The Republic of Thieves #2

CHAPTER TEN


THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: FINAL APPROACHES

1

“YOU’RE AS WELCOME as a scorpion in a nursery,” said Vordratha, meeting Locke with a glare and a wall of well-dressed toughs at his back. As was becoming routine, Locke had been halted before making it halfway across the entry hall of the Sign of the Black Iris.

“I need to see her,” panted Locke. His flight across the city had not been dignified or subtle; he’d stolen a horse to make it possible, and bluecoats were probably scouring the Vel Verda as he spoke.

“Why, you’re the very last person in Karthain who’d be allowed to do so.” Vordratha’s smirk split his lean face like a sword wound. “Her orders were explicit and vehement.”

“Look, I know our last encounter was—”

“Unpleasant.” Vordratha gestured. Before Locke could turn to run, the Black Iris guards had him pinioned.

“Remember, Master Vordratha, that you’d as good as confessed your intentions to have us beaten and left in an alley,” said Locke. “So if our conversational options were narrowed you’ve only yourself to blame!”

“The mistress of the house specifically desires not to see you.” Vordratha leaned in close; his breath was like a hint of old spilled wine. “And while I am charged not to harm you, I’d argue that I’m not responsible for anything that happens between your leaving my custody and hitting the pavement.”

Vordratha’s guards pushed Locke outside and heaved him in an impressive arc that terminated in a bone-jarring impact with the cobblestones. His feelings warred bitterly over his next move, pride and desire against prudence and street-reflexes, the latter winning out only when he realized how perilously close he was to carriage traffic and how many witnesses were on hand to see him get crushed by it. Groaning, he crawled back to the curb.

His stolen horse was gone, and the Black Iris stable boys leered at him knowingly. It was a long, painful walk to a neighborhood where a coach would deign to pick him up.

2

“ … and that’s the whole gods-damned mess,” said Locke, his fingers knotted around a glass that had once contained a throat-scorching quantity of brandy. “I found a ride, came straight back, and here we are.”

It was past midnight. Locke had returned, sequestered Jean in their suite, and with the help of large plates of food and a bottle of Josten’s most expensive distilled spirits he’d unrolled the whole tale.

“Do you really need me to tell you that the bitch was lying?” said Jean.

“I know she was lying,” said Locke. “There have to be lies mixed in somewhere. It’s the parts that might be true that concern me.”

“Why not assume it was ALL lies?” Jean ran his fingers rapidly over his temples, attempting to massage away the dull pain still radiating from his plastered nose. “Bow-to-stern bullshit! Gods dammit, this is what you and I do to people. We talk them into corners where they can’t tell truth from nonsense.”

“She knows my name. My actual name. The one I—”

“Yes,” said Jean. “And I know who told her.”

“But I only ever—”

“That’s right.” Disgust burned like bile at the back of Jean’s throat, and he tapped his own chest with both hands. “They said they opened me like a book in Tal Verrar and took everything they wanted. Therefore, I must have given them that name. Think! The rest of Patience’s story was most likely built around it.”

“That leaves the question of the third name.”

“The one Patience claims is deeper than the one you gave me? Is it even there?”

Locke rubbed his shadow-cupped eyes. “I don’t … I don’t know. It’s not a name at all. Just a feeling, maybe.”

“About what I expected,” said Jean. “Do you really remember ever having that feeling, before tonight? It strikes me as a ready-made bluff. I have all manner of strange unsorted feelings in my heart and head; we all must. She didn’t give you half a particle of telling evidence! All she did was plant a doubt that you could gnaw on forever, if you let yourself.”

“If I let myself.” Locke tossed his glass aside. “All my life I’ve wondered where the hell I came from. Now I’ve got possibilities like an arrow to the gut, and I absolutely do not have time to fuss over them.”

“Possibilities,” sighed Jean. “In faith, now, even if they were true answers, would you really want this particular bunch? I realize it’s easy for me to say … knowing when and where I was born—”

“I know where I’m from,” said Locke. “I’m from Camorr. I’m from Camorr! Even if everything she said was true, that’s all I give a barrel of dry rat shit about. That and Sabetha.” Locke stood, the lines of his face grimly set. “That, and Sabetha, and beating the hell out of her in this idiotic election. Now—”

Someone knocked at the door, loudly and urgently.

3

LOCKE WATCHED as Jean unbolted it with customary caution. There stood Nikoros, unshaven, his eyes like fried eggs and hair looking as though it had been caught in the spokes of a wagon wheel. He held a piece of parchment in a shaking hand.

“This just came in,” he muttered. “Specifically for Master Lazari, from a Black Iris courier at the AHHHHHHH—”

This exclamation erupted out of him as Locke darted forward and seized the letter. He snapped it open, noting the quick familiar strokes of Sabetha’s script:

I wish I could write your name above and sign my own below, but we both know what a poor idea that would be.

I know my refusal to see you must have been painful, and for that I apologize, but I believe I was only right. My heart is sick with this strangeness and these puzzles. I can barely tame words to make whole thoughts and I suspect you could hardly be accused of being at your best, either. I don’t know what I would do were you in arm’s reach; what I might ask, what I might demand for comfort’s sake. The only certainty is that the terms of our employment are not relaxed, and we are both in the severest danger if we tread carelessly. Were we together, at this moment, I don’t imagine we could possibly tread otherwise.

I don’t understand what happened this evening. I know only that it scares me. It scares me that your handler, for any reason, has taken such an interest in telling us so much. It scares me that there are things in motion around you that would appear to tie us both to such secrets and obligations.

It scares me that there may be something still hidden even from yourself, some elemental part of you that might yet tumble like a broken wall, and I am haunted by the thought that when next I find you looking at me it might not be with the eyes I remember, but with those of a stranger.

Forgive me. I know that you would be made as anxious by my silence as by my honesty, and so I have chosen honesty.

I have let feelings I once thought buried come back with real power over me, and now I find myself in desperate need of detachment and clear thoughts. Please don’t try to return to the Sign of the Black Iris in person. Please don’t come looking for me. I need you to be my opponent now more than I need you to be my lover or even my friend. In this I speak for us both.

“Ah, damn everything,” Locke muttered, crumpling the parchment and stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “Gods damn everything.” He collapsed back into his chair, brows knit, and let his gaze wander aimlessly over the wall. The most awkward sort of silence settled over the room, until Jean cleared his throat.

“Well, ah, Nikoros. You look like you’ve been thrashed by devils,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Business, sir, business. So much of it. And I … I … forgive me, I’m going without … the substance we’ve discussed.”

“You’re weaning yourself from that wretched dust.” Jean clapped Nikoros by the shoulders, a gesture that made the smaller man wobble like aspic. “Good! You were murdering yourself, you know.”

“The way my head feels, I half wish I’d succeeded,” said Nikoros.

Locke’s curiosity drew him back to the present, and he studied Nikoros. The Karthani was on the come-down from black alchemy for sure; Locke had seen it a hundred times. The misery would shake Nikoros for days like a cat playing with a toy. It might be wise to cut the poor fellow’s duties … or even to chain him to a wall.

Hells, Locke thought, if I get any more twisted out of my own skin they might have to shackle me next to him.

“Lazari,” said Jean, “now, if that letter’s what I think it is … Is it, shall we say, a finality? Or just an interruption?”

“It’s a knife to the guts,” said Locke. “But I suppose … well, I suppose I can view it as more an interruption.”

“Good,” said Jean. “Good!

“I suppose,” muttered Locke. Then, feeling an old familiar heat stirring in his breast: “Yes, I really do suppose! By the gods, I need noise and mischief. I need fuss and f*ckery until I can’t see straight! Nikoros! What have you been doing all night?”

“Uh, well, I just came back from surveying the big mess,” said Nikoros. “Big and getting worse. Not just for us, I mean. For the whole city.”

“I’m losing my ability to tell one mess from another around here,” said Locke.

“Oh! I mean at the north gate, sirs, and the Court of Dust. All the refugees out of the north.”

“Oh. OH! Gods, the bloody war,” said Locke. “I’d half forgotten. What kind of refugees?”

“At this point, the sort with money, mostly. The ones that fled before the fighting gets anywhere near. And their guards, servants, and the like. All stacking up at inns until they can plead for residence—”

“Refugees with money, you say,” interrupted Jean. “Looking for new homes. Which is to say, potential voters in need of immediate assistance.”

“Hells yes,” shouted Locke. “Horses, Nikoros! Three of them, now! Have a scribe and a solicitor follow us. We scoop up anyone who can pay for enfranchisement; then we find them permanent accommodations in districts where we most need the votes!”

“And they’ll be Deep Roots for life,” said Jean with a grin. “Or at least the next couple of weeks, which is all we give a damn about.”

“I, uh … I will come, sirs, I just …” Nikoros gulped and wrung his hands together. “I need a few minutes of privacy, first, if I might. I’ll, uh, meet you downstairs.”

4

THE NIGHT was cool. They rode through pale wisps of fog coiling off cobblestones like unquiet spirits, past black banners and green banners fluttering limply from balconies, through stately quiet until they reached the Court of Dust. There they found the mess Nikoros had promised.

Bluecoats were out in force, and Locke saw at once how nervous they were, how unaccustomed they must be to real surprises. Wagons were lined up haphazardly, horses snorting and flicking their tails while teamsters and stable attendants haggled. Lamps were lit in every inn and tavern bordering the court; knots of conversation and argument stood out everywhere in the uneasy crowds.

“Where the hells are we meant to go, then?” shouted a long-coated carriage hand at a tired-looking hostler. His Therin was fair, but his accent was obvious. “All these taverns are full up, now you tell me this bloody Josten’s place is closed off for your damn—”

“Your pardon, my good man,” said Locke, reining in beside the fracas. “If you have persons of quality seeking accommodations, I can be of immediate assistance.”

“Really? Who the devils might you be, then?”

“Lazari is my name. Doctor Sebastian Lazari.” Locke flashed a grin, then shifted to his excellent Vadran. “Your masters or mistresses have all my sympathies for the circumstances of their displacement, but they’ll soon find they’re not without friends here in Karthain.”

“Oh, bless the waters deep and shallow,” answered the carriage hand in the same tongue. “I serve the honorable Irina Varosz of Stovak. We’ve been five days on the road since—”

“You’re all but home,” said Locke. “Josten’s is the place for you. Josten’s Comprehensive. I can arrange chambers; pay no heed to what you’ve been told. My man Nikoros will handle the details.”

Nikoros, barely in control of his skittish horse, approached at the snap of Locke’s fingers.

“I’m, uh, not entirely sure where I’m meant to put them,” he whispered.

“Use the chambers I’ve kept empty for security reasons,” said Locke. “We can find other places for them after a few days. Rack your brains for anyone in the party who’s got empty rooms on their hands. Hell, there’s one manor up in Vel Verda that springs to mind immediately. Might as well get some joy out of the damn place.”

Jean was already off plying his own friendly Vadran to other guards, other footmen, other curious and well-dressed strangers with road dust on their cloaks. For perhaps twenty minutes he and Locke worked together smoothly, directing minor cousins of nobility and merchants of assorted quality to Nikoros and thence to Josten’s and the bosom of the Deep Roots party.

There was a fresh stir at the southern edge of the Court of Dust. Massed hooves rang on the cobbles as some two dozen men and women in black livery rode in, led by Vordratha and a few of the bravos Locke had seen hanging around the Sign of the Black Iris.

“That’s a pain in the precious bits,” muttered Locke to Nikoros. “I was hoping for a little more time alone to make new friends. Who told these a*sholes to get out of bed?”

“Oh, uh, I’m sure it was only a, uh, matter of time,” coughed Nikoros.

“You’re probably right.” Locke cracked his knuckles. “Well, now we play suitors in earnest. Here come that scribe and solicitor I wanted, at least. You ride like hell back to Josten’s and help him stack our friends from the north like books on shelves!”

5

IT WAS past the ninth hour of the morning when Jean’s nagging sense of duty pulled him back to the waking world, feeling like dough just barely baked long enough to resemble bread. He made his toilet indifferently, merely taming and oiling his hair before donning a fresh Morenna Sisters ensemble. Optics in place, nose plaster adjusted, he used his suite’s little mirror to affirm that his powerful need for coffee was plainly visible. Alas. They’d done good work the night before, and their reward for that work would be yet more work today.

Jean pushed the door to the main suite open and found Locke perched over a writing desk, looking even more ragged than Jean felt.

“I would inquire if you’d slept,” said Jean, “but I’ve learned to recognize silly questions before I ask them.”

Locke was surrounded by the detritus of personal and party business: stacks of papers in Nikoros’ handwriting, small avalanches of notes and receipts spilling from leather folios, several plates of half-eaten and now desiccated biscuits, a collection of burnt-out tapers and dimly phosphorescent alchemical globes. Crumpled sheets of parchment littered the floor. Locke peered at Jean like some sort of subterranean creature roused from contemplation of secret treasures by a mortal intruder.

“I don’t much feel like sleep,” he muttered. “You can go ahead and have mine if you like.”

“If only it worked that way,” said Jean, moving to loose one of the window-shades. “Gods, you’ve got these things plugged up tight enough to keep out water, let alone an autumn morning.”

“Please don’t touch that!” Locke shook his quill, and Jean noted that it was distinctly shorter than it had been when he’d trundled off to bed. “Open that window and I’ll burst into flame.”

“What’s got you so exercised?” Jean left the curtains alone and settled into a chair. “Anything to do with the new friends we swept up last night?”

“No.” Locke did favor him with a satisfied grin. “The count, by the way, is seventy-two eligible adults. I’ve got the solicitors lined up to discuss terms with them. Nice and simple. We’ll take them to the relevant offices in groups, hand over a little sweetener money with the fees, and get them registered. They’ll be seventy-two lawful voters by nightfall, and then we’ll decide which districts to settle them in.”

“How many fresh faces did the Black Iris snatch up?”

“Half what we got.” More teeth appeared within Locke’s grin. “I’ve left a reception committee at the Court of Dust to keep the party rolling, and I sent out a little expedition to survey the road. The opposition will still get some, of course, but I think we can safely say that the majority of Vadran expatriate votes will be for the Deep Roots.”

“Splendid,” said Jean. “Now what’s the business that’s been wearing that quill down?”

“Oh, it’s, you know.” Locke gestured at the arc of crumpled parchment sheets on the floor. “It’s a letter. My letter. To, uh, her. My response. It has a few, uh, sentiments and delicacies yet to be straightened out. I suppose by ‘few’ I mean ‘all of them.’ Say, can I ask you to undertake an embassy to the Sign of the Black Iris when it’s finished?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Jean, “because I really was hoping to get into another punch-up with Sabetha’s boys and girls as soon as possible, thanks.”

“They won’t hurt you,” said Locke. “Nor make you hurt them. It’s me Vordratha’s got it in for.”

“Of course I’ll carry a token of your obsession into hostile territory for you,” said Jean. “But there’s one condition. Put yourself in your bed and use it for its intended purpose, right now.”

“But—”

“You’ve got bags under your eyes like crescent pastries,” said Jean, feeling that he was being very kind. “You look like Nikoros, for the Crooked Warden’s sake. Like you ought to be crouched in a gutter somewhere catching small animals and eating them raw. You need rest.”

“But the letter—”

“I’ve got a sleeping draught right here, ready to administer.” Jean curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist and shook it at Locke. “Besides, how could a nap to clear your head do anything but improve this epistolary endeavor?”

“Hey,” said Locke, scratching his stubble absently with his quill. “That sounds suspiciously like wisdom, damn your eyes. Why must you always flounce about being wiser than me?”

“Doesn’t require much conscious effort.” Jean pointed toward Locke’s room with mock paternal sternness, but Locke was already on his way, stumbling and yawning. He was snoring in moments.

Jean surveyed the wreckage of Locke’s attempts at letter-writing, wondering at the contents of the crumpled sheets. He settled his left hand in a coat pocket and ran his thumb round the lock of hair concealed therein. After a moment of contemplation, he gathered the balled-up parchments, piled them in the suit’s small fireplace, and set them alight with an alchemical twist-match from an ornate box on the mantel. Locke snored on.

Jean slipped out and quietly locked the door behind him.

Josten’s was in a fine bustle. Well-dressed new faces were everywhere in the common room, and the babble was as much Vadran as Therin. Diligence Josten, jaunty as a general of unblooded troops, was lecturing a half-dozen staff. He clapped his hands and shooed them to their tasks as Jean approached.

“Master Callas,” said Josten, “my procurer of strange clientele! You look like a man in search of breakfast.”

“I have only two wishes,” said Jean. “The first is for strong coffee, and the second is for stronger coffee.”

“Behold my jask.” Josten pointed to an ornate, long-handled copper pot simmering on a glowing alchemical stone behind the bar counter. “My father’s jask, actually. Secret of the Okanti hearth. You poor bastards were still steeping your coffee in wash-tubs when we came along to rescue you.”

The coffee Josten decanted from the jask was capped with cinnamon-colored foam. Jean felt less than civilized gulping it, but his wits needed the prodding, and the blend of fig and chicory flavors hit his throat in a satisfying scalding rush. The room was already looking brighter when he reached the dregs of the small cup.

“Lights the fires, doesn’t it?” said Josten, smoothly refilling Jean’s cup. “I’ve been pouring it into Nikoros for days, poor bastard. He’s, ah, lost a personal buttress, that one.”

“I know,” said Jean. “Can’t be helped.”

Josten politely refused to let Jean go about his business on a breakfast of nothing but coffee. A few minutes later, Jean climbed the stairs to the Deep Roots private section carrying a bowl heaped with freshwater anchovies, olives, seared tomatoes, hard brown cheese, and curls of bread fried with oil and onions.

Nikoros was sprawled in a padded chair, surrounded by an arc of papers and empty cups resembling the mess that had grown around Locke. His stubble looked sufficient to scrape barnacles from ship hulls, and his lids lifted over bloodshot eyes as Jean approached.

“In my dreams I sign chits and file papers,” Nikoros muttered. “Then I awake to sign real chits and file real papers. I imagine my grave marker will be carved as a writing desk. ‘Here lies Nikoros Via Lupa, wifeless and heirless, but gods how he could alphabetize!’ ”

“We’ve overworked you,” said Jean. “And you still coming down off that shit you were shoving up your nose! Hard old days. We’ve been thoughtless, Master Lazari and I. Here, take some breakfast.”

Nikoros was hesitant to do so at first, but his interest grew rapidly, and soon he and Jean were racing one another to finish the contents of the bowl.

“You’re the sinews of this whole affair,” said Jean. “It’s not the Dexas and the Epitaluses that hold things together. Not even Lazari and me. It’s been you, it is you, and it will be you, long after we’re gone.”

“Long after this disaster is past us,” said Nikoros, “and gods grant that we still have any Konseil seats at all five years from now.”

“Here, now,” said Jean. “We’re in the thick of it, no lie. You can’t see the direction of the battle because you’re in the mud and the mess with all the other poor bastards, but it has a direction. You must accept my assurances that I can see a little farther than you can.”

“The Black Iris,” said Nikoros, looking away from Jean, “this time, they’ve … they’ve got … well, they have advantages. At least that’s how it seems to me.”

“They have some,” said Jean with nod. “We have others. And we’ve come off rather well in this new game of displaced northerners, haven’t we? Six dozen fresh voters to seed wherever we need them. The Black Iris can work whatever cocksuckery they like upon us, but in the end it all comes down to names on ballots.”

“You’re being poorly served by me,” said Nikoros, almost too softly to hear.

“Nonsense.” Jean raised his voice and gave Nikoros a careful, friendly squeeze on the arm. “If you weren’t meeting our expectations, don’t you think we’d have packed you off somewhere out of the way?”

“Well, thank you, Master Callas.” Nikoros smiled, but it was a wan formality.

“Gods, it must be my week to be confessor to the heartsick and weary,” sighed Jean. “You could do with a few more hours of sleep, I think. The sort not spent jammed into a chair. Off to your chambers, and don’t let me see you again until—”

A woman with short curly black hair pounded up the stairs. She wore a traveling coat and mantle, as well as a courier’s pouch and a sheath knife.

“Sirs,” she said, “I’m sorry to come rushing back like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

“This is Ven Allaine,” said Nikoros, rising. “Ven for ‘Venturesome.’ She’s one of our troubleshooters. Ven, I’m sure you know who Master Callas is.”

Jean and Allaine exchanged the quickest possible courtesies; then she continued:

“Master Via Lupa sent us out an hour before sunrise, five of us on horseback, north from the Court of Dust. We were supposed to spot Vadran swells on the road. Introduce ourselves, make our offers, get them in the bag for the Deep Roots before they even hit the city.” She pulled her leather gloves off and slapped them against her leg. “We planned to be out until midafternoon, but just after sunup we were overridden by bluecoats, lots of them, not sparing their horses.

“They said they had an emergency directive from the Commission for Public Order. No Karthani citizens allowed more than a hundred yards north on the road, because of ‘unsettled conditions.’ They said we could either ride back under escort or walk back under arrest. So that’s it, and here I am again.”

“Are you sure they were real constables?” said Jean.

“No foolery there,” said Allaine. “They had the papers from the Commission, and I recognized a few of them.”

“You did well,” said Jean. “If you’d tried to argue you’d probably be trudging back home under guard right now. You and your fellows get some breakfast, and leave this with us.” Jean watched her depart, then turned to Nikoros. “The Commission for Public Order?”

“A trio of Konseil members. Chosen by majority vote of the larger body. A sort of committee to run the constabulary.”

“Shit. I suppose it’d be silly of me to ask what party those three belong to.”

“It would,” said Nikoros. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“We’ll just have to continue our diplomatic efforts within the city gates,” said Jean. “No worries. I’ll send Allaine and her crew out to join that party once they’ve eaten. As for you: bed. Don’t say anything, just go to your chambers and go to bed, or I’ll throw you off this balcony. You and Master Lazari both need it. I can call the tune for this dance for a few hours.”

After Nikoros crept gratefully off to his rest, Jean sifted the papers he’d left, noting new developments as well as familiar problems. He wrote orders of his own, passed them to couriers, received routine inquiries, and drank several different varieties of coffee, all freshly boiled and scalding, while the pale fingers of autumn light from the windows swung across the room.

Just after noon, the front doors banged open. Damned Superstition Dexa and Firstson Epitalus swept through the crowd and up the stairs, trailed by an unusually large bevy of attendants. Jean set down his coffee and paperwork, then rose to greet them.

“You!” hissed Dexa as she crested the last step, striding forcefully toward Jean. “You and Lazari have rashly placed us in a position of the most profound and untenable embarrassment!”

Jean squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and spread his hands disarmingly.

“I can see we have a misunderstanding in progress,” he said. “Well, I’m here to instruct and condole. Everyone who isn’t a member of the Konseil is dismissed.”

Some of the attendants looked uncertain, but Jean took a step forward, smiling, and shooed them off, as though dealing with children. In a moment he and the two Konseillors were alone on the private balcony, and Jean’s smile vanished.

“You will never again address me in that fashion,” he said, his voice low and even but not even remotely polite.

“On the contrary,” said Dexa, “I intend to take your skin off by means of verbal vitriol. Now—”

“Damned Superstition Dexa,” said Jean, stepping in to loom over her without subtlety, “you will lower your voice. You will not create a scene. You will not confuse and demoralize the party members below. You will not allow our opponents the satisfaction of hearing about any disarray or dissension here!”

She glared at him, but then, through the force of argument or sorcerous conditioning or both, she caught hold of her temper and nodded, grudgingly.

“Now,” said Jean. “I will listen to anything, even the most vicious chastisement, so long as it is delivered quietly and we preserve our outward show of amity.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re entirely correct. But you and Lazari have loaded our credibility on a barge and sunk it in the lake with this business of collecting strays!”

“Wealthy, well-connected strays,” said Jean. “All of whom will be grateful for their places here, and will show their gratitude by voting—”

“That’s just it,” interrupted Firstson Epitalus, “they won’t. Show it to him, Dexa.”

“We were summoned to an emergency meeting of the Konseil just over an hour ago,” said Dexa, taking several folded sheets of paper out of her jacket and passing them to Jean. “The Black Iris convened it and barely managed to scrape the letter of the law in sending out notices. They pushed an emergency directive through by simple majority vote.”

“In light of unforeseen developments,” muttered Jean out loud as he read the tightly scripted legal pronouncements, “and the influx of desperate and diverse refugees … steps necessary to secure the sanctity of the Karthani electoral process … urgently and immediately bar all such refugees from enfranchisement as voting citizens … period of three years! Oh, those cheeky sacks of donkey shit!”

“Quite,” said Dexa. “Now, proceed to the fine details.”

“All constables empowered …” Jean read, skimming irrelevancies and flourishes, “ … therefore this directive shall be considered in effect … noon! Noon today! A few damn minutes ago.”

“Yes,” said Epitalus. “Seems it wasn’t quite such an urgent and immediate need that they didn’t want to be sure all of their own Vadran newcomers were registered first.”

“Hells,” said Jean. “I only sent off about half a dozen of ours. We thought we’d have all day! How many new voters did they buy?”

“Our sources say forty,” said Dexa. “So for all your galloping about in the middle of the night, you’ve earned us six votes and the opposition forty, and now we have six dozen of our cousins from the north to store like useless clothes! How do you propose we get rid of them?”

“I don’t.”

“But that’s simply—”

“We made promises to aid and shelter them in the name of the Deep Roots party,” said Jean. “Do you know what happens when that sort of promise goes unkept? How willing do you think Karthani voters will be to put their trust in us if we’re seen kicking respectable refugees back out into the cold before the eyes of the whole city?”

“Point taken,” sighed Dexa.

“If we can’t use them as voters,” said Jean, “we can still take their money in exchange for our help. And we can use them to grow sympathy. We’ll circulate some exaggerations about these people being chased out of their homes. Families murdered, houses burned, inheritances usurped—all that sort of thing. We’re good with stories, Lazari and me.”

“Oh yes, quite,” said Dexa, all the fight leaving her voice at last. “I wager you must know best, after all.”

Jean frowned. This sort of sudden lassitude had to be some sort of friction between Dexa’s conditioning and her natural inclinations. Now it was time to put her and Epitalus back together.

“You wouldn’t have hired us if you hadn’t wanted the best in a very unusual business,” said Jean. “Now, if you’ve got no further plans for the moment, I could use your advice on some of these situations around the city .…”

Actually, he hadn’t needed anything of the sort, but after a few minutes of smooth fakery he found some genuine questions to apply their nattering to, and after a few more minutes he summoned a stream of coffee, brandy, and tobacco that flowed for the rest of the afternoon. Soon enough any cracks in their working fa?ade seemed plastered over, and Jean found himself practicing dipsomantic sleight-of-hand to avoid having his wits plastered over.

Around the third hour of the afternoon Locke appeared, looking significantly less close to death. He wore a fresh green-trimmed black coat and gnawed with practiced un-self-consciousness at a pile of biscuits and meat balanced daintily atop a mug of coffee.

“Hello, fellow Roots,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been hearing the damnedest things just now.”

Jean passed him the papers from Dexa, and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Locke ate with dexterous voracity, so that he was dunking his last biscuit in his coffee as Jean finished his report with innocuous hand signals:

These two were upset. Fixed now. Used argument and drink. More of latter.

“Alas,” said Locke, “it was a grand old scheme we cooked up, but all we can do now is leave flowers on the grave and move along to the next one. Our Black Iris friends seem to be either sharper or luckier than usual these past few days. Well, leave that to me. I’ve got to hit back.”

He drained his coffee in one long gulp, then motioned for Jean and the two Konseillors to lean in closer to him.

“Dexa,” he said quietly, “Epitalus, you two must know all the other Konseil members fairly well. Which Black Iris Konseillor would you say has the most … mercenary sort of self-interest? The least attachment to politics or ideology or anything beyond the feathers in their own nest?”

“The most aptly suited to bribery?” said Epitalus.

“Let’s say the most open to clandestine persuasion,” said Locke, “by means financial or otherwise.”

“It would have to be a vault-filling sort of persuasion in any case,” said Dexa. “Rats don’t tend to desert a ship that isn’t sinking. Forgive that impression of the Black Iris, Master Lazari, but that’s as I see it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Locke. “But is there anyone?”

“If I had to wager something on the question,” said Dexa, “I’d put my money on Lovaris.”

“Secondson Lovaris,” said Epitalus, nodding. “Also called ‘Perspicacity,’ though gods know where that came from. He’s got no real politics at all, near as I can tell. He loves the sound of his own voice. Loves being one of the selected few. Thoroughly adores the opportunities for … enrichment a Konseil seat often attracts.”

“I’m an opportunity for enrichment,” said Locke with a smile. “I need to meet this piece of work privately, as soon as I can, and as secretly. How would you suggest I go about it?”

“Through Nikoros,” said Dexa. “Him and his underwriting for transport syndicates. Lovaris holds part interest in a ship called the Lady Emerald. If one of Nikoros’ contacts carried him a sealed letter on some boring point of nautical business, you’d have his attention and you wouldn’t need to fly Deep Roots colors anywhere near him.”

“That sounds damned superlative, Damned Superstition.” Locke saluted her with his empty mug. “I have my next mission.”