4
“SURELY,” SAID Capa Raza, “surely, you must be a do?a of Camorr; I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, gracious lady.” He swept off his hat and bent from the waist at the ideal angle, right foot out before his left.
“I am Do?a Sofia Salvara, of the Isla Durona,” she said. She held out her hand; he took it and kissed the air above it.
“Your servant, my lady Salvara. I am Luciano Anatolius; charmed, my lady, quite charmed. And your companion? Have we met?”
“I do not believe so, sir,” said Locke. “You look strangely familiar, but I’m sure I would recall if we had met before.”
“Master Anatolius, this is Lukas Fehrwight, a merchant of Emberlain, of the House of bel Auster,” said Sofia. “My personal guest here at the duke’s feast.”
“A merchant of Emberlain? Greetings to you, sir; why, you must be very resourceful, to make it all the way up here, into such rarefied circles.”
“I do what I must, sir, I do what I must. I have some unusually good friends in Camorr; they often bring me unexpected advantages.”
“I don’t doubt it. The House of bel Auster, you say? The famous liquor merchants? How grand; I’m as fond of a good draught as the next man. In fact, I prefer to make all of my purchases by the cask.”
“Indeed, sir?” Locke smiled. “Why, that is the specialty of my firm; a great many wonderful and surprising things come out of our casks. We pride ourselves on always giving satisfaction—on always delivering full value for value received. Like for like, if you take my meaning.”
“I do,” said Capa Raza, with a grim smile of his own. “An admirable business practice; one near to my own heart.”
“But surely,” said Locke, “I remember now why you must be familiar, Master Anatolius. Do you not have a sister? Perhaps a pair of them? I seem to recall having met them, at some occasion—the resemblance seems very striking.”
“No,” said Capa Raza, scowling, “I’m afraid you’re very much mistaken; I have no sisters. Do?a Sofia, Master Fehrwight, it has been a distinct pleasure making your acquaintance, but I fear I have pressing business elsewhere; I wish you both much pleasure at the feast this evening.”
Locke held out his hand and put on an innocent friendly smile. “It is always a pleasure to make new acquaintances, Master Anatolius. Perhaps we shall see each other again?”
Capa Raza glared down at Locke’s outstretched hand, then seemed to remember himself; he could hardly refuse such a courtesy without causing a great stir. His strong hand clasped Locke’s forearm, and Locke returned the gesture. The fingers of Locke’s other hand twitched; if only his stiletto had not been inconveniently hidden in a boot, he would now be tempted beyond all rational thought. “You are very good, Master Fehrwight,” said Capa Raza with a placid face, “but I very much doubt it.”
“If I have learned anything about this city, Master Anatolius,” said Locke, “I have learned that it is quite full of surprises. A very good evening to you.”
“And to you,” said Raza, “merchant of Emberlain.”
He moved quickly away into the crowd; Locke watched him all the way. Raza turned once and their eyes locked yet again, and then the Capa was gone, up the stairs to the next level, gray coat fluttering in his wake.
“Lukas,” said Do?a Sofia, “did I miss something?”
“Miss something?” Locke gave her another innocent Fehrwight smile. “I don’t believe so, my lady. It is just that that man greatly resembled someone I once knew.”
“A friend from Emberlain?”
“Oh no,” said Locke. “Not a friend. And the man in question is dead—he is very, very dead.” Aware that he was clenching his teeth, he let ease return to his countenance. “Shall we go find your Do?a Vorchenza, my lady?”
“Why, yes,” said Sofia. “Yes, let’s be about it. Do follow me.”
She led him down the stairs Raza had come up, down to yet another gallery packed rim to rim with the quality: “blue bloods and gold bloods,” as Father Chains might have put it. Instead of a banquet table, this level held a bar—forty feet of polished witchwood staffed by two dozen men and women in the duke’s livery. Behind them, on tables and shelves, rose thousands upon thousands of glass bottles. Alchemical lamps had been placed behind them, and they bathed the gallery in cascading ribbons of color. Huge pyramids of wineglasses and beer glasses were set off to the sides of the bar, cordoned off behind velvet ropes; one unprofessional gesture would send hundreds of crowns worth of fine crystal crashing to the floor. Blackjackets stood at stiff attention beside the glass-pyramids, as an added assurance. And speaking of pyramids—another one of the lovely pyramid sculptures had been set out here, a few feet to the right of the bar, behind one of the velvet ropes.
Do?a Sofia led him to the west, past the bar and the long line of nobles waiting to take in the liquid courage of their choice; some of them were already obviously impaired in the fine art of standing up straight. On the western wall of the gallery there was a heavy witchwood door bearing the silver seal of Duke Nicovante’s personal arms. Do?a Sofia pushed this door open and led him into a curving hallway lit by the soft silver glow of alchemical lanterns. There were three doors in this hall, and Do?a Sofia brought him to the one at the far end, near what Locke supposed was the northern wall of the tower.
“Now,” said Do?a Sofia with a smirk, “it will either be Do?a Vorchenza, or it will be a pair of young people doing something they should not….”
She slid the door open and peeked inside, and then tugged on Locke’s sleeve. “It’s quite all right,” she whispered. “It’s her.”
Locke and Sofia were looking into a nearly square chamber with a slightly curved outer wall; unlike the public galleries, the Elderglass surface in this part of the tower was opaque. A single window was on the northern wall, its wooden shade cracked open to let in the sunlight and the warm air of the late afternoon.
There was a single tall-backed wooden chair in the room, and it held a single hunchbacked old lady; she was bent over a pair of glittering needles, utterly fixated on the unidentifiable object that was flowing into her lap from her efforts. A few rolls of black wool yarn lay at her feet. She was eccentrically dressed, in a man’s black coat and a pair of dark purple pantaloons such as cavalry officers traditionally wore; her little black slippers curved up at the ends like something from a fairy story. Her eyes seemed to be clear behind her half-moon optics, but they didn’t look up from her knitting when Do?a Sofia led Locke into the center of the room.
“Do?a Vorchenza?” Sofia cleared her throat and raised her voice.
“Do?a Vorchenza? It’s Sofia, my lady…. I’ve brought someone for you to meet.”
Snick-snick, went Do?a Vorchenza’s needles, snick-snick. But those eyes did not look up.
“Do?a Angiavesta Vorchenza,” said Sofia to Locke, “dowager countess of Amberglass. She, ah…she comes and goes.” Sofia sighed. “Might I beg you to stay here with her for just a moment? I’m going to the bar; she often takes white wine. Perhaps a glass of it will bring her back to us.”
“Of course, Do?a Sofia,” said Locke cheerfully. “I would be very honored to wait on the countess. Fetch her whatever you feel proper.”
“Can I bring you anything, Lukas?”
“Oh, no, you are too kind, my lady. I shall have something later, perhaps.”
Sofia nodded and withdrew from the room, closing the door with a click behind her. Locke paced for a few moments, hands behind his back.
Snick-snick, went the needles, snick-snick. Locke raised an eyebrow. The object flowing forth from those needles remained a perfect mystery. Perhaps it wasn’t yet near completion. He sighed, paced a bit more, and turned to stare out the window.
The green-and-brown hills spread out to the curving horizon north of the city; Locke could see the brown lines of roads, and the particolored roofs of small buildings, and the gray-blue of the Angevine, all fading into heat-haze and distance. The sun suffused everything in hot white light; there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.
There was a sudden vicious stabbing pain at the back of his neck, on the left side.
Locke whirled and slapped a hand to the site of the pain; there was a bit of wetness beneath his fingers. Do?a Angiavesta Vorchenza, dowager countess of Amberglass, stood before him, drawing back the knitting needle she had just plunged into the back of his neck. Now her eyes were lively behind those half-moon optics, and a smile broke out of the network of lines on her lean face.
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaah-owwwwww!” He rubbed at the back of his neck and maintained his Vadran accent only with the greatest difficulty. “What the hell was that?”
“Grief-willow, Master Thorn,” said Do?a Vorchenza. “The poison of the grief-willow tree, which I’m sure you’ve heard of. You have but a few minutes to live…and now I should very much like to spend them speaking to you.”