CHAPTER TWO
REQUIN
1
THOUGH LOCKE SAW that Jean remained as unsettled by their experience in the Night Market as he was, they spoke no further of the matter. There was a job to be done, and they were up at the crack of dusk the next day.
The close of the working day for honest men and women in Tal Verrar was just the beginning of theirs. It had been strange at first, getting used to the rhythm of a city where the sun simply fell beneath the horizon like a quiescent murder victim each night, without the glow of Falselight to mark its passing. But Tal Verrar had been built to different tastes or needs than Camorr, and its Elderglass simply mirrored the sky, raising no light of its own.
Their suite at the Villa Candessa was high-ceilinged and opulent; at five silver volani a night nothing less was to be expected. Their fourth-floor window overlooked a cobbled courtyard in which carriages, studded with lanterns and outriding mercenary guards, came and went with echoing clatters.
“Bondsmagi,” muttered Jean as he tied on his neck-cloths before a looking glass. “I’ll never hire one of the bastards to do so much as heat my tea, not if I live to be richer than the duke of Camorr.”
“Now there’s a thought,” said Locke, who was already dressed and sipping coffee. A full day of sleep had done wonders for his head. “If we were richer than the duke of Camorr, we could hire a whole pack of them and give them instructions to go lose themselves on a desolate fucking island somewhere.”
“Mmm. I don’t think the gods made any islands desolate enough for my tastes.”
Jean finished his neck-cloths with one hand and reached for his breakfast with the other. One of the odder services the Villa Candessa provided for its long-term guests was its “likeness cakes”—little frosted simulacra fashioned after the guests by the inn’s Camorr-trained pastry sculptor. On a silver tray beside the looking glass, a little sweetbread Locke (with raisin eyes and almond-butter blond hair) sat beside a rounder Jean with dark chocolate hair and beard. The baked Jean’s legs were already missing.
A few moments later, Jean was brushing the last buttery crumbs from the front of his coat. “Alas, poor Locke and Jean.”
“They died of consumption,” said Locke.
“I do wish I could be there to see it when you talk to Requin and Selendri, you know.”
“Hmmm. Can I trust you to still be in Tal Verrar by the time I get finished?” He tried to leaven the question with a smile, only partially succeeding.
“You know I won’t go anywhere,” said Jean. “I’m still not sure it’s wise. But you know I won’t.”
“I do. I’m sorry.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down. “And my chat with Requin isn’t going to be that terribly interesting.”
“Nonsense. I heard a smirk in your voice. Other people smirk when their work is finished; you grin like an idiot just before yours really begins.”
“Smirking? I’m as slack-cheeked as a corpse. I’m just looking forward to being done with it. Tedious business. I anticipate a dull meeting.”
“Dull meeting, my ass. Not after you walk straight up to the lady with the brass bloody hand and say, ‘Excuse me, madam, but…’”