The Lies of Locke Lamora

Chapter THIRTEEN

ORCHIDS AND ASSASSINS

1

LOCKE LAMORA STOOD before the steps of Meraggio’s Countinghouse the next day, just as the huge Verrari water-clock inside the building’s foyer chimed out the tenth hour of the morning. A sun shower was falling; gentle hot rain blown in beneath a sky that was mostly blue-white and clear. Traffic on the Via Camorrazza was at a high ebb, with cargo barges and passenger boats dueling for water space with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for battlefield maneuvers.

One of Jean’s crowns had been broken up to furnish Locke (who still wore his gray hair and a false beard, trimmed down now to a modest goatee) with acceptably clean clothing in the fashion of a courier or scribe. While he certainly didn’t look like a man of funds, he was the very picture of a respectable employee.

Meraggio’s Countinghouse was a four-story hybrid of two hundred years’ worth of architectural fads; it had columns, arched windows, facades of stone and lacquered wood alike, and external sitting galleries both decorative and functional. All these galleries were covered with silk awnings in the colors of Camorr’s coins—brownish copper, yellowish gold, silver-gray, and milky white. There were a hundred Lukas Fehrwights in sight even outside the place; a hundred men of business in lavishly tailored coats. Any one of their ensembles was worth five years of pay to a common artisan or laborer.

And if Locke set an unkind finger on so much as a coat sleeve, Meraggio’s house guards would boil out the doors like bees from a shaken hive. It would be a race between them and the several squads of city watchmen pacing this side of the canal—the winner would get the honor of knocking his brains out through his ears with their truncheons.

Seven white iron crowns, twenty silver solons, and a few coppers jingled in Locke’s coin purse. He was completely unarmed. He had only the vaguest idea of what he would do or say if his very tentative plan went awry.

“Crooked Warden,” he whispered, “I’m going into this countinghouse, and I’m going to come out with what I need. I’d like your aid. And if I don’t get it, well, to hell with you. I’ll come out with what I need anyway.”

Head high, chin out, he began to mount the steps.

2

“PRIVATE MESSAGE for Koreander Previn,” he told the guards on duty just inside the foyer as he ran a hand through his hair to sweep some of the water out of it. There were three of them, dressed in maroon velvet coats, black breeches, and black silk shirts; their gold-gilded buttons gleamed, but the grips on the long fighting knives and clubs sheathed at their belts were worn from practice.

“Previn, Previn…,” muttered one of the guards as he consulted a leather-bound directory. “Hmmm. Public gallery, fifty-five. I don’t see anything about him not receiving walk-ins. You know where you’re going?”

“Been here before,” said Locke.

“Right.” The guard set down the directory and picked up a slate, which served as a writing board for the parchment atop it; the guard then plucked a quill from an inkwell on a little table. “Name and district?”

“Tavrin Callas,” said Locke. “North Corner.”

“You write?”

“No, sir.”

“Just make your mark there, then.”

The guard held out the slate while Locke scratched a big black X next to TEVRIN KALLUS. The guard’s handwriting was better than his spelling.

“In with you, then,” said the guard.

The main floor of Meraggio’s Countinghouse—the public gallery—was a field of desks and counters, eight across and eight deep. Each heavy desk had a merchant, a money-changer, a lawscribe, a clerk, or some other functionary seated behind it; the vast majority also had clients sitting before them, talking earnestly or waiting patiently or arguing heatedly. The men and women behind those desks rented them from Meraggio’s; some took them every working day of the week, while others could only afford to alternate days with partners. Sunlight poured down on the room through long clear skylights; the gentle patter of rain could be heard mingled with the furious babble of business.

On either side, four levels of brass-railed galleries rose up to the ceiling. Within the pleasantly darkened confines of these galleries, the more powerful, wealthy, and established business-folk lounged. They were referred to as members of Meraggio’s, though the Meraggio shared no actual power with them, but merely granted them a long list of privileges that set them above (both literally and figuratively) the men and women at work on the public floor.

There were guards in every corner of the building, relaxed but vigilant. Dashing about here and there were waiters in black jackets, black breeches, and long maroon waist-aprons. There was a large kitchen at the rear of Meraggio’s, and a wine cellar that would have done any tavern proud. The affairs of the men and women at the countinghouse were often too pressing to waste time going out or sending out for food. Some of the private members lived at the place, for all intents and purposes, returning to their homes only to sleep and change clothes, and then only because Meraggio’s closed its doors shortly after Falselight.

Moving with calm self-assurance, Locke found his way to the public gallery desk marked “55.” Koreander Previn was a lawscribe who’d helped the Sanzas set up the perfectly legitimate accounts of Evante Eccari several years previously. Locke remembered him as having been a near match for his own size; he prayed to himself that the man hadn’t developed a taste for rich food in the time since.

“Yes,” said Previn, who thankfully remained as trim as ever, “how can I help you?”

Locke considered the man’s loosely tailored, open-front coat; it was pine green with yellow-gold trimmings on the flaring purple cuffs. The man had a good eye for fashionable cuts and was apparently as blind as a brass statue when it came to colors.

“Master Previn,” said Locke, “my name is Tavrin Callas, and I find myself possessed of a very singular problem, one that you may well be able to lay to rest—though I must warn you it is somewhat outside the purview of your ordinary duties.”

“I’m a lawscribe,” said Previn, “and my time is usually measured, when I am sitting with a client. Do you propose to become one?”

“What I propose,” said Locke, “would put no fewer than five full crowns in your pocket, perhaps as early as this afternoon.” He passed a hand over the edge of Previn’s desk and caused a white iron crown to appear there by legerdemain; his technique might have been a little bit shaky, but Previn was apparently unacquainted with the skill, for his eyebrows rose.

“I see. You do have my attention, Master Callas,” said Previn.

“Good, good. I hope that I shall shortly have your earnest cooperation, as well. Master Previn, I am a representative of a trade combine that I would, in all honor, prefer not to name. Although I am Camorri-born, I live and work out of Talisham. I am scheduled tonight to dine with several very important contacts, one of them a don, to discuss the business matter I have been sent to Camorr to see through. I, ah…this is most embarrassing, but I fear I have been the victim of a rather substantial theft.”

“A theft, Master Callas? What do you mean?”

“My wardrobe,” said Locke. “All of my clothing, and all of my belongings, were stolen while I slept. The tavern-master, why, confound the bastard, he claims that he can bear no responsibility for the crime, and he insists I must have left my door unlocked!”

“I can recommend a solicitor that would suit, for such a case.” Previn opened a desk drawer and began hunting through the parchments that lay within. “You could bring the tavern-master before the Common Claims court at the Palace of Patience; it might take as little as five or six days, if you can get an officer of the watch to corroborate your story. And I can draw up all the documents necessary to—”

“Master Previn, forgive me. That is a wise course of action; in most other circumstances I would gladly pursue it, and ask you to draw out whatever forms were required. But I don’t have five or six days; I fear I have only hours. The dinner, sir, is this evening, as I said.”

“Hmmm,” said Previn. “Could you not reschedule the dinner? Surely your associates would understand, with you facing such an extremity.”

“Oh, if only I could. But Master Previn, how am I to appear before them, asking them to entrust tens of thousands of crowns to the ventures of my combine, when I cannot even be entrusted to vouchsafe my own wardrobe? I am…I am most embarrassed. I fear I shall lose this affair, let it slip entirely through my fingers. The don in question, he is…he is something of an eccentric. I fear he would not tolerate an irregularity such as my situation presents; I fear, if put off once, he would not desire to meet again.”

“Interesting, Master Callas. Your concerns may be…valid. I shall trust you to best judge the character of your associates. But how may I be of assistance?”

“We are of a like size, Master Previn,” said Locke. “We are of a like size, and I very much appreciate your subtle eye for cuts and colors—you have a singular taste. What I propose is the loan of a suitable set of clothing, with the necessary trifles and accoutrements. I shall give you five crowns as an assurance for their care, and when I am finished with them and have returned them, you may keep the assurance.”

“You, ah…you wish me to loan you some of my clothes?”

“Yes, Master Previn, with all thanks for your consideration. The assistance would be immeasurable. My combine would not be ungrateful, I daresay.”

“Hmmm.” Previn closed the drawer of his desk and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, frowning. “You propose to pay me an assurance worth about one-fourth of the clothing I would be loaning you, were you to be attending a dinner party with a don. One-fourth, at a minimum.”

“I, ah, assure you, Master Previn, that with the sole exception of this unfortunate theft, I have always thought of myself as the soul of caution. I would look after your clothing as though my life depended upon it—indeed, it does. If these negotiations go amiss, I am likely to be out of ajob.”

“This is…this is quite unusual, Master Callas. Quite an irregular thing to ask. What combine do you work for?”

“I—I am embarrassed to say, Master Previn. For fear that my situation should reflect poorly on them. I am only trying to do my duty by them, you understand.”

“I do, I do, and yet it must be plain to you that no man could call himself wise who would give a stranger thirty crowns in exchange for five, without…something more than earnest assurances. I do beg your pardon, but that’s the way it must be.”

“Very well,” said Locke. “I am employed by the West Iron Sea Mercantile Combine, registered out of Tal Verrar.”

“West Iron Sea Mercantile…hmmm.” Previn opened another desk drawer and flipped through a small sheaf of papers. “I have Meraggio’s Directory for the current year, Seventy-eighth Year of Aza Guilla, and yet…Tal Verrar…there is no listing for a West Iron Sea Mercantile Combine.”

“Ah, damn that old problem,” said Locke. “We were incorporated in the second month of the year; we are too new to be listed yet. It has been such a bother, believe me.”

“Master Callas,” said Previn, “I sympathize with you, I truly do, but this situation is…you must forgive me, sir, this situation is entirely too irregular for my comfort. I fear that I cannot help you, but I pray you find some means of placating your business associates.”

“Master Previn, I beg of you, please—”

“Sir, this interview is at an end.”

“Then I am doomed,” said Locke. “I am entirely without hope. I do beseech you, sir, to reconsider….”

“I am a lawscribe, Master Callas, not a clothier. This interview is over; I wish you good fortune, and a good day.”

“Is there nothing I can say that would at least raise the possibility of—”

Previn picked up a small brass bell that sat on one edge of his desk; he rang it three times, and guards began to appear out of the nearby crowd. Locke palmed his white iron piece from the desktop and sighed.

“This man is to be escorted from the grounds,” said Previn when one of Meraggio’s guards set a gauntleted hand on Locke’s shoulder. “Please show him every courtesy.”

“Certainly, Master Previn. As for you, right this way, sir,” said the guard as Locke was helped from his seat by no fewer than three stocky men and then enthusiastically assisted down the main corridor of the public gallery, out the foyer, and back to the steps. The rain had ceased to fall, and the city had the freshly washed scent of steam rising from warm stones.

“It’d be best if we didn’t see you again,” said one of the guards. Three of them stood there, staring down at him, while men and women of business made their way up the steps around him, patently ignoring him. The same could not be said for some of the yellowjackets, who were staring interestedly.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, and he set off to the southwest at a brisk walk. He would cross one of the bridges to the Videnza, he told himself, and find one of the tailors there….

3

THE WATER-CLOCK was chiming the noon hour when Locke returned to the foot of Meraggio’s steps. The light-colored clothing of “Tavrin Callas” had vanished; Locke now wore a dark cotton doublet, cheap black breeches, and black hose; his hair was concealed under a black velvet cap, and in place of his goatee (which had come off rather painfully—someday he would learn to carry adhesive-dissolving salve with him as a matter of habit) he now wore a thin moustache. His cheeks were red, and his clothing was already sweated through in several places. In his hands he clutched a rolled parchment (blank), and he gave himself a hint of a Talishani accent when he stepped into the foyer and addressed the guards.

“I require a lawscribe,” said Locke. “I have no appointment and no associates here; I am content to wait for the first available.”

“Lawscribe, right.” The familiar directory guard consulted his lists. “You might try Daniella Montagu, public gallery, desk sixteen. Or maybe…Etienne Acalo, desk thirty-six. Anyhow, there’s a railed area for waiting.”

“You are most kind,” said Locke.

“Name and district?”

“Galdo Avrillaigne,” said Locke. “I am from Talisham.”

“You write?”

“Why, all the time,” said Locke, “except of course when I’m wrong.”

The directory guard stared at him for several seconds until one of the guards standing behind Locke snickered; the symptoms of belated enlightenment appeared on the directory guard’s face, but he didn’t look very amused. “Just sign or make your mark here, Master Avrillaigne.”

Locke accepted the proffered quill and scribed a fluid, elaborate signature beside the guard’s GALLDO AVRILLANE, then strolled into the countinghouse with a friendly nod.

Locke rapidly cased the public gallery once again while he feigned good-natured befuddlement. Rather than settling into the waiting area, which was marked off with brass rails, he walked straight toward the well-dressed young man behind desk twenty-two, who was scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment and currently had no client to distract him. Locke settled into the chair before his desk and cleared his throat.

The man looked up; he was a slender Camorri with slicked-back brown hair and optics over his wide, sensitive eyes. He wore a cream-colored coat with plum purple lining visible within the cuffs. The lining matched his tunic and his vest; the man’s ruffled silk cravats were composed in layers of cream upon dark purple. Somewhat dandified, perhaps, and the man was a few inches taller than Locke, but that was a difficulty relatively easily dealt with.

“I say,” said Locke in his brightest, most conversational I’m-not-from-your-city tone of voice, “how would you like to find your pockets laden down with five white iron crowns before the afternoon is done?”

“I…that…five…sir, you seem to have me at a disadvantage. What can I do for you, and indeed, who are you?”

“My name is Galdo Avrillaigne,” said Locke. “I’m from Talisham.”

“You don’t say,” said the man. “Five crowns, you mentioned? I usually don’t charge that much for my services, but I’d like to hear what you have in mind.”

“Your services,” said Locke, “your professional services, that is, are not what I’ll be requiring, Master…”

“Magris, Armand Magris,” said the man. “But you, you don’t know who I am and you don’t want my—”

“White iron, I said.” Locke conjured the same piece he’d set down on Koreander Previn’s desk two hours before. He made it seem to pop up out of his closed knuckles and settle there; he’d never developed the skill for knuckle-walking that the Sanzas had. “Five white iron crowns, for a trifling service, if somewhat unusual.”

“Unusual how?”

“I have had a streak of rather ill fortune, Master Magris,” said Locke. “I am a commercial representative of Strollo and Sons, the foremost confectioner in all of Talisham, purveyor of subtleties and sweets. I took ship from Talisham for a meeting with several potential clients in Camorr—clients of rank, you understand. Two dons and their wives, looking to my employers to liven up their tables with new gustatory experiences.”

“Do you wish me to draw up documents for a potential partnership, or some sale?”

“Nothing so mundane, Master Magris, nothing so mundane. Pray hear the full extent of my misfortune. I was dispatched to Camorr by sea, with a number of packages in my possession. These packages contained spun sugar confections of surpassing excellence and delicacy; subtleties the likes of which even your famed Camorri chefs have never conceived. Hollow sweetmeats with alchemical cream centers…cinnamon tarts with the Austershalin brandy of Emberlain for a glaze…wonders. I was to dine with our potential clients, and see that they were suitably overcome with enthusiasm for my employer’s arts. The sums involved for furnishing festival feasts alone, well…the engagement is a very important one.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Magris. “Sounds like very pleasant work.”

“It would be, save for one unfortunate fact,” said Locke. “The ship that brought me here, while as fast as had been promised, was badly infested with rats.”

“Oh dear…surely not your—”

“Yes,” said Locke. “My wares. My very excellent wares were stored in rather lightweight packages. I kept them out of the hold; unfortunately, this seems to have given the rats an easier time of it. They fell upon my confections quite ravenously; everything I carried was destroyed.”

“It pains me to hear of your loss,” said Magris. “How can I be of aid?”

“My wares,” said Locke, “were stored with my clothes. And that is the final embarrassment of my situation; between the depredations of teeth and of, ah, droppings, if I may be so indelicate…my wardrobe is entirely destroyed. I dressed plainly for the voyage, and now this is the only complete set of clothes to my name.”

“Twelve gods, that is a pretty pickle. Does your employer have an account here at Meraggio’s? Do you have credit you might draw against for the price of clothes?”

“Sadly, no,” said Locke. “We have been considering it; I have long argued for it. But we have no such account to help me now, and my dinner engagement this evening is most pressing; most pressing indeed. Although I cannot present the confections, I can at least present myself in apology—I do not wish to give offense. One of our potential clients is, ah, a very particular and picky man. Very particular and picky. It would not do to stand him up entirely. He would no doubt spread word in his circles that Strollo and Sons was not a name to be trusted. There would be imputations not just against our goods, but against our very civility, you see.”

“Yes, some of the dons are…very firmly set in their customs. As yet I fail to see, however, where my assistance enters the picture.”

“We are of a similar size, sir, of a fortuitously similar size. And your taste, why, it is superlative, Master Magris; we could be long-lost brothers, so alike are we in our sense for cuts and colors. You are slightly taller than I am, but surely I can bear that for the few hours necessary. I would ask, sir, I would beg—aid me by lending me a suitable set of clothing. I must dine with dons this evening; help me to look the part, so that my employers might salvage their good name from this affair.”

“You desire…you desire the loan of a coat, and breeches, and hose and shoes, and all the fiddle-faddle and necessaries?”

“Indeed,” said Locke, “with a heartfelt promise to look after every single stitch as though it were the last in the world. What’s more, I propose to leave you an assurance of five white iron crowns; keep it until I have returned every thread of your clothing, and then keep it thereafter. Surely it is a month or two of pay, for so little work.”

“It is, it is…it is a very handsome sum. However,” said Magris, looking as though he was trying to stifle a grin, “this is…as I’m sure you know, rather odd.”

“I am only too aware, sir, only too aware. Can I not inspire you to have some pity for me? I am not too proud to beg, Master Magris—it is more than just my job at stake. It is the reputation of my employers.”

“No doubt,” said Magris. “No doubt. A pity that rats cannot speak Therin; I wager they’d offer forth a very fine testimony.”

“Six white iron crowns,” said Locke. “I can stretch my purse that far. I implore you, sir…”

“Squeak-squeak,” said Magris. “Squeak-squeak, they would say. And what fat little rats they would be after all that; what round little miscreants. They would give their testimony and then beg to be put back on a ship for Talisham, to continue their feasting. Your Strollo and Sons could have loyal employees for life; though rather small ones, of course.”

“Master Magris, this is quite—”

“You’re not really from Talisham, are you?”

“Master Magris, please.”

“You’re one of Meraggio’s little tests, aren’t you? Just like poor Willa got snapped up in last month.” Magris could no longer contain his mirth; he was obviously very pleased with himself indeed. “You may inform the good Master Meraggio that my dignity doesn’t flee at the sight of a little white iron; I would never dishonor his establishment by participating in such a prank. You will, of course, give him my very best regards?”

Locke had known frustration on many occasions before, so it was easy enough to stifle the urge to leap over Magris’ desk and strangle him. Sighing inwardly, he let his gaze wander around the room for a split second—and there, staring out across the floor from one of the second-level galleries, stood Meraggio himself.

Giancana Meraggio wore a frock coat in the ideal present fashion, loose and open, with flaring cuffs and polished silver buttons. His coat, breeches, and cravats were of a singularly pleasing dark blue, the color of the sky just before Falselight. There was little surface ostentation, but the clothes were fine, rich and subtle in a way that made their expense clear without offending the senses. It had to be Meraggio, for there was an orchid pinned at the right breast of his coat—that was Meraggio’s sole affectation, a fresh orchid picked every single day to adorn his clothes.

Judging by the advisors and attendants who stood close behind the man, Locke estimated that Meraggio was very close in height and build to himself.

The plan seemed to come up out of nowhere; it swept into his thoughts like a boarding party rushing onto a ship. In the blink of an eye, he was in its power, and it was set out before him, plain as walking in a straight line. He dropped his Talishani accent and smiled back at Magris.

“Oh, you’re too clever for me, Master Magris. Too clever by half. My congratulations; you were only too right to refuse. And never fear—I shall report to Meraggio himself, quite presently and directly. Your perspicacity will not escape his notice. Now, if you will excuse me….”

4

AT THE rear of Meraggio’s was a service entrance in a wide alley, where deliveries came in to the storage rooms and kitchens. This was where the waiters took their breaks, as well. Newcomers to the countinghouse’s service received scant minutes, while senior members of the staff might have as long as half an hour to lounge and eat between shifts on the floor. A single bored guard leaned on the wall beside the service door, arms folded; he came to life as Locke approached.

“What business?”

“Nothing, really,” said Locke. “I just wanted to talk to some of the waiters, maybe one of the kitchen stewards.”

“This isn’t a public park. Best you took your stroll elsewhere.”

“Be a friend,” said Locke. A solon appeared in one of his hands, conveniently held up within the guard’s reach. “I’m looking for a job, is all. I just want to talk to some of the waiters and stewards, right? The ones that are off duty. I’ll stay out of everyone else’s way.”

“Well, mind that you do.” The guard made the silver coin vanish into his own pockets. “And don’t take too long.”

Just inside the service entrance, the receiving room was unadorned, low-ceilinged, and smelly. Half a dozen silent waiters stood against the walls or paced; one or two sipped tea, while the rest seemed to be savoring the simple pleasure of doing nothing at all. Locke appraised them rapidly, selected the one closest to his own height and build, and quickly stepped over to the man.

“I need your help,” said Locke. “It’s worth five crowns, and it won’t take but a few minutes.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Locke reached down, grabbed one of the waiter’s hands, and slapped a white iron crown into it. The man jerked his hand away, then looked down at what was sitting on his palm. His eyes did a credible imitation of attempting to jump out of their sockets.

“The alley,” said Locke. “We need to talk.”

“Gods, we certainly do,” said the waiter, a bulldog-faced, balding man somewhere in his thirties.

Locke led him out the service door and down the alley, until they were about forty feet from the guard, safely out of earshot. “I work for the duke,” said Locke. “I need to get this message to Meraggio, but I can’t be seen in the countinghouse dressed as myself. There are…complications.” Locke waved his blank parchment pages at the waiter; they were wrapped into a tight cylinder.

“I, ah, I can deliver that for you,” said the waiter.

“I have orders,” said Locke. “Personal delivery, and nothing less. I need to get on that floor and I need to be inconspicuous; it just needs to be for five minutes. Like I said, it’s worth five crowns. Cold spending metal, this very afternoon. I need to look like a waiter.”

“Shit,” said the waiter. “Usually, we have some spare togs lying around…black coats and a few aprons. We could fix you up with those, but it’s laundry day. There’s nothing in the whole place.”

“Of course there is,” said Locke. “You’re wearing exactly what I need.”

“Now, wait just a minute. That’s not really possible….”

Locke grabbed the waiter’s hand again and slid another four white iron crowns into it.

“Have you ever held that much money before in your life?”

“Twelve gods, no,” the man whispered. He licked his lips, stared at Locke for a second or two, and then gave a brief nod. “What do I do?”

“Just follow me,” said Locke. “We’ll make this easy and quick.”

“I have about twenty minutes,” said the waiter. “And then I need to be back on the floor.”

“When I’m finished,” said Locke, “that won’t matter. I’ll let Meraggio know you’ve helped us both; you’ll be off the hook.”

“Uh, okay. Where are we going?”

“Just around the corner here…We need an inn.”

The Welcoming Shade was just around the block from Meraggio’s Countinghouse. It was tolerably clean, cheap, and devoid of luxuries—the sort of place that hosted couriers, scholars, scribes, attendants, and lesser functionaries rather than the better classes of businessfolk. The place was a two-story square, built around an open central space in the fashion of a Therin Throne villa. At the center of this courtyard was a tall olive tree with leaves that rustled pleasantly in the sunlight.

“One room,” said Locke, “with a window, just for the day.” He set coins down on the counter. The innkeeper scurried out, key in hand, to show Locke and the waiter to a second-story room marked “9.”

Chamber nine had a pair of folding cots, an oiled-paper window, a small closet, and nothing else. The master of the Welcoming Shade bowed as he left, and kept his mouth shut. Like most Camorri innkeepers, any questions he might have had about his customers or their business tended to vanish when silver hit the counter.

“What’s your name?” Locke drew the room’s door closed and shot the bolt.

“Benjavier,” said the waiter. “You’re, ah, sure…this is going to work out like you say it is?”

In response, Locke drew out his coin purse and set it in Benjavier’s hand. “There’s two more full crowns in there, above and beyond what you’ll receive. Plus quite a bit of gold and silver. My word’s as good as my money—and you can keep that purse, here, as an assurance until I return.”

“Gods,” said Benjavier. “This is…this is all so very odd. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such incredible fortune?”

“Most men do nothing to deserve what the gods throw their way,” said Locke. “Shall we be about our business?”

“Yes, yes.” Benjavier untied his apron and tossed it to Locke; he then began to work on his jacket and breeches. Locke slipped off his velvet cap.

“I say, gray hair—you don’t look your age, in the face, I mean.”

“I’ve always been blessed with youthful lines,” said Locke. “It’s been of some benefit, in the duke’s service. I’ll need your shoes, as well—mine would look rather out of place beneath that finery.”

Working quickly, the two men removed and traded clothing until Locke stood in the center of the room, fully garbed as a Meraggio’s waiter, with the maroon apron tied at his waist. Benjavier lounged on one of the sleeping pallets in his undertunic and breechclout, tossing the bag of jingling coins from hand to hand.

“Well? How do I look?”

“You look right smart,” said Benjavier. “You’ll blend right in.”

“Good. You, for your part, look right wealthy. Just wait here with the door locked; I’ll be back soon enough. I’ll knock exactly five times, savvy?”

“Sounds fine.”

Locke closed the door behind him, hurried down the stairs, across the courtyard, and back out into the street. He took the long way around to return to Meraggio’s, so he could enter via the front and avoid the guard at the service entrance.

“You’re not supposed to come and go this way,” said the directory guard when Locke burst into the foyer, red-cheeked and sweating.

“I know, sorry.” Locke waved his blank roll of parchment at the man. “I was sent out to fetch this for one of the lawscribes; one of the private gallery members, I should say.”

“Oh, sorry. Don’t let us keep you; go right through.”

Locke entered into the crowd on the floor of Meraggio’s for the third time, gratified by how few lingering looks he received as he hurried on his way. He wove deftly between well-dressed men and women and ducked out of the path of waiters bearing covered silver trays—he was careful to give these men a friendly, familiar nod as they passed. In moments, he found what he was looking for—two guards lounging against a back wall, their heads bent together in conversation.

“Look lively, gentlemen,” said Locke as he stepped up before them; either one of them had to outweigh him by at least five stone. “Either of you lads know a man named Benjavier? He’s one of my fellow waiters.”

“I know him by sight,” said one of the guards.

“He’s in a heap of shit,” said Locke. “He’s over at the Welcoming Shade, and he’s just f*cked up one of Meraggio’s tests. I’m to fetch him back; I’m supposed to grab you two for help.”

“One of Meraggio’s tests?”

“You know,” said Locke. “Like he did to Willa.”

“Oh, her. That clerk in the public section. Benjavier, you say? What’s he done?”

“Sold the old man out, and Meraggio’s not pleased. We really should do this sooner rather than later.”

“Uh…sure, sure.”

“Out the side, through the service entrance.”

Locke positioned himself very carefully to make it seem as though he was confidently walking along beside the guards when in fact he was following their lead through the kitchens, the service corridors, and finally the receiving room. He slipped into the lead, and the two guards were on his heels as he stepped out into the alley, waving casually at the lounging guard. The man showed no signs of recognizing him; Locke had seen dozens of waiters already with his own eyes. No doubt a stranger could pass as one for quite some time, and he didn’t even need quite some time.

A few minutes later, he rapped sharply on the door of chamber nine at the Welcoming Shade, five times. Benjavier opened the door a crack, only to have it shoved open all the way by a stiff arm from Locke, who called up some of the manner he’d used when he’d lectured Don Salvara as a “Midnighter.”

“It was a loyalty test, Benjavier,” said Locke as he stalked into the room, his eyes cold. “A loyalty test. And you f*cked it up. Take him and hold him, lads.”

The two guards moved to restrain the half-naked waiter, who stared at them in shock. “But…but I didn’t…but you said—”

“Your job is to serve Meraggio’s customers and sustain Master Meraggio’s trust. My job is to find and deal with men that don’t sustain his trust. You sold me your gods-damned uniform.” Locke swept white iron crowns and the coin purse up from the bed; he dropped the loose coins into the leather bag as he spoke. “I could have been a thief. I could have been an assassin. And you would have let me walk right up to Master Meraggio, with the perfect disguise.”

“But you…oh, gods, you can’t be serious, this can’t be happening!”

“Do these men look less than serious? I’m sorry, Benjavier. It’s nothing personal, but you made a very poor decision.” Locke held the door open. “Right, out with him. Back to Meraggio’s, quick as you can.”

Benjavier kicked out, snarling and crying, “No, no, you can’t, I’ve been loyal all my—” Locke grabbed him by the chin and stared into his eyes.

“If you fight back,” said Locke, “if you kick or scream or continue to raise a gods-damned fuss, this matter will go beyond Meraggio’s, do you understand? We will bring in the watch. We will have you hauled to the Palace of Patience in irons. Master Meraggio has many friends at the Palace of Patience. Your case might fall between the cracks for a few months. You might get to sit in a spider cage and ponder your wrongdoing until the rains of winter start to fall. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” sobbed Benjavier. “Oh, gods, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”

“It’s not me you need to apologize to. Now, like I said, let’s get him back quickly. Master Meraggio’s going to want a word with him.”

Locke led the way back to the countinghouse, with Benjavier sobbing but quiescent. Locke strolled into the receiving room, right past the startled service-door guard, and bellowed, “Clear this room. Now.”

A few of the lounging waiters looked as though they might offer argument, but the sight of Benjavier, half-dressed and firmly held by the two guards, seemed to convince them that something was deeply amiss. They scuttled from the room, and Locke turned to the guards.

“Hold him here,” said Locke. “I’m going to fetch Master Meraggio; we’ll return in a few moments. This room is to stay clear until we return. Let the waiters take their ease somewhere else.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” The service-door guard poked his head into the receiving room.

“If you value your job,” said Locke, “keep your eyes out there in that alley, and don’t let anyone else in. Meraggio’s going to be down here soon, and he’s going to be in a mood, so it’d be best not to catch his attention.”

“I think he’s right, Laval,” said one of the guards holding Benjavier.

“Uh…sure, sure.” The service-door guard vanished.

“As for you,” said Locke, stepping close to Benjavier, “like I said, it’s nothing personal. Can I give you a bit of advice? Don’t play games. You can’t lie to Meraggio. None of us could, on our best day. Just confess, straight out. Be totally honest. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” sniffed Benjavier. “Yes, please, I’ll do anything….”

“You don’t need to do anything. But if you hope for Master Meraggio to be at all lenient or sympathetic, then by the gods, you f*cking confess and you do it in a hurry. No games, remember?”

“O-okay, yes, anything…”

“I shall return very shortly,” said Locke, and he spun on his heel and made for the door. As he left the receiving room, he allowed himself a brief smirk of pleasure; the guards pinning Benjavier now looked almost as frightened of him as the waiter did. It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery. He made his way through the service passages and kitchens, and back out onto the public floor.

“I say,” said Locke to the first guard he came across, “is Master Meraggio in the members’ galleries?” Locke waved his blank rolled parchment as though it were pressing business.

“Far as I know,” said the guard, “I think he’s up on the third level, taking reports.”

“Many thanks.”

Locke climbed the wide black iron stairs that led up to the first members’ gallery, nodding at the pair of guards at its base. His uniform seemed to be a sufficient guarantee of gallery privileges, but he kept the parchment clutched visibly in both hands, as an added assurance. He scanned the first-floor galleries, found no sign of his quarry, and continued upward.

He found Giancana Meraggio on the third floor, just as the guard had indicated. Meraggio stood staring out at the public gallery, abstractly, as he listened to a pair of finnickers behind him read from wax tablets figures that meant very little to Locke. Meraggio didn’t seem to keep a bodyguard near his person; apparently he felt safe enough within the bounds of his commercial kingdom. So much the better. Locke stepped right up beside him, relishing the arrogance of the gesture, and stood waiting to be noticed.

The finnickers and several nearby gallery members started muttering to themselves; after a few seconds Meraggio turned and let the full power of his storm-lantern glare rest on Locke. It took only a moment for that glare to shift from irritation to suspicion.

“You,” said Meraggio, “do not work for me.”

“I bring greetings from Capa Raza of Camorr,” said Locke, in a quiet and respectful voice. “I have a very serious matter to bring to your attention, Master Meraggio.”

The master of the countinghouse stared at him, then removed his optics and tucked them in a coat pocket. “So it’s true, then. I’d heard Barsavi had gone the way of all flesh…. And now your master sends a lackey. How kind of him. What’s his business?”

“His business is rather congruent with yours, Master Meraggio. I’m here to save your life.”

Meraggio snorted. “My life is hardly in danger, my improperly dressed friend. This is my house, and any guard here would cut your balls off with two words from me. If I were you, I’d start explaining where you got that uniform.”

“I purchased it,” said Locke, “from one of your waiters, a man by the name of Benjavier. I knew he was tractable, because he’s already in on the plot against your life.”

“Ben? Gods damn it—what proof have you?”

“I have several of your guards holding him down by your service entrance, rather half-dressed.”

“What do you mean you have several of my guards holding him? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Capa Raza has given me the job of saving your life, Master Meraggio. I mean exactly what I said. And as for who I am, I happen to be your savior.”

“My guards and my waiters—”

“Are not reliable,” hissed Locke. “Are you blind? I didn’t purchase this at a secondhand clothier; I walked right in through your service entrance, offered a few crowns, and your man Benjavier was out of his uniform like that.” Locke snapped his fingers. “Your guard at the service door slipped me in for much less—just a solon. Your men are not made of stone, Master Meraggio; you presume much concerning their fidelity.”

Meraggio stared at him, color rising in his cheeks; he looked as though he was about to strike Locke. Instead, he coughed and held out his hands, palms up.

“Tell me what you came to tell me,” said Meraggio. “I’ll take my own counsel from there.”

“Your finnickers are crowding me. Dismiss them and give us a bit of privacy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own—”

“I will tell you what to do, gods damn it,” Locke spat. “I am your f*cking bodyguard, Master Meraggio. You are in deadly danger; minutes count. You already know of at least one compromised waiter and one lax guard; how much longer are you going to prevent me from keeping you alive?”

“Why is Capa Raza so concerned for my safety?”

“Your personal comfort likely means nothing to him,” said Locke. “The safety of the Meraggio, however, is of paramount importance. An assassination contract has been taken out against you, by Verrari commercial interests who wish to see Camorr’s fortunes diminished. Raza has been in power for four days; your assassination would shake the city to its foundations. The Spider and the city watch would tear Raza’s people apart looking for answers. He simply cannot allow harm to come to you. He must keep this city stable, as surely as the duke must.”

“And how does your master know all of this?”

“A gift from the gods,” said Locke. “Letters were intercepted while my master’s agents were pursuing an unrelated matter. Please dismiss your finnickers.”

Meraggio pondered for a few seconds, then grunted and waved his attendants away with an irritated wrist-flick. They backed off, wide-eyed.

“Someone very nasty is after you,” said Locke. “It’s a crossbow job; the assassin is Lashani. Supposedly, his weapons have been altered by a Karthani Bondsmage. He’s slippery as all hell, and he almost always hits the mark. Be flattered; we believe his fee is ten thousand crowns.”

“This is a great deal to swallow, Master…”

“My name isn’t important,” said Locke. “Come with me, down to the receiving room behind the kitchens. You can talk to Benjavier yourself.”

“The receiving room, behind the kitchens?” Meraggio frowned deeply. “As yet, I have no reason to believe that you yourself might not be trying to lure me there for mischief.”

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke, “you are wearing silk and cotton, not chain mail. I have had you at dagger-reach for several minutes now. If my master wished you dead, your entrails would be staining the carpet. You don’t have to thank me—you don’t even have to like me—but for the love of the gods, please accept that I have been ordered to guard you, and one does not refuse the orders of the Capa of Camorr.”

“Hmmm. A point. Is he as formidable a man as Barsavi was, this Capa Raza?”

“Barsavi died weeping at his feet,” said Locke. “Barsavi and all of his children. Draw your own conclusions.”

Meraggio slipped his optics back onto his nose, adjusted his orchid, and put his hands behind his back.

“We shall go to the receiving room,” he said. “You lead the way.”

5

BENJAVIER AND the guards alike looked terrified when Meraggio stormed into the receiving room behind Locke; Locke guessed they were more attuned to the man’s moods than he was, and what they saw on his face must have been something truly unpleasant.

“Benjavier,” said Meraggio, “Benjavier, I simply cannot believe it. After all I did for you—after I took you in and cleared up that mess with your old ship’s captain…I haven’t the words!”

“I’m sorry, Master Meraggio,” said the waiter, whose cheeks were wetter than the sloped roof of a house in a storm. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it….”

“Didn’t mean anything by it? Is it true, what this man has been telling me?”

“Oh yes, gods forgive me, Master Meraggio, it’s true! It’s all true, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…please believe me—”

“Be silent, gods damn your eyes!”

Meraggio stood, jaw agape, like a man who’d just been slapped. He looked around him as though seeing the receiving room for the first time, as though the liveried guards were alien beings. He seemed ready to stagger and fall backward; instead he whirled on Locke with his fists clenched.

“Tell me everything you know,” he growled. “By the gods, everyone involved in this affair is going to learn the length of my reach, I swear it.”

“First things first. You must live out the afternoon. You have private apartments above the fourth-floor gallery, right?”

“Of course.”

“Let us go there immediately,” said Locke. “Have this poor bastard thrown into a storeroom; surely you have one that would suffice. You can deal with him when this affair is over. For the now, time is not our friend.”

Benjavier burst into loud sobs once again, and Meraggio nodded, looking disgusted. “Put Benjavier in dry storage and bolt the door. You two, stand watch. And you—”

The service-door guard had been peeking his head around the corner again. He flushed red.

“Let another unauthorized person, so much as a small child, in through that door this afternoon, and I’ll have your balls cut out and hot coals put in their place. Is that clear?”

“P-perfectly clear, M-master Meraggio, sir.”

Meraggio turned and swept out of the room, and this time it was Locke at his heels, hurrying to keep up.

6

GIANCANA MERAGGIO’S fortified private apartments were of a kind with the man’s clothing: richly furnished in the most subtle fashion. The man clearly preferred to let materials and craftsmanship serve as his primary ornaments.

The steel-reinforced door clicked shut behind them, and the Verrari lockbox rattled as its teeth slid home within the wood. Meraggio and Locke were alone. The elegant miniature water-clock on Meraggio’s lacquered desk was just filling the bowl that marked the first hour of the afternoon.

“Now,” said Locke, “Master Meraggio, you cannot be out on the floor again until our assassin is sewn up. It is not safe; we expected the attack to come between the first and fourth hour of the afternoon.”

“That will cause problems,” said Meraggio. “I have business to look after; my absence on the floor will be noticed.”

“Not necessarily,” said Locke. “Has it not occurred to you that we are of a very similar build? And that one man, in the shadows of one of the upper-level galleries, might look very much like another?”

“You…you propose to masquerade as me?”

“In the letters we intercepted,” said Locke, “we received one piece of information that is very much to our advantage. The assassin did not receive a detailed description of your appearance. Rather, he was instructed to put his bolt into the only man in the countinghouse wearing a rather large orchid at the breast of his coat. If I were to be dressed as you, in your customary place in the gallery, with an orchid pinned to my coat—well, that bolt would be coming at me, rather than you.”

“I find it hard to believe that you’re saintly enough to be willing to put yourself in my place, if this assassin is as deadly as you say.”

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke, “begging your pardon, but I plainly haven’t made myself clear. If I don’t do this on your behalf, my master will kill me anyway. Furthermore, I am perhaps more adept at ducking the embrace of the Lady of the Long Silence than you might imagine. Lastly, the reward I have been promised for bringing this affair to a satisfactory close…Well, if you were in my shoes, you’d be willing to face a bolt as well.”

“What would you have me do, in the meantime?”

“Take your ease in these apartments,” said Locke. “Keep the doors tightly shut. Amuse yourself for a few hours; I suspect we won’t have long to wait.”

“And what happens when the assassin lets fly his bolt?”

“I am ashamed to have to admit,” said Locke, “that my master has at least a half dozen other men out on the floor of your countinghouse today—please don’t be upset. Some of your clients are not clients; they’re the sharpest, roughest lads Capa Raza has, old hands at fast, quiet work. When our assassin takes his shot, they’ll move on him. Between them and your own guards, he’ll never know what hit him.”

“And if you aren’t as fast as you think you are? And that bolt hits home?”

“Then I’ll be dead, and you’ll still be alive, and my master will be satisfied,” said Locke. “We swear oaths in my line of work as well, Master Meraggio. I serve Raza even unto death. So what’s it going to be?”

7

LOCKE LAMORA stepped out of Meraggio’s apartments at half past one dressed in the most excellent coat, vest, and breeches he had ever worn. They were the dark blue of the sky just before Falselight, and he thought the color suited him remarkably well. The white silk tunic was as cool as autumn river-water against his skin; it was fresh from Meraggio’s closet, as were the hose, shoes, cravats, and gloves. His hair was slicked back with rose oil; a little bottle of the stuff rested in his pocket, along with a purse of gold tyrins he’d lifted from Meraggio’s wardrobe drawers. Meraggio’s orchid was pinned at his right breast, still crisply fragrant; it smelled pleasantly like raspberries.

Meraggio’s finnickers had been appraised of the masquerade, along with a select few of his guards. They nodded at Locke as he strolled out into the fourth-floor members’ gallery, sliding Meraggio’s optics over his eyes. That was a mistake; the world went blurry. Locke cursed his own absentmindedness as he slipped them back into his coat—his old Fehrwight optics had been clear fakes, but of course Meraggio’s actually functioned for Meraggio’s eyes. A point to remember.

Casually, as though it were all part of his plan, Locke stepped onto the black iron stairs and headed downward. From a distance, he certainly resembled Meraggio well enough to cause no comment; when he reached the floor of the public gallery, he strolled through rapidly enough to gather only a few odd looks in his wake. He plucked the orchid from his breast and shoved it into a pocket as he entered the kitchen.

At the entrance to the dry-storage room, he waved to the two guards and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Master Meraggio wants you two watching the back door. Give Laval a hand. Nobody comes in, just as he said. On pain of, ah, hot coals. You heard the old man. I need a word with Benjavier.”

The guards looked at one another and nodded; Locke’s presumed authority over them now seemed to be so cemented that he supposed he could have strolled back here in ladies’ smallclothes and gotten the same response. Meraggio had probably used a few special agents in the past to whip his operations into shape; no doubt Locke was now riding on the coattails of their reputations.

Benjavier looked up as Locke entered the storage room and slid the door shut behind him. Sheer bewilderment registered on his face; he was so surprised when Locke threw a coin purse at him that the little leather bag struck him in the eye. Benjavier cried out and fell back against the wall, both hands over his face.

“Shit,” said Locke. “Beg pardon; you were meant to catch that.”

“What do you want now?”

“I came to apologize. I don’t have time to explain; I’m sorry I dragged you into this, but I have my reasons, and I have needs that must be met.”

“Sorry you dragged me into this?” Benjavier’s voice broke; he sniffed once and spat at Locke. “What the f*ck are you talking about? What’s going on? What does Master Meraggio think I did?”

“I don’t have time to sing you a tale. I put six crowns in that bag; some of it’s in tyrins, so you can break it down easier. Your life won’t be worth shit if you stay in Camorr; get out through the landward gates. Get my old clothes from the Welcoming Shade; here’s the key.”

This time Benjavier caught what was thrown at him.

“Now,” said Locke. “No more gods-damned questions. I’m going to grab you by the ear and haul you out into the alley; you make like you’re scared shitless. When we’re around the corner and out of sight, I’m going to let you go. If you have any love for life, you f*cking run to the Welcoming Shade, get dressed, and get the hell out of the city. Make for Talisham or Ashmere; you’ve got more than a year’s pay there in that purse. You should be able to do something with it.”

“I don’t—”

“We go now,” said Locke, “or I leave you here to die. Understanding is a luxury; you don’t get to have it. Sorry.”

A moment later, Locke was hauling the waiter into the receiving room by the earlobe; this particular come-along was a painful hold well known to any guard or watchman in the city. Benjavier did a very acceptable job of wailing and sobbing and pleading for his life; the three guards at the service door looked on without sympathy as Locke hauled the waiter past them.

“Back in a few minutes,” said Locke. “Master Meraggio wants me to have a few more words with this poor bastard in private.”

“Oh, gods,” cried Benjavier, “don’t let him take me away! He’s going to hurt me…please!”

The guards chuckled at that, although the one who’d originally taken Locke’s solon didn’t seem quite as mirthful as the other two. Locke dragged Benjavier down the alley and around the corner; the moment they were cut off from the sight of the three guards, Locke pushed him away. “Go,” he said. “Run like hell. I give them maybe twenty minutes before they all figure out what a pack of asses they’ve been, and then you’ll have hard men after you in squads. Go!”

Benjavier stared at him, then shook his head and stumbled off toward the Welcoming Shade. Locke toyed with one of the ends of his false moustache as he watched the waiter go, and then he turned around and lost himself in the crowds. The sun was pouring down light and heat with its usual intensity, and Locke was sweating hard inside his fine new clothes, but for a few moments he let a satisfied smirk creep onto his face.

He strolled north toward Twosilver Green; there was a gentlemen’s trifles shop very near to the southern gate of the park, and there were other black alchemists in various districts who didn’t know him by sight. A bit of adhesive dissolver to get rid of the moustache, and something to restore his hair to its natural shade…With those things in hand, he’d be Lukas Fehrwight once again, fit to visit the Salvaras and relieve them of a few thousand more crowns.