Authors: Scott Lynch
“Interesting.” She closed the door to the second carriage, turned away, and began
walking back toward the tower. “I can’t wait to hear this. You’ll come up with me.
Your attendants stay here, of course.”
The swordswoman looked as though she might utter a protest, so Locke shook his head
firmly and pointed sternly at the first carriage. The glare she returned made him
glad that she was bound by orders to protect him.
Once inside the Sinspire, Selendri gave whispered orders to the heavyset attendant,
then led Locke through the usual busy crowds, up to the service area on the third
floor. Soon enough they were locked away inside the darkness of the climbing closet,
slowly rising to the ninth floor. Locke was surprised to feel her actually turn toward
him.
“Interesting bodyguard you’ve found for yourself, Master Kosta. I didn’t know you
rated an Eye of the Archon.”
“Er, neither did I. I suspected, but I didn’t know. What makes you so sure?”
“Tattoo on the back of her left hand. A lidless eye in the center of a rose. She’s
probably not used to going about in common clothes; she should have worn gloves.”
“You must have sharp eyes. Eye. Sorry. You know what I mean. I saw it, but I didn’t
give it much thought.”
“Most people aren’t familiar with the sigil.” She turned away from him once again.
“I used to have one just like it on my own left hand.”
“I … well. That’s … I had no idea.”
“The things you don’t know, Master Kosta. The things you simply
do not
know …”
Gods damn it, Locke thought. She was trying to unnerve him, returning her own
strat péti
for his effort to engage her sympathy the last time they’d been this close. Did everyone
in this damn city have a little game?
“Selendri,” he said, trying to sound earnest and a bit hurt, “I have never desired
anything more than to be a friend to you.”
“As you’re a friend to Jerome de Ferra?”
“If you knew what he’d done to me, you’d understand. But as you seem to want to flaunt
your secrets, I think I’ll just keep a few of my own.”
“Please yourself. But you might remember that my opinion of you will ultimately be
a great deal more
final
than your opinion of me.”
Then the climbing closet creaked to a halt, and she squeezed past him into the light
of Requin’s office. The master of the Sinspire looked up from his desk as Selendri
led Locke across the floor; Requin’s optics were tucked into the collar of his black
tunic, and he was poring over a large pile of parchment.
“Kosta,” he said. “This is timely. I need some explanation from you.”
“And you’re certainly going to get it,” said Locke. Shit, he thought, I hope he hasn’t
found out about the assassins on the docks. I have too damn much to explain as is.
“May I sit?”
“Grab your own chair.”
Locke selected one from against the wall and set it down before Requin’s desk. He
surreptitiously rubbed the sweat of his palms away on his breeches as he sat down.
Selendri bent over beside Requin and whispered in his ear at length. He nodded, then
stared at Locke.
“You’ve had some sun,” he said.
“Today,” said Locke. “Jerome and I were sailing in the harbor.”
“Pleasant exercise?”
“Not particularly.”
“A pity. But it seems you were on the harbor several nights ago. You
were spotted returning from the Mon Magisteria. Why have you waited to bring the events
of that visit to my attention?”
“Ah.” Locke felt a rush of relief. Perhaps Requin simply didn’t know there was any
relevant link between Jean, himself, and the two dead assassins. A reminder that Requin
wasn’t all-knowing was exactly what Locke needed at that moment, and he smiled. “I
presumed that if you wanted to know sooner, one of your gangs would have hauled us
here for a conversation.”
“You should make a little list, Kosta, titled
People It’s Safe for Me to Antagonize
. My name will not appear on it.”
“Sorry. It wasn’t exactly by design; Jerome and I have had a need over the past few
days to go from sleeping with the sunrise to rising with it. And the reason for that
does
have something to do with Stragos’ plans.”
At that moment, a Sinspire attendant appeared at the head of the stairs leading up
from the eighth floor. She bowed deeply and cleared her throat.
“Begging your pardon, master and mistress. Mistress ordered Master Kosta’s chairs
brought up from the courtyard.”
“Do so,” said Requin. “Selendri mentioned these. What’s this, then?”
“I know it’s going to look more crass than it really is,” said Locke, “but you’d be
doing me a favor, quite honestly, by agreeing to take them off my hands.”
“Take them off your … oh my.”
A burly Sinspire attendant came up the stairs, carrying one of Locke’s chairs before
him with obvious caution. Requin rose from his desk and stared.
“Talathri Baroque,” he said. “Surely, it’s Talathri Baroque … you, there. Put those
in the center of the floor. Yes, good. Dismissed.”
Four attendants deposited four chairs in the middle of Requin’s floor, and then retreated
back down the stairwell, bowing before they left. Requin paid them no heed; he stepped
around the desk and was soon examining a chair closely, running a gloved finger over
its lacquered surface.
“Reproduction …” he said slowly. “Beyond any doubt … but absolutely beautiful.” He
returned his attention to Locke. “I wasn’t aware that you were familiar with the styles
I collect.”
“I’m not,” said Locke. “Never heard of the Talathri Whatever before now. A few months
ago, I played cards with a drunk Lashani. His credit was … strained, so I agreed to
accept my winnings in goods. I got four expensive chairs. They’ve been in storage
ever since because, honestly, what the hell am I going to do with them? I saw the
things you keep up here in
your office, and I thought perhaps you might want them. I’m glad they suit. Like I
said, you’re the one doing me a favor if you take them.”
“Astonishing,” said Requin. “I’ve always thought about having a suite of furniture
crafted in this style. I love the Last Flowering. This is quite a thing to part with.”
“They’re wasted on me, Requin. A fancy chair is a fancy chair, as far as I know. Just
be careful with them. For some reason, they’re shear-crescent wood. Safe enough to
sit in, but don’t abuse them.”
“This is … most unexpected, Master Kosta. I accept. Thank you.” Requin returned, with
obvious reluctance, to his chair behind his desk. “This doesn’t slip you out of your
need to deliver on your end of our agreement. Or to continue your explanation.” The
smile on his face diminished, no longer reaching his eyes.
“Of course not. But, concerning that … look, Stragos has a jar of fire oil up his
ass about something. He’s sending Jerome and I away for a bit, on business.”
“Away?” The guarded courtesy of a moment earlier was gone; the single word was delivered
in a flat, dangerous whisper.
Here goes. Crooked Warden, throw your dog a scrap.
“To sea,” said Locke. “To the Ghostwinds. Port Prodigal. On an errand.”
“Strange. I don’t recall moving my vault to Port Prodigal.”
“It relates to that.” But how? “We’re … after something.” Shit. Not nearly good enough.
“Someone, actually. Have you ever … ah, ever …”
“Ever
what
?”
“Ever heard of … a man named … Calo … Callas?”
“No. Why?”
“He’s, ah … well, the thing is, I feel foolish about this. I thought maybe you’d have
heard about him. I don’t know if he even exists. He might be nothing more than a tall
tale. You’re
sure
you don’t recall hearing the name before?”
“Certain. Selendri?”
“The name means nothing,” she said.
“Who is he supposed to be, then?” Requin folded his gloved hands tightly together.
“He’s …” What would do it? What would sensibly draw us away from this place if we’re
here to break the vault? Oh … Crooked Warden, of course! “… a lockbreaker. Stragos’
spies have a file on him. Supposedly, he’s the best, or he was, back in his day. An
artist with a pick, some sort of mechanical prodigy. Jerome and I are expected to
entice him out of retirement so he can apply himself to the problem of your vault.”
“What’s a man like that doing in Port Prodigal?”
“Hiding, I imagine.” Locke felt the corners of his mouth drawing upward and suppressed
an old familiar glee; once a Big Lie was let out in the world, it seemed to grow on
its own and needed little tending or worry to bend to the situation. “Stragos says
that the Artificers have tried to kill him several times. He’s their antithesis. If
he’s real, he’s the gods-damned anti-artificer.”
“Strange that I’ve never heard of him,” said Requin, “or been asked to find and remove
him.”
“If you were the Artificers,” said Locke, “would you want to spread knowledge of his
capabilities to someone in a position to make the best possible use of them?”
“Hmmm.”
“Hell.” Locke scratched his chin and feigned distracted consideration. “Maybe someone
did
ask you to find him and remove him. Just not by that name, and not with that description
of his skills, you know?”
“But why, of all his agents, would you and Jerome—”
“Who else is guaranteed to come back or die trying?”
“The alleged poison. Ah.”
“We have two months, maybe less.” Locke sighed. “Stragos warned us not to dally. We’re
not back by then, we get to find out how skilled his personal alchemist is.”
“The service of the archon seems a complicated life, Leocanto.”
“Fucking tell me about it. I liked him much better when he was just our unknown paymaster.”
Locke rolled his shoulders and felt some of his sore back muscles protest. “We leave
inside the month. That’s what the day-sailing is about. We’ll slip in with the crew
of an independent trader once we’ve had some training, so we don’t stand out as the
land-huggers we are. No more late nights gaming for us, until we get back.”
“You expect to succeed?”
“No, but one way or another, I’m damn well coming back. Maybe Jerome can even have
an ‘accident’ on the voyage. Anyhow, we’ll be storing our wardrobes at the Villa Candessa.
And we’ll be leaving every centira we currently have on your ledgers right where they
are. My money and Jerome’s. Hostage against my return, as it were.”
“And if you do return,” said Selendri, “you might bring back a man who can genuinely
aid the archon’s design.”
“
If
he’s there,” said Locke, “I’ll be bringing him straight back here first. I expect
you’ll want to have a frank discussion with him about the health benefits of accepting
a counteroffer.”
“Assuredly,” said Requin.
“This Callas,” said Locke, letting excitement rise in his voice, “he could be our
key to getting Stragos over the coals. He could be an even
better
turncoat than I am.”
“Why, Master Kosta,” said Selendri, “I doubt that anyone could be a more enthusiastic
turncoat than you.”
“You know damn well what I’m enthusiastic about,” said Locke. “But that’s that. Stragos
hasn’t told us anything else at the moment. I just wanted to get rid of those damn
chairs and let you know we’d be leaving for a while. I assure you, I’ll be back. If
it’s in my power at all, I’ll be back.”
“Such assurances,” mused Requin. “Such earnest assurances.”
“If I wanted to cut and run,” said Locke, “I would have done it already. Why come
tell you all this first?”
“Obvious,” said Requin, smiling gently. “If this is a ploy, it could buy you a two-month
head start during which I wouldn’t think to go looking for you.”
“Ah. An excellent point,” said Locke. “Except that I’d expect to start dying horribly
around then, head start or no.”
“So you claim.”
“Look. I’m deceiving the archon of Tal Verrar on your behalf. I’m deceiving Jerome
gods-damned de Ferra. I need allies if I’m going to get out of this shit. I don’t
care
if you two trust me; I
have
to trust you. I am showing you my hand. No bluff. Now, again, you tell me how we
proceed.”
Requin casually riffled the edges of the parchment pile on his desk, then matched
gazes with Locke. “I expect to hear the archon’s further plans for you immediately.
No delays. Make me wonder where you are again, and I’ll have you fetched. With finality.”
“Understood.” Locke made a show of swallowing and wringing his hands together. “I’m
sure we’ll be seeing him again before we leave. I’ll be here the night after any meeting,
no later.”
“Good.” Requin pointed in the direction of the climbing closet. “Leave. Find this
Calo Callas, if he exists, and bring him to me. But I
don’t
want dear Jerome slipping over a rail while you’re out at sea. Understand? Until
Stragos is in hand, that privilege is mine to deny.”
“I …”
“No ‘accidents’ for Master de Ferra. You satisfy that grudge on my sufferance. That’s
the bargain.”
“If you put it that way, understood, of course.”
“Stragos has his promised antidote.” Requin took up a quill and returned
his attention to his parchments. “I want my own assurance of your enthusiastic return
to my fair city. You want to slaughter your calf, you tend him for a few months first.
Tend him
very well
.”
“Of … of course.”
“Selendri will show you out.”
“HONESTLY, IT could have gone much worse,” said Jean as he and Locke pulled at their
oars the next morning. They were out in the main harbor, clipping over the gentle
swells near the Merchants’ Crescent. The sun had not yet reached its noon height,
but the day was already hotter than its predecessor. The two thieves were sweat-drenched.
“Sudden miserable death is indeed much worse,” said Locke. He stifled a groan; today,
the exercise was troubling not only his back and shoulder but the old wounds that
covered a substantial portion of his left arm. “But I think that’s the last dregs
of Requin’s patience. Any more strangeness or complication … Well, hopefully, this
is as odd as Stragos’ plans are going to get.”