“All the better,” I said. “Who would think of using something that old?
You
didn’t.”
Christiana humphed but didn’t argue. “It makes sense,” she admitted. “All they would need is the same diameter rod, and they could wrap the paper to either write or read the messages. It’s certainly simple enough for anyone to use. Did either of the corpses have a baton or rod of some sort? Something innocuous, that no one would question their keeping on them?”
I hadn’t seen Sylos’s body, but I’d gone over Athel’s things well enough to be able to see them again in my head. “A pipe,” I said. “Athel had a long-stemmed pipe. Sylos may have had the same.”
“I don’t suppose you still have it?”
“No,” I said. “But I remember what it looked like.” I began to tuck the papers away. “If I get over to Ash Street right now, I ought be able to cover at least a halfdozen pipe sellers before—”
“Nonsense,” said Christiana. She clapped her hands. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. And I’ll not sit around waiting while you do.”
Josef came gliding into the room, stopped at a respectful distance, and bowed.
“I find myself in need of tobacco pipes, Josef,” Christiana pronounced. “A
wide array
of tobacco pipes.”
“Very good, madam. How many tobacconists would you care to interview?”
“Start with a dozen.”
“And when would madam wish them to call upon her?”
“Immediately.”
Josef bowed again. “I will send runners at once. Shall I have them assemble in the solar?”
Christiana inclined her head. “Please. And inform Cook that Drothe and I will be taking an early dinner in the garden.”
Josef bobbed a third time and hurried from the room.
Christiana turned back to me and arched a satisfied smile. “And that, dear brother,” she said, “is how a baroness does ‘legwork.’ ”
Chapter Sixteen
T
hey were just bringing down the shutters and closing the main door when I bulled my way into Baldezar’s shop. One of the older scribes stepped forward and tried to cluck at me about the place being closed for the day. I gave him the back of my hand. By the time I reached the stairway to the upper level, there was a visible trail of scattering scribes and drifting paper in my wake. I took the steps two at a time, strode to the master scribe’s door, and threw it open.
Desk, parchment, books, quills and ink, but no Baldezar.
I turned around and looked out over the shop, leaning on the walkway’s wrought-iron railing. I’d come straight from Christiana’s. The continued lack of sleep hadn’t improved either my mood or my appearance.
“Where?”
I demanded.
The room fell silent. I heard a piece of paper settle to the ground. A bottle rolled off a scribe’s stand and clattered on the floor.
“Where is your thrice-damned master?” I yelled.
“Gone.”
Lyconnis was standing in the doorway to the palimpsest room, where they scraped and cleaned parchment for reuse. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying a pair of thick, hairy arms. His apron had done little to keep the pumice and chalk dust off his scribe’s robe.
“Gone where?” I said.
Lyconnis shrugged.
“Up here,” I said. “Now.”
I went back into Baldezar’s office. Books and scrolls filled the shelves behind the desk, along with small boxes full of penknives, sharpening stones, mortars and pestles, uncut quills, seashells for holding pigments, and ink-stained rags. Save for a neat array of sealed ink pots, the desktop was bare.
I slipped in behind and tried the two drawers in the desk—locked. I pulled my spiders from my pocket, bent down, and got to work.
Feet thumped heavily along the walkway, came into the room, and stopped. I didn’t glance up.
“What are you doing?” said Lyconnis.
“Not what I was hoping to do, I can tell you that,” I said. I felt the pick catch on one of the wards in the lock, then slip free. I shifted the pick slightly, felt it miss again. Wrong head, I decided. I pulled the spider out and fished for another.
Lyconnis sighed and settled into the narrow chair on the other side of the desk.
“What has Master Baldezar done?”
“Lied, for a start,” I said as I selected a pick with a heavier curve and slipped it in alongside the tension wrench. “Forged a letter from my . . . patron. Set me up. Maybe even put a Blade on my trail.” I felt the pick slip past the ward, tickle a tumbler, and push it home. I moved on to the next one, then the third. I turned the tension wrench, felt the lock give, and heard a scraping click. I pulled the drawer open.
I looked up to find Lyconnis staring at me.
“He tried to have you
killed
?” he said.
“He sure as hell didn’t send flowers.”
“But . . . he hired . . . a . . . an . . .”
“Maybe,” I said, sitting down in Baldezar’s desk chair. “Maybe not. I doubt he could afford the people who were sent. But he had a hand in it.” I pulled the scraps of paper from my ahrami pouch, then reaching into my herb wallet, drew out the pipe Christiana and I had gotten from the sixth pipe merchant who had come calling.
“You know how a scytale cipher works?” I said as I set them on the desk. Lyconnis nodded. “Have a read.”
Lyconnis wrapped, read, unwrapped, and wrapped again as I scoured the contents of the drawer. I didn’t need to see his face to know what he was seeing—I’d read and reread the strips so many times at Christiana’s, I’d committed them to memory.
The message from Athel’s bag had been straightforward.
The thief is getting anxious,
it read.
Trade imperial relic for book. Stall the Nose until we can make other arrangements. There is new action in Ten Ways—act with haste.
Whoever Athel had been dealing with, he had decided it was better for him to trade the relic than to sell it to me. I suspected “the thief” was Larrios, and that he’d demanded payment sooner than they had expected. I didn’t know if the book was supposed to be a final payment or just collateral until they could get him the hawks, but, either way, the plan had gotten Athel—and likely Fedim—killed.
Why hadn’t Athel told me what he’d done with the book? Had he or his masters been afraid I would go after it? Why had it been worth dying for?
Or killing for, for that matter?
The message to Sylos had been a more hastily scrawled thing:
Jarkman says Nose got to Athel. Has made arrangements. Blade will deliver the message, arrange for cleaning. Cooperate.
I had no doubt the Jarkman in question was Baldezar, but I had been wanting to confirm it in person. That, and find out why they had felt it was necessary to dust me in the first place.
The first drawer held nothing more than a few incriminating letters on some minor gentry and a handful of falsed seals. I dumped it out on the desk, checked the bottom and sides for hidden panels, and then got to work on the second lock.
“He said it was an exercise,” said Lyconnis as I tickled the second set of tumblers.
“What?” I said.
“The letter to you,” said Lyconnis. “An exercise for me. And a lesson for you.”
I stopped picking the lock and looked up over the desk. Lyconnis was staring down at the strips in his hand.
“
You
forged the letter to Chr—To the baroness?” I said.
“ ‘A good scribe should be able to compose his cephta in almost any style,’ ” recited Lyconnis. “At least, that’s what Master Baldezar says. I don’t agree, but he’s a master of my guild, and I’m in his shop. If I ever want to be a master in my own right, I have to heed him. So I do copies and minor forgeries from time to time.”
“Didn’t you wonder why he was having you forge a letter to me?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He’s a master in my guild,” repeated Lyconnis, this time almost pleading. “He told me it was to show you up—to teach you a lesson. You have to believe me when I say I didn’t know what it was about! If I had even thought he was capable of hiring a . . . an . . .”
“I get the idea,” I said sourly. “Baldezar was covering his ass, and he used you to do it.” I bent back to the lock. “If things didn’t work out and I came hunting, he could point out the flaws and deny writing it.” And, I thought, point to Lyconnis if I got too close. I had no doubt that if it had come to that, Baldezar would have made sure Lyconnis wasn’t in a position to argue by the time I made it to him.
The second lock gave way more easily than the first. Among a collection of castings for chops and silk sealing ribbons, I found four blank strips of paper that matched my own and a narrow wooden rod. Beneath the rod was a fifth strip of paper with markings on it. I picked it up and wrapped it around the rod. The symbols lined up perfectly.
Heard the second attempt failed,
it read in a shaky hand.
Nose suspects me. I need protection. I need—
The message ended in midsymbol, unfinished. That meant Baldezar had either been in too much of a hurry to finish it, or that he had been interrupted by someone before he disappeared. I hoped it was the former, because I wanted him alive.
“Best tell your guild they need a new master here,” I said, standing up.
Lyconnis stared at the slip as I unwound it and put it in my ahrami pouch.
“Is he dead?” he said.
“If he’s not,” I said, “he will be by the time I’m done with him.”
I put the word on the street to watch for Baldezar, but I didn’t hold out much hope. If he was smart, the scribe was already out of the city; if not, he was likely hiding or dead. Either way, the chances of someone spotting him in passing were slim.
Which left me Ten Ways.
Kells was right: I needed to stop Nicco from going to war, or at least delay him. Ten Ways was an avalanche waiting to happen—one that could very well sweep me along if I wasn’t careful. There were too many things tying me to the cordon now, and too many ways they could go wrong. Long Nosing aside, if Kin started killing Kin down there, someone could use it as an excuse to take care of me. Loose ends and vendettas are easy to resolve when blood is already running in the gutters.
A little asking around told me Nicco had gotten back into Ildrecca earlier in the day. I found him at his favorite gymnasium on the east side of Stone Arch cordon. Stripped to his smallclothes, he was working in the sandpit with a towering slab of muscle almost half his age. I couldn’t help noticing that the younger wrestler was both dirtier and bloodier than his opponent, which didn’t surprise me. Even when training, Nicco made a habit of using nasty tricks whenever he could.
I approached the ring and was stopped a dozen feet away by Salt Eye. That wasn’t a good sign.
“What the hell?” I said, staring up at the Arm.
“He’s busy.”
“And?” I said, throwing on a heavy dose of bravado.
Salt Eye hesitated. He was used to letting me pass, used to not giving me a second glance. That he now had to do both told me my status had changed. That he hesitated told me the change had happened recently.
“Screw you,” I said as I feinted left and dodged right. I could hear Salt Eye spin and come after me. I sped up my pace, but not so much that I lost any dignity in the process.
“Drothe,” said Nicco, not looking away from his opponent as I neared the oval pit. “Nice of you to come see me on your own for a change. Salt Eye, it’s all right.”
I heard Salt Eye stop, then retreat behind me.
“I tried last night, but you were out,” I said.
“I heard.” Nicco feinted low at his opponent, went high, and locked his arms around his neck and behind one shoulder. It didn’t seem like a good hold to me, and the other man began to easily twist his way out. That was when Nicco brought his knee into the other man’s midriff, lifting him off the ground. When the younger man hit the pit floor, Nicco was there in an instant, managing to kick sand in his face even as he got the pin.
Nicco rose, dusted himself off, and strolled over to the edge of the pit. He didn’t spare a backward glance for the man busy trying to brush sand out of his eyes; nor for the scowling trainer who handed the Upright Man a bowl of water but kept his mouth shut. No—Nicco merely drank, spit, and stepped out of the pit. All that mattered was that he had won.
“Come with me.” Nicco led me to a series of doorways on one side of the training room. He opened one and gestured for me to enter. I did.
The moist heat hit me immediately. It was a hot room—the first room of a three-room private bath, used for scrub massages and steam baths. Beyond the opposite door were the warm and cool rooms, for washing and relaxing respectively. I hoped Nicco would head to the last; instead, he sat down on one of the benches and started filling a shallow bowl from a tap beside him in the wall.
The sweat started gathering beneath my arms and along my forehead almost immediately. Nicco ignored my loosening my collar and cuffs, and instead sluiced water down his back. Then he refilled the bowl.