The hand that she had placed on his shoulder (her left, on the burned side) wasn’t real. It was a solid brass simulacrum, and it gleamed dully in the lantern light as she withdrew it.
“The house congratulates you,” she said in her eerie, lisping voice, “for good manners as well as considerable fortitude, and wishes you and Master de Ferra to know that you would both be welcome on the sixth floor, should you choose to exercise the privilege.”
Locke’s smile was quite genuine. “Many thanks, on behalf of myself and my partner,” he said with tipsy glibness. “The kind regard of the house is, of course, extremely flattering.”
She nodded noncommittally, then slipped away into the crowd as quickly as she’d come. Eyebrows went up appreciatively here and there—few of Requin’s guests, to Locke’s knowledge, were apprised of their increasing social status by Selendri herself.
“We’re a commodity in demand, my dear Jerome,” he said as they made their way through the crowd toward the front doors.
“For the time being,” said Jean.
“Master de Ferra,” beamed the head doorman as they approached, “and Master Kosta. May I call for a carriage?”
“No need, thanks,” said Locke. “I’ll fall over sideways if I don’t flush my head with some night air. We’ll walk.”
“Very good then, sir.”
With military precision, four attendants held the doors open for Locke and Jean to pass. The two thieves stepped carefully down a wide set of stone steps covered with a red velvet carpet. That carpet was thrown out and replaced each night. As a result, in Tal Verrar alone could one find armies of beggars routinely sleeping on piles of red velvet scraps.
The view was breathtaking; to their right, the whole crescent sweep of the island was visible beyond the silhouettes of other chance houses. There was relative darkness in the north, in contrast to the auralike glow of the Golden Steps. Beyond the city—to the south, west, and north—the Sea of Brass gleamed phosphorescent silver, lit by three moons in a cloudless sky. Here and there the sails of distant ships reached up from the quicksilver tableau, ghostly pale.
Locke could gaze downward to his left and see across the staggered rooftops of the island’s five lower tiers, a vertigo-inducing view despite the solidity of the stones beneath his feet. All around him was the murmur of human pleasure and the clatter of horse-drawn carriages on cobbles; there were at least a dozen moving or waiting along the straight avenue atop the sixth tier. Above, the Sinspire reared up into the opalescent darkness with its alchemical lanterns bright, like a candle meant to draw the attentions of the gods.
“And now, my dear professional pessimist,” said Locke as they stepped away from the Sinspire and acquired relative privacy, “my worry-merchant, my tireless font of doubt and derision…what do you have to say to that?”
“Oh, very little, to be sure, Master Kosta. It’s so hard to think, overawed as I am with the sublime genius of your plan.”
“That bears some vague resemblance to sarcasm.”
“Gods forfend,” said Jean. “You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides come and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius that nourishes the heart of the world.”
“And now you’re—”
“If only there was a leper handy,” interrupted Jean, “so you could lay your hands on and magically heal him.”
“Oh, you’re just farting out your mouth because you’re jealous.”
“It’s possible,” said Jean. “Actually, we are substantially enriched, not caught, not dead, more famous, and welcome on the next floor up. I must admit that I was wrong to call it a silly scheme.”
“Really? Huh.” Locke reached under his coat lapels as he spoke. “Because I have to admit, it was a silly scheme. Damned irresponsible. One drink more and I would have been finished. I’m actually pretty bloody surprised we pulled it off.”
He fumbled beneath his coat for a second or two, then pulled out a little pad of wool about as wide and long as his thumb. A puff of dust was shaken from the wool when Locke slipped it into one of his outer pockets, and he wiped his hands vigorously on his sleeves as they walked along.
“Nearly lost is just another way to say finally won,” said Jean.
“Nonetheless, the liquor almost did me in. Next time I’m that optimistic about my own capacity, correct me with a hatchet to the skull.”
“I’ll be glad to correct you with two.”
It was Madam Izmila Corvaleur who’d made the scheme possible. Madam Corvaleur, who’d first crossed paths with “Leocanto Kosta” at a gaming table a few weeks earlier, who had the reliable habit of eating with her fingers to annoy her opponents while she played cards.
Carousel Hazard really couldn’t be cheated by any traditional means. None of Requin’s attendants would stack a deck, not once in a hundred years, not even in exchange for a dukedom. Nor could any player alter the carousel, select one vial in favor of another, or serve a vial to anyone else. With all the usual means of introducing a foreign substance to another player guarded against, the only remaining possibility was for a player to do herself in by slowly, willingly taking in something subtle and unorthodox. Something delivered by a means beyond the ken of even a healthy paranoia.
Like a narcotic powder, dusted on the playing cards in minute quantities by Locke and Jean, then gradually passed around the table to a woman continually licking her fingers as she played.
Bela paranella was a colorless, tasteless alchemical powder also known as “the night friend.” It was popular with rich people of a nervous disposition, who took it to ease themselves into deep, restful slumber. When mixed with alcohol, bela paranella was rapidly effective in tiny quantities; the two substances were as complementary as fire and dry parchment. It would have been widely used for criminal purposes, if not for the fact that it sold for twenty times its own weight in white iron.
“Gods, that woman had the constitution of a war galley,” said Locke. “She must have started getting some of the powder by the third or fourth hand…probably could’ve killed a pair of wild boars in heat with less.”
“At least we got what we wanted,” said Jean, removing his own powder reservoir from his coat. He considered it for a moment, shrugged, and slipped it in a pocket.
“We did indeed…and I saw him!” said Locke. “Requin. He was on the stairs, watching us for most of the hands in the middle game. We must have excited a personal interest.” The exciting ramifications of this helped clear some of the haze from Locke’s thoughts. “Why else send Selendri herself to pat our backs?”
“Well, assume you’re correct. So what now? Do you want to push on with it, like you mentioned, or do you want to take it slow? Maybe gamble around on the fifth and sixth floors for a few more weeks?”
“A few more weeks? To hell with that. We’ve been kicking around this gods-damned city for two years now; if we’ve finally cracked Requin’s shell, I say we bloody well go for it.”
“You’re going to suggest tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
“His curiosity’s piqued. Let’s strike while the blade is fresh from the forge.”
“I suspect that drink has made you impulsive.”
“Drink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive.”
“You there,” came a voice from the street in front of them. “Hold it!”
Locke tensed. “I beg your pardon?”
A young, harried-looking Verrari man with long black hair was holding his hands out, palms facing toward Locke and Jean. A small, well-dressed crowd seemed to have gathered beside him, at the edge of a trim lawn that Locke recognized as the dueling green.