Chapter Three
Imaginary Men
1
FOR THE SECOND time in two days, Don Lorenzo Salvara found his life interrupted by masked and hooded strangers in an unexpected place. This time, it was just after midnight, and they were waiting for him in his study.
“Close the door,” said the shorter intruder. His voice was all Camorr, rough and smoky and clearly accustomed to being obeyed. “Have a seat, m’lord, and don’t bother calling for your man. He is…indisposed.”
“Who the hell are you?” Salvara’s sword hand curled reflexively; his belt held no scabbard. He slid the door closed behind him but made no move to sit at his writing desk. “How did you get in here?”
The intruder who’d first spoken reached up and pulled down the black cloth that covered his nose and mouth. His face was lean and angular; his hair black, his dark moustache thin and immaculately trimmed. A white scar arced across the man’s right cheekbone. He reached into the folds of his well-cut black cloak and pulled out a black leather wallet, which he flipped open so the don could see its contents—a small crest of gold set inside an intricate design of frosted glass.
“Gods.” Don Salvara fell into his chair, nervously, without further hesitation. “You’re Midnighters.”
“Just so.” The man folded his wallet and put it back in his cloak. The silent intruder, still masked and hooded, moved casually around to stand just a few feet behind Don Lorenzo, between him and the door. “We apologize for the intrusion. But our business here is extremely sensitive.”
“Have I…have I somehow offended His Grace?”
“Not to my knowledge, m’lord Salvara. In fact, you might say we’re here to help prevent you from doing so.”
“I…I, ah…well. Ah, what did you say you did to Conté?”
“Just gave him a little something to help him sleep. We know he’s loyal and we know he’s dangerous. We didn’t want any…misunderstandings.”
The man standing at the door punctuated this statement by stepping forward, reaching around Don Salvara, and gently setting Conté’s matching fighting knives down on the desktop.
“I see. I trust that he’ll be well.” Don Salvara drummed his fingers on his writing desk and stared at the scarred intruder. “I should be very displeased otherwise.”
“He is completely unharmed; I give you my word as the duke’s man.”
“I shall hold that sufficient. For the time being.”
The scarred man sighed and rubbed his eyes with two gloved fingers. “There’s no need for us to begin like this, m’lord. I apologize for the abruptness of our appearance and the manner of our intrusion, but I believe you’ll find that your welfare is paramount in our master’s eyes. I’m instructed to ask—did you enjoy yourself at the Revel today?”
“Yes…” Don Salvara spoke carefully, as though to a solicitor or a court recorder. “I suppose that would be an accurate assessment.”
“Good, good. You had company, didn’t you?”
“The Do?a Sofia was with me.”
“I refer to someone else. Not one of His Grace’s subjects. Not Camorri.”
“Ah. The merchant. A merchant named Lukas Ferhwight, from Emberlain.”
“From Emberlain. Of course.” The scarred man folded his arms and looked around the don’s study. He stared for a moment at a pair of small glass portraits of the old Don and Do?a Salvara, set in a frame decked with black velvet funeral ribbons. “Well. That man is no more a merchant of Emberlain than you or I, m’lord Salvara. He’s a fraud. A sham.”
“I…” Don Salvara nearly jumped to his feet, but remembered the man standing behind him and seemed to think better of it. “I don’t see how that could be possible. He…”
“Beg pardon, m’lord.” The scarred man smiled, gruesomely and artificially, as a man without children might smile when trying to comfort an upset babe. “But let me ask you—have you ever heard of the man they call the Thorn of Camorr?”