstage in Espara, and then Verena Botallio can go back to being respectable back home. That’s the bargain I struck with Father, also provided Lucaza and a few trusted men came along to keep an eye on me.”

“And that’s the understanding we had with Moncraine,” said Locke. “We’d furnish several actors, and he’d make use of us in a play. Imagine our surprise when we arrived this afternoon to discover the situation.”

“Imagine my surprise when Moncraine attacked me!” said Boulidazi. “You’re putting me between two fires, my friends. I can protect my dignity according to the laws and customs of Espara, or I can grant this request, to which I would normally be very happily disposed. I can’t do both.”

“If you withdrew from chastising Moncraine out of cowardice or indifference,” said Sabetha, “then I agree, your behavior would be improper. But what if your peers could see that you had forgiven him for the sake of a greater design?”

“Mercy,” said Locke, bringing his hands slowly together as though squeezing his words into one mass as he spoke them, “ambition, artistry, and good old-fashioned financial sense. All at once.”

“Moncraine wants nothing to do with me,” said Boulidazi, “and I’m pleased to return the sentiment. Let the bastard rot for a year and a day. Maybe he’ll grow some discretion when he loses his hand.”

“I don’t have a year and a day, Gennaro,” said Sabetha.

“Then why not see Basanti? He’s the success. Built his own theater, even. I’m sure he’d put you onstage in a heartbeat. You’re certainly, uh …”

“Yes?”

“You’d certainly have a great many eyes following you attentively, if you’ll pardon my boldness.”

“Pardon gladly extended. But if Basanti’s really the thing, why didn’t you approach him about a partnership rather than Moncraine?”

“Basanti has no need of a bandage on his finances. Besides, there’s nothing to build where he’s concerned. It’s hard to take credit for something already achieved.”

“Believe it or not, we feel much the same about Moncraine,” said Sabetha. “He’s a means to an end. Forgive him. Let him go free, and I guarantee he’ll accept your patronage.”

“What makes you assume I’m still willing to offer it?”

“Come now, Gennaro,” said Sabetha, deepening her voice a little, adopting a slightly teasing tone. “Don’t punish yourself for Moncraine’s stupidity. Your plan was a good one.”

“If you help us in this,” said Locke, “you’ll have him entirely in your power. Financial debt and moral debt, and you’ll have us to keep him in line.”

“The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company,” said Sabetha.

“Or the Boulidazi-Moncraine Company,” said Locke.

“I’ll look weak,” said the baron, but his voice had the wavering quality of a man nearly ready to go over the edge of the precipice they were nudging him toward.

“You’ll look clever,” he said. “Hells, you’ll look like you might have planned the whole thing all along to stir up notice!”

“That’s marvelous!” said Sabetha. “At the end of the summer, after we’ve whipped satisfaction out of Moncraine, you let slip that the whole affair was just a ploy for attention. That’s the payoff for a little bit of pain in court tomorrow! Basanti will be forgotten in a moment, and all the city’s admiration will settle on what you’ve done.”

“You’ll look like a bloody genius,” said Locke, immensely pleased with himself.

“The Boulidazi-Moncraine company,” said the baron. “It does have a certain … weight. A certain noble ring to it.”

“Help me have a season or two in the lights,” said Sabetha. “Then bring the company touring to Camorr. We’ll introduce you to Grandfather, all the counts and countesses, the duke …”

“They could play all the Five Towers in turn,” said Locke. “The rooftop gardens. Verena and I would have to disappear as actors, of course, but we’d be delighted to attend the shows as your hosts.”

“Isn’t that worth temporary inconvenience?” said Sabetha with a smile that could have coaxed steam out of ice.

“I will require … a moment to reflect,” said Boulidazi.

“Shall we leave you alone?” said Sabetha, rising partway from her chair.

“Yes, for but a moment. Tymon will fetch you anything you desire in the reception hall.”

Locke rose as well, but Boulidazi held up a hand.

“Not you, Lucaza, if you please. I’d appreciate a word.”

Locke sank back into his chair, stole a brief glance at Sabetha, and caught the slightest hint of a nod from her. She withdrew the way she and Locke had come.

“Lucaza,” said the baron, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “I hope that I might be forgiven this liberty; I know that Camorri are not to be trifled with in matters touching family honor, and I mean no offense.”

“Truly, Gennaro, we’ve asked for a favor tomorrow in exchange for promises that will take months or years to fully play out. I doubt you could find two people in Espara more difficult to offend than Verena or myself at this moment.”

“You’re both so well spoken,” said Boulidazi. “I can see why you’d want to dabble on the stage. But now let me have your confidence. Your cousin … has an aspect that blossoms upon consideration. When she entered this room she was merely pretty, but after watching her, listening to her … I feel as though the air has been taken straight out of my lungs.”

Locke felt as though the air had been taken straight out of his lungs.

“Tell me, please,” said Boulidazi, clearly noticing the change in Locke’s demeanor as Locke fought for self-control. “Does she really love the theater? And bladework?”

“She, uh, lives for them,” said Locke.

“Are you betrothed to her?”

Locke was overwhelmed by a flurry of immediate reactions; the urge to stand up, say yes, slap Boulidazi across the face, grab him by his hair and dig wide furrows in the felt of his billiards table using his teeth … Then came the secondary calculations like a bucket of cold water: Boulidazi would kill him, Sabetha would gladly help, the intrusion of his personal jealousy into his professional character would doom the Gentlemen Bastards to utter failure.

“No,” he said, almost calmly, “no, I’ve been meant for someone else … since I was barely old enough to walk. We’ll wed when she comes of age.”

“And Verena?” said Boulidazi.

(Another less than helpful flash from Locke’s imagination, protesting what his higher reasoning knew to be unavoidable. Jean Tannen smashing in through a back door, hoisting Boulidazi over his head, slamming him down across the billiards table … Why were all his fantasies so calamitous for that table, which had done him no injury? And gods damn it anyway, it was never going to happen!)

“Unattached,” said Locke, hating the word even as he brought it forth. “Father and Grandfather have always felt that Verena … is a fruit best left hanging, uh, until they know how she might be most advantageously … plucked.”

“Thank you,” said the baron. “Thank you! That’s … welcome news. I hope you won’t think of me as, as grasping beyond my station, Lucaza. I come from a long and honorable line. I hold several estates with secure incomes. I’ve much to offer by way of … of a match.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Locke slowly. “Were she pleased, and with Count Blackspear’s consent.”

“Yes, yes. With the family’s blessing … and were she pleased.” Boulidazi ran a hand through his hair and made nervous, meaningless adjustments to his white silk neck-cloth. “I’ll do it, Lucaza. I’ll forgive Moncraine, and trust you to keep him under my thumb. I’ll provide whatever you need to settle his debts and tame his troupe. All I ask …”

“Yes?”

“Help me,” said Boulidazi. “Help me show Verena my quality. My honorable intentions. Teach me how I might better please her. Advise her favorably on my behalf.”

“If Moncraine goes free …”

“He will,” said Boulidazi. “He won’t be at the Weeping Tower a moment longer than he has to be.”

“Then I am your man,” said Locke softly, fighting back further visions of Gennaro Boulidazi spitting up fragments of his billiards table. “I am for you, my friend.”