11
“SERVICE ENTRANCE, you ignorant bastard!”
The Sinspire bouncer came out of nowhere. He doubled Locke over his knee, knocking the wind out of him in one cruel slam, and hurled him back onto the gravel of the lantern-lit courtyard behind the tower. Locke hadn’t even stepped inside, merely approached the door after failing to spot anyone he could easily bribe for an audience with Selendri.
“Oof,” he said as the ground made his acquaintance.
Jean, guided more by loyal reflex than clear thinking, got involved as the bouncer came forth to offer Locke further punishment. The bouncer growled and swung a too-casual fist at Jean, who caught it in his right hand and then broke several of the bouncer’s ribs with the heel of his left. Before Locke could say anything, Jean kicked the bouncer in the groin and swept his legs out from beneath him.
“Urrrrgh-ack,” the man said as the ground made his acquaintance.
The next attendant out the door had a knife; Jean broke the fist that held it and bounced the attendant off the Sinspire wall like a handball from a stone court surface. The next six or seven attendants who surrounded them, unfortunately, had short swords and crossbows.
“You have no idea who you’re fucking with,” said one of them.
“Actually,” came a harsh feminine whisper from the service entrance, “I suspect they do.”
Selendri wore a blue-and-red silk evening gown that must have cost as much as a gilded carriage. Her ruined arm was covered by a sleeve that led down to her brass hand, while the fine muscles and smooth skin of her other arm were bare, accentuated by gold and Elderglass bangles.
“We caught them trying to steal into the service entrance, mistress,” said one of the attendants.
“You caught us getting near the service entrance, you dumb bastard.” Locke rose to his knees. “Selendri, we need to—”
“I’m sure you do,” she said. “Let them go. I’ll deal with them myself. Act as though nothing happened.”
“But he…gods, I think he broke my ribs,” wheezed the first man Jean had dealt with. The other was unconscious.
“If you agree that nothing happened,” said Selendri, “I’ll have you taken to a physiker. Did anything happen?”
“Unnnh…no. No, mistress, nothing happened.”
“Good.”
As she turned to reenter the service area, Locke stumbled to his feet, clutching his stomach, and reached out to grab her gently by the shoulder. She whirled on him.
“Selendri,” he whispered, “we cannot be seen on the gaming floors. We have—”
“Powerful individuals rather upset about your failure to give them a return engagement?” She knocked his hand away.
“Forgive me. And yes, that’s exactly it.”
“Durenna and Corvaleur are on the fifth floor. You and I can take the climbing closet from the third.”
“And Jerome?”
“Stay here in the service area, Valora.” She pulled them both in through the service entrance so tray-bearing attendants, studiously ignoring the injured men on the ground, could get on with earning festival-night tips from the city’s least inhibited.
“Thank you,” said Jean, taking a half-hidden spot behind tall wooden racks full of unwashed dishes.
“I’ll give instructions to ignore you,” said Selendri. “As long as you ignore my people.”
“I’ll be a saint,” said Jean.
Selendri grabbed a passing attendant with no serving tray and whispered a few terse instructions into his ear. Locke caught the words “dog-leech” and “dock their pay.” Then he was following Selendri into the crowd on the ground floor, hunched over as though trying to shrink down beneath his cloak and cap, praying that the next and only person who’d recognize him would be Requin.
12
“SEVEN WEEKS,” said the master of the Sinspire. “Selendri was so sure we’d never see you again.”
“Three weeks down and three weeks back,” said Locke. “Barely spent a week in Port Prodigal itself.”
“You certainly look as though you passed some time on deck. Working for your berth?”
“Ordinary sailors attract much less notice than paying passengers.”
“I suppose they do. Is that your natural hair color?”
“I think so. Swap it as often as I have and you start to lose track.”
The wide balcony doors on the eastern side of Requin’s office were open, but for a fine mesh screen to keep out insects. Through it, Locke could see the torchlike pyres of two ships in the harbor, surrounded by hundreds of specks of lantern-light that had to be spectators in smaller craft.
“They’re burning four this year,” said Requin, noticing that the view had caught Locke’s attention. “One for each season. I think they’re just finishing the third. The fourth should go up soon, and then all will be well. Fewer people in the streets, and more crowding into the chance houses.”
Locke nodded, and turned to admire what Requin had done with the suite of chairs he’d had crafted for him. He tried to keep a smirk of glee off his face, and managed to look only vaguely appreciative. The four replica chairs were placed around a thin-legged table in a matching style, holding bottles of wine and an artful flower arrangement.
“Is that—”
“A replica as well? I’m afraid so. Your gift spurred me to have it made.”
“My gift. Speaking of which…”
Locke reached beneath his cloak, removed the purse, and set it down atop Requin’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“A consideration,” said Locke. “There are an awful lot of sailors in Port Prodigal with more coins than card sense.”
Requin opened the satchel and raised an eyebrow. “Handsome,” he said. “You really are trying very hard not to piss me off, aren’t you?”
“I want my job,” said Locke. “Now more than ever.”
“Let’s discuss your task, then. Does this Calo Callas still exist?”
“Yes,” said Locke. “He’s down there.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you bring him back with you?”
“He’s out of his fucking mind,” said Locke.
“Then he’s useless—”
“No. Not useless. He feels persecuted, Requin. He’s delusional. He imagines that the Priori and the Artificers have agents on every corner in Port Prodigal, every ship, every tavern. He barely leaves his house.” Locke took pleasure at the speed with which he was conjuring an imaginary life for an imaginary man. “But what he does inside that house. What he has! Locks, hundreds of them. Clockwork devices. A private forge and bellows. He’s as insatiable about his trade as he ever was. It’s all he has left in the world.”
“How is a madman’s detritus significant?” asked Selendri. She stood between two of Requin’s exquisite oil paintings, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
“I experimented with all kinds of things back when I thought I might have a chance to crack this tower’s vault. Acids, oils, abrasives, different types of picks and tools. I’d call myself a fair judge of mechanisms as well as lockbreaking. And the things this bastard can do, the things he builds and invents, even with a magpie mind—” Locke spread his hands and shrugged theatrically. “Gods!”
“What will it take to bring him here?”
“He wants protection,” said Locke. “He’s not averse to leaving Port Prodigal. Hell, he’s eager to. But he imagines death at every step. He needs to feel that someone with power is reaching out to put him under their cloak.”
“Or you could just hit him over the head and haul him back in chains,” said Selendri.
“And risk losing his actual cooperation forever? Worse—deal with him on a three-week voyage after he wakes up? His mind is delicate as glass, Selendri. I wouldn’t recommend knocking it around.”
Locke cracked his knuckles. Time to sweeten the pitch.
“Look, you want this man back in Tal Verrar. He’ll drive you mad. You may even have to appoint some sort of nurse or minder for him, and you’ll definitely have to hide him from the Artificers. But the things he can do could make it worthwhile a hundred times over. He’s the best lockbreaker I’ve ever seen. He just needs to believe that I truly represent you.”
“What do you suggest?”