2
LOCKE HAD originally expected that a sea voyage to Lashain or even Issara might be necessary to secure the final pieces of his Sinspire scheme, but conversation with several wealthier Verrari had convinced him that Salon Corbeau might have exactly what he needed.
Picture a seaside valley carved from night-dark stone, perhaps three hundred yards in length and a hundred wide. Its little harbor lies on its western side, with a crescent beach of fine black sand. At its eastern end, an underground stream pours out of a fissure in the rocks, rushing down a stepped arrangement of stones. The headlands above this stream are commanded by Countess Saljesca’s residence, a stone manor house above two layers of crenellated walls—a minor fortress.
The valley walls of Salon Corbeau are perhaps twenty yards in height, and for nearly their full length they are terraced with gardens. Thick ferns, twisting vines, blossoming orchids, and fruit and olive trees flourish there, a healthy curtain of brown and green in vivid relief against the black, with little water ducts meandering throughout to keep Saljesca’s artificial paradise from growing thirsty.
In the very center of the valley is a circular stadium, and the gardens on both sides of this stone structure share the walls with several dozen sturdy buildings of polished stone and lacquered wood. A miniature city rests on stilts and platforms and terraces, charmingly enclosed by walkways and stairs at every level.
Locke strolled these walkways on the afternoon of his arrival, looking for his ultimate goal with a stately lack of haste—he expected to be here for many days, perhaps even weeks. Salon Corbeau, like the chance houses of Tal Verrar, drew the idle rich in large numbers. Locke walked among Verrari merchants and Lashani nobles, among scions of the western Marrows, past Nesse ladies-in-waiting (or perhaps more accurately, ladies-weighted-down, in more cloth-of-gold than Locke would have previously thought possible) and the landed families they served. Here and there he was sure he even spotted Camorri, olive-skinned and haughty, though thankfully none were important enough for him to recognize.
So many bodyguards, and so many bodies to guard! Rich bodies and faces; people who could afford proper alchemy and physik for their ailments. No weeping sores or sagging facial tumors, no crooked teeth lolling out of bleeding gums, no faces pinched by emaciation. The Sinspire crowd might be more exclusive, but these folk were even more refined, even more pampered. Hired musicians followed some of them, so that even little journeys of thirty or forty yards need not threaten a second of boredom. Rich men and women were hemorrhaging money all around Locke, to the strains of music. Even a man like Mordavi Fehrwight might spend less to eat for a month than some of them would throw away just to be noticed at breakfast each day.
He’d come to Salon Corbeau because of these folk; not to rob them, for once, but to make use of their privileged existence. Where the rich nested like bright-feathered birds, the providers of the luxuries and services they relied upon followed. Salon Corbeau had a permanent community of tailors, clothiers, instrument makers, glassbenders, alchemists, caterers, entertainers, and carpenters. A small community, to be sure, but one of the highest reputation, fit for aristocratic patronage and priced accordingly.
Almost in the middle of Salon Corbeau’s south gallery, Locke found the shop he had come all this way to visit—a rather long, two-story stone building without windows along its walkway face. The wooden sign above the single door said:
M. BAUMONDAIN AND DAUGHTERS
HOUSEHOLD DEVICES AND FINE FURNITURE
BY APPOINTMENT
On the door of the Baumondain shop was a scrollwork decoration, the crest of the Saljesca family (as Locke had glimpsed on banners fluttering here and there, and on the cross-belts of Salon Corbeau’s guards), implying Lady Vira’s personal approval of the work that went on there. Meaningless to Locke, since he knew too little of Saljesca’s taste to judge it…but the Baumondain reputation stretched all the way to Tal Verrar.
He would send a messenger first thing in the morning, as was appropriate, and request an appointment to discuss the matter of some peculiar chairs he needed built.
3
AT THE second hour of the next afternoon a warm soft rain was falling; a weak and wispy thing that hung in the air more like damp gauze than falling water. Vague columns of mist swirled among the plants and atop the valley, and the walkways were for once clear of most of their well-heeled traffic. Gray clouds necklaced the tall black mountain to the northwest. Locke stood outside the door to the Baumondain shop with water dripping down the back of his neck and rapped sharply three times.
The door swung inward immediately; a wiry man of about fifty peered out at Locke through round optics. He wore a simple cotton tunic cinched up above his elbows, revealing guild tattoos in faded green and black on his lean forearms, and a long leather apron with at least six visible pockets on the front. Most of them held tools; one held a gray kitten, with only its little head visible.
“Master Fehrwight? Mordavi Fehrwight?”
“So pleased you could make the time for me,” began Locke. He spoke with a faint Vadran accent, just enough to suggest an origin in the far north. He’d decided to be lazy, and let this Fehrwight be as fluent in Therin as possible. Locke stretched out his right hand to shake. In his left he carried a black leather satchel with an iron lock upon its flap. “Master Baumondain, I presume?”
“None other. Come in directly, sir, out of the rain. Will you take coffee? Allow me to trade you a cup for your coat.”
“With pleasure.” The foyer of the Baumondain shop was a high, cozily paneled room lit with little golden lanterns in wall sconces. A counter with one swinging door ran across the rear of the room, and behind it Locke could see shelves piled high with samples of wood, cloth, wax, and oils in glass jars. The placed smelled of sanded wood, a sharp and pleasant tang. There was a little sitting area before the counter, where two superbly wrought chairs with black velvet cushions stood upon a floor tapestry.
Locke set his satchel at his feet, turned to allow Baumondain to help him shrug out of his damp black coat, picked up his satchel once again, and settled himself in the chair nearest to the door. The carpenter hung Locke’s coat on a brass hook on the wall. “Just a moment, if you please,” he said, and went behind the counter. From his new vantage point, Locke could see that a canvas-covered door led from behind the counter to what he presumed must be the workshop. Baumondain pushed the canvas flap aside and yelled, “Lauris! The coffee!”
Some muffled reply that he evidently found satisfactory came back to him from the workshop, and he hurried around the counter to take his place in the chair across from Locke, crinkling his seamy face into a welcoming smile. A few moments later, the canvas flew aside once again and out from the workshop came a freckled girl of fifteen or sixteen years, chestnut-haired, slim in the manner of her father but more firmly muscled about the arms and shoulders. She carried a wooden tray before her set with cups and silver pots, and when she stepped through the door in the counter Locke saw the tray had legs like a very short table.
She placed the coffee service between Locke and her father, just to the side, and gave Locke a respectful nod.
“My oldest daughter, Lauris,” said Master Baumondain. “Lauris, this is Master Fehrwight, of the House of bel Sarethon, from Emberlain.”
“Charmed,” said Locke. Lauris was close enough for him to see that her hair was full of curly little wood shavings.
“Your servant, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris nodded again, prepared to withdraw, and then caught sight of the gray kitten sticking out of her father’s apron pocket. “Father, you’ve forgotten Lively. Surely you didn’t mean to have him sit in on the coffee?”
“Have I? Oh, dear, I see that I have.” Baumondain reached down and eased the kitten out of his apron. Locke was astonished to see how limply it hung in his hands, with its legs and tail drooping and its little head lolling; what self-respecting cat would sleep while plucked up and carried through the air? Then Locke saw the answer, as Lauris took Lively in her own hands and turned to go. The kitten’s little eyes were wide open, and stark white.
“That creature was Gentled,” said Locke in a low voice when Lauris had returned to the workshop.
“I’m afraid so,” said the carpenter.
“I’ve never seen such a thing. What purpose does it serve, in a cat?”
“None, Master Fehrwight, none.” Baumondain’s smile was gone, replaced by a wary and uncomfortable expression. “And it certainly wasn’t my doing. My youngest daughter, Parnella, found him abandoned behind the Villa Verdante.” Baumondain referred to the huge luxury inn where the intermediate class of Salon Corbeau’s visitors stayed, the wealthy who were not private guests of the Lady Saljesca. Locke himself was rooming there.
“Damned strange.”
“We call him Lively, as a sort of jest, though he does little. He must be coaxed to eat, and prodded to…to excrete, you see. Parnella thought it would be kinder to smash his skull, but Lauris would not hear of it and so I could not refuse. You must think me weak and doting.”
“Not at all,” said Locke, shaking his head. “The world is cruel enough without our compounding it; I approve. I meant that it was damned strange that anyone should do such a thing at all.”
“Master Fehrwight.” The carpenter licked his lips nervously. “You seem a humane man, and you must understand…our position here brings us a steady and lucrative business. My daughters will have quite an inheritance, when I turn this shop over to them. There are…there are things about Salon Corbeau, things that go on, that we artisans…do not pry into. Must not. If you take my meaning.”
“I do,” said Locke, eager to keep the man in a good humor. However, he made a mental note to perhaps poke around in pursuit of whatever was disturbing the carpenter. “I do indeed. So let us speak no more of the matter, and instead look to business.”
“Most kind,” said Baumondain, with obvious relief. “How do you take your coffee? I have honey and cream.”
“Honey, please.”
Baumondain poured steaming coffee from the silver pot into a thick glass cup, and spooned in honey until Locke nodded. Locke sipped at his cup while Baumondain bombarded his own with enough cream to turn it leather brown. It was quality brew, rich and very hot.
“My compliments,” Locke mumbled over a slightly scalded tongue.
“It’s from Issara. Lady Saljesca’s household has an endless thirst for the stuff,” said the carpenter. “The rest of us buy pecks and pinches from her sellers when they come around. Now, your messenger said that you wished to discuss a commission that was, in her words, very particular.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Locke. “Particular, to a design and an end that may strike you as eccentric. I assure you I am in grave earnest.”
Locke set down his coffee and lifted his satchel into his lap, then pulled a small key from his waistcoat pocket to open the lock. He reached inside and drew out a few pieces of folded parchment.
“You must be familiar,” Locke continued, “with the style of the last few years of the Therin Throne? The very last few, just before Talathri died in battle against the Bondsmagi?” He passed over one of his sheets of parchment, which Baumondain removed his optics to examine.
“Oh, yes,” the carpenter said slowly. “The Talathri Baroque, also called the Last Flowering. Yes, I’ve done pieces in this fashion before…. Laurishas as well. You have an interest in this style?”
“I require a suite of chairs,” said Locke. “Four of them, leather-backed, lacquered shear-crescent with real gold insets.”
“Shear-crescent is a somewhat delicate wood, fit only for occasional use. For more regular sitting I’m sure you’d want witchwood.”
“My master,” said Locke, “has very exact tastes, however peculiar. He insisted upon shear-crescent, several times, to ensure that his wishes were clear.”
“Well, if you wished them carved from marzipan, I suppose I should have to do it…with the clear understanding, of course, that I did warn you against hard use.”
“Naturally. I assure you, Master Baumondain, you won’t be held liable for anything that happens to these chairs after they leave your workshop.”
“Oh, I would never do less than vouch for our work, but I cannot make a soft wood hard, Master Fehrwight. Well, then, I do have some books with excellent illustrations of this style. Your artist has done well to start with, but I’d like to give you more variety to choose from….”
“By all means,” said Locke, and he sipped his coffee contentedly as the carpenter rose and returned to the workshop door. “Lauris,” Baumondain cried, “my three volumes of Velonetta…. Yes, those.”
He returned a moment later cradling three heavy, leather-bound tomes that smelled of age and some spicy alchemical preservative. “Velonetta,” he said as he settled the books on his lap. “You are familiar with her? No? She was the foremost scholar of the Last Flowering. There are only six sets of her work in all the world, as far as I know. Most of these pages are on sculpture, painting, music, alchemy…but there are fine passages on furniture, gems worth mining. If you please…”
They spent half an hour poring over the sketches Locke had provided and the pages Baumondain wished to show him. Together, they hammered out an agreeable compromise on the design of the chairs that “Master Fehrwight” would receive. Baumondain fetched a stylus of his own and scrawled notes in an illegible chicken scratch. Locke had never before considered how many details might go into something as straightforward as a chair; by the time they had finished their discussion of legs, bracings, cushion filling, leathers, scrollwork, and joinery, Locke’s brain was in full revolt.
“Excellent, Master Baumondain, excellent,” is nonetheless what he said. “The very thing, in shear-crescent, lacquered black, with gold leaf to gild the incised decorations and the rivets. They must look as though they had been plucked from Emperor Talathri’s court just yesterday, new and un-burnt.”
“Ah,” said the carpenter, “a delicate subject arises, then. Without meaning to give the slightest offense, I must make it clear that these will never pass for originals. They will be exact reconstructions of the style, perfect facsimiles, of a quality to match any furnishings in the world—but an expert could tell. They are few, and far between, but such a one would never confuse a brilliant reconstruction for even a modest original. They have had centuries to weather; these will be plainly new.”
“I take your meaning, Master Baumondain. Never fear; I am ordering these for eccentric purposes, not for deceptive ones. These chairs will never be alleged to be originals, on my word. And the man who will receive them is such an expert, in fact.”
“Very good, then, very good. Is there anything else?”