Authors: Scott Lynch
“I know what a groove along the blade means,” mumbled Jean petulantly. “Do you know
who the hell these two work for?”
“I have some theories, yes.”
“And would you mind sharing them?” asked Locke.
“If I were given orders to that effect,” she said sweetly.
“Gods damn all Verrari, and give them more sores on their privates than hairs on their
heads,” muttered Locke.
“I was born in Vel Virazzo,” said the woman.
“Do you have a name?” asked Jean.
“Lots. All of them lovely and none of them true,” she replied. “You two can call me
Merrain.”
“Merrain. Ow.” Locke winced and massaged his left forearm with his right hand. Jean
set a hand on his shoulder.
“Anything broken, Leo?
“Not much. Perhaps my dignity and my previous presumptions of divine benevolence.”
Locke sighed. “We’ve seen people following us for the past few nights, Merrain. I
suppose we must have seen you.”
“I doubt it. You gentlemen should collect your things and start walking. Same direction
you were moving before. There’ll be constables here soon enough, and the constables
don’t take orders from my employer.”
Locke retrieved his wet stilettos and wiped them on the trousers of the man he’d killed
before returning them to his sleeves. Now that the anger of the fight had run cold,
Locke felt his gorge rising at the sight of the corpse, and he scuttled away as fast
as he could.
Jean gathered up his coat and slipped his hatchet into it. Soon enough the three of
them were walking along, Merrain in the middle with her elbows linked in theirs.
“My employer,” she said after a few moments, “wished me to watch over you tonight,
and when convenient show you down to a boat.”
“Wonderful,” said Locke. “Another private conversation.”
“I can’t say. But if I were to conjecture, I’d guess that he’s found a job for the
pair of you.”
Jean spared a quick glance for the two bodies lying in the darkness far behind them,
and he coughed into his clenched fist. “Splendid,” he growled. “This place has been
so dull and uncomplicated so far.”
Six days north up the coast road from Tal Verrar, the demi-city of Salon Corbeau lies
within an unusually verdant cleft in the black seaside rocks. More than a private
estate, not quite a functional village, the demi-city clings to its peculiar life
in the smoldering shadow of Mount Azar.
In the time of the Therin Throne Azar exploded to life, burying three living villages
and ten thousand souls in a matter of minutes. These days it seems content merely
to rumble and brood, sending twisting charcoal plumes out to sea, and flights of ravens
wheel without concern beneath the tired old volcano’s smoke. Here begin the hot, dusty
plains called the Adra Morcala, inhabited by few and loved by none. They roll like
a cracked dry sea all the way to the southern boundaries of Balinel, most westerly
and desolate canton of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows.
Locke Lamora rode into Salon Corbeau on the ninth day of Aurim, in the Seventy-eighth
Year of Nara. A mild westerly winter. A fruitful year (and more) had passed since
he and Jean had first set foot in Tal Verrar, and in the armored strongbox at the
rear of Locke’s rented carriage rattled a thousand gold solari, stolen at billiards
from a certain Lord Landreval of Espara who was unusually sensitive to lemons.
The little harbor that served the demi-city was thick with small craft—yachts and
pleasure-barges and coasting galleys with square silk sails. Farther out, upon the
open sea a galleon and a sloop rode at anchor, each flying the pennant of Lashain
under family crests and colors Locke didn’t
recognize. The breeze was slight and the sun was pale, more silver than gold behind
the hazy exhalations of the mountain.
“Welcome to Salon Corbeau,” said a footman in livery of black and olive green, with
a tall hat of pressed black felt. “How are you styled, and how must you be announced?”
A liveried woman placed a wooden block beneath the open door to Locke’s carriage and
he stepped out, bracing his hands in the small of his back and stretching with relief
before hopping to the ground. He wore a drooping black moustache beneath black-rimmed
optics and slick black hair; his heavy black coat was tight in the chest and shoulders
but flared out from waist to knees, fluttering behind him like a cape. He had eschewed
the more refined hose and shoes for gray pantaloons tucked into knee-high field boots,
dull black beneath a faint layer of road dust.
“I am Mordavi Fehrwight, a merchant of Emberlain,” he said. “I doubt that I shall
require announcement, as I have no title of any consequence.”
“Very good, Master Fehrwight,” said the footman smoothly. “The Lady Saljesca appreciates
your visit to Salon Corbeau and earnestly wishes you good fortune in your affairs.”
Appreciates your visit
, noted Locke, rather than
would be most pleased to receive your audience
. Countess Vira Saljesca of Lashain was the absolute ruler of Salon Corbeau; the demi-city
was built on one of her estates. Equally distant from Balinel, Tal Verrar, and Lashain,
just out of convenient rulership by any of them, Salon Corbeau was more or less an
autonomous resort state for the wealthy of the Brass Coast.
In addition to the constant arrival of carriages along the coast roads and pleasure-vessels
from the sea, Salon Corbeau attracted one other noteworthy form of traffic, which
Locke had meditated on in a melancholy fashion during his journey.
Ragged groups of peasants, urban poor and rural wretches alike, trudged wearily along
the dusty roads to Lady Saljesca’s domain. They came in intermittent but ceaseless
streams, flowing to the strange private city beneath the dark heights of the mountain.
Locke imagined that he already knew exactly what they were coming for, but his next
few days in Salon Corbeau would prove that understanding to be woefully incomplete.
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.
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?”