REMINISCENCE
Best-Laid Plans
1
“Shit,” said Locke as the deck of cards exploded outward from his sore left hand. Jean flinched back from the blizzard of paper that fluttered around the compartment of the carriage.
“Try again,” said Jean. “Perhaps the eighteenth time’s the charm.”
“I used to be so damned good at this one-handed shuffle.” Locke began plucking up cards and reorganizing them into a neat pile. “I bet I could do it better than Calo and Galdo, even. Damn, my hand aches.”
“Well, I know I pushed you to exercise,” said Jean, “but you were a little out of practice even before you got hurt. Give it time.”
A hard rain was falling around the jouncing black luxury carriage as it threaded its way along the old Therin Throne road through the foothills just east of the Tal Verrar coast. A hunched middle-aged woman worked the reins of the six-horse team from her open box atop the cabin, with the cowl of her oilcloak pulled forward to protect the smoldering bowl of her pipe. Two outrider guards huddled in misery on the rear footboard, secured by wide leather straps around their waists.
Jean was peering over a sheaf of notes, flipping parchment pages back and forth, muttering to himself. The rain was beating hard against the right side of the closed cabin, but they were able to keep the left-hand window open, with its mesh screens and leather shutters drawn back to admit muggy air that smelled of manured fields and salt marshes. A little yellow alchemical globe on the padded seat beside Jean provided reading light.
They were two weeks out from Vel Virazzo, a good hundred miles to the northwest, and well past the need to paint themselves up with apple mash to move freely.
“Here’s what all my sources say,” said Jean when Locke had finished recovering all of his cards. “Requin’s somewhere in his forties. Native Verrari, but he speaks a bit of Vadran and supposedly he’s a genius at Throne Therin. He’s an art collector, mad about the painters and sculptors from the very last years of the empire. Nobody knows what he did prior to twenty years ago. Apparently he won the Sinspire on a bet and threw the previous owner out a window.”
“And he’s tight with the Priori?”
“Most of them, it seems.”
“Any idea how much he keeps in his vaults?”
“Conservative estimate,” said Jean, “at least enough to pay out any debts the house might incur. He could never allow himself to be embarrassed in that respect—so let’s say fifty thousand solari, at least. Plus his personal fortune, plus the combined goods and fortunes of a great many people. He doesn’t pay interest like the best countinghouses, but he doesn’t keep transaction ledgers for the taxmen, either. Supposedly he has one book, hidden gods know where, amended only by his own hand. This is mostly hearsay, of course.”
“That fifty thousand doesn’t cover anything but the house’s operating funds, right? So how much do you presume the total contents of his vault would be worth?”
“It’s pure entrail-reading, without the entrails, even, but…three hundred thousand? Three hundred fifty?”
“Seems reasonable.”
“Yes, well, the details on the vault itself are much more solid. Apparently, Requin doesn’t mind letting some of the facts get out. Thinks it dissuades thieves.”
“They always do, don’t they?”
“In this case, they may be onto something. Listen. The Sinspire is nearly sixty yards high, one thick Elderglass cylinder. You know about those; you tried to jump off one about two months ago. Goes down another hundred feet or so into a glass hill. It’s got one door at street level, and exactly one door into the vault beneath the tower. One. No secrets, no side entrances. The ground is pristine Elderglass; no tunneling through it, not in a thousand years.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Requin’s got at least four attendants on each floor at any given time, plus dozens of table minders, card dealers, and waiters. There’s a lounge on the third floor where he keeps more out of sight. So figure, at a minimum, fifty or sixty loyal workers on duty with another twenty to thirty he can call out. Lots of nasty brutes, too. He likes to recruit from ex-soldiers, mercenaries, city thieves, and such. He gives cushy positions to his Right People for jobs well done, and he pays them like he was their doting mother. Plus, there are stories of dealers getting a year’s wages in tips from lucky blue bloods in just a night or two. Bribery won’t be likely to work on anyone.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“He’s got three layers of vault doors, all of them iron-shod witchwood, three or four inches thick. Last set of doors is supposedly backed with blackened steel, so even if you had a week to chop through the other two, you’d never get past the third. All of them have clockwork mechanisms, the best and most expensive Verrari stuff, private designs from masters of the Artificers’ Guild. The standing orders are, not one set of doors opens unless he’s there himself to see it; he watches every deposit and every withdrawal. Opens the doors a couple times per day at most. Behind the first set of doors are four to eight guards, in rooms with cots, food, and water. They can hold out there for a week, under siege.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“The inner sets of doors don’t open except for a key he keeps around his neck. The outer doors won’t open except for a key he always gives to his majordomo. So you’d need them both to get anywhere.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“And the traps…they’re demented, or at least the rumors are. Pressure plates, counterweights, crossbows in the walls and ceilings. Contact poisons, sprays of acid, chambers full of venomous serpents or spiders…One fellow even said that there’s a chamber before the last door that fills up with a cloud of powdered strangler’s orchid petals, and while you’re choking to death on that, a bit of twist-match falls out and lights the whole mess on fire, so then you burn to a crisp. Insult to injury.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon, attended by fifty naked women armed with poisoned spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin’s service. All redheads.”
“You’re just making that up, Jean.”
“I wanted to see if you were listening. But what I’m saying is, I don’t care if he’s got a million solari in there, packed in bags for easy hauling. I’m inclined to the idea that this vault might not be breakable, not unless you’ve got three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about.”
“Right.”
“Do you have three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about?”
“No, I’ve got you, me, the contents of our coin purses, this carriage, and a deck of cards.” He attempted a complicated manipulation of the cards, and they erupted out of his hand yet again, scattering against the opposite seat. “Fuck me with a poleax!”
“Then if I might persist, Lord of Legerdemain, perhaps there’s some other target in Tal Verrar we might consider—”
“I’m not sure that’d be wise. Tal Verrar’s got no twit-riddled aristocracy for us to fool around with. The archon’s a military tyrant on a long leash—he can bend the laws as he sees fit, so I’d rather not yank his breechclout. The Priori council is all merchants from common stock, and they’ll be damned hard to cheat. There’s plenty of likely subjects for small-time games, but if we want a big game, Requin’s the best one to hit. He’s got what we want, right there for the taking.”
“Yet his vault…”
“Let me tell you,” said Locke, “exactly what we’re going to do about his vault.”
Locke spoke for a few minutes while he put his deck of cards together, outlining the barest details of his scheme. Jean’s eyebrows strained upward, attempting to take to the air above his head.
“…so that’s that. Now what do you say, Jean?”
“I’ll be damned. That might just work. If…”
“If?”