Authors: Scott Lynch
“He’s one of the archon’s personal retinue,” said Jean. “Maybe the most important
person in Stragos’ service, if Stragos makes a habit of doing this frequently. I doubt
he has a nice, convenient, out-of-the way house where we can pay him a visit. He probably
lives at the Mon Magisteria.”
“But there’s got to be something we can do,” said Locke. “The man has to have a price.
Think of what we’ve got at the Sinspire, or what we could get with Drakasha’s help.”
“I’ll admit it’s the best idea yet,” said Jean. “Which isn’t saying much.”
“Eyes wide, ears open, and hope in the Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered.
On this side of the city, Tal Verrar’s inner harbor was thick with pleasure boats,
barges, and hired gondolas. The wealthy (and the not-so-wealthy who didn’t care whether
or not they woke up without a centira the next day) were in full migration from the
professional crescents to the bars and coffeehouses of the Emerald Galleries. Locke
and Jean slipped into the stream and rowed against the prevailing current, dodging
larger vessels and exchanging choice vulgarities with the shouting, leering, bottle-throwing
customers on some of the rowdier barges.
Having dished out more abuse than they’d received, they slipped at last between the
Artificers’ Crescent and the Alchemists’ Crescent, admiring the vivid blue and green
fireballs that the alchemists were hurling, presumably in support of the festa (though
one never knew) forty or fifty feet into the air over their private docks. The prevailing
wind was toward Locke and Jean, and as they rowed they found themselves pursued by
a brimstone-scented rain of sparks and burnt paper scraps.
Their destination was easy enough to find; at the northwestern end of the Castellana
lay the entrance grotto to the Elderglass caverns from which
they’d emerged with Merrain, the first night she’d kidnapped them on the archon’s
behalf.
Security at the archon’s private landing had been enhanced. As Locke and Jean rowed
around the final bend into the prismatic glass hollow, a dozen Eyes hefted crossbows
and knelt behind curved iron shields, five feet high, set into the floor to provide
cover. Behind them a squad of regular Verrari soldiers manned a ballista, a minor
siege engine capable of shattering their boat with a ten-pound quarrel. An Eye officer
pulled a chain leading into a wall aperture, presumably ringing an alarm above.
“Use of this landing is forbidden,” shouted the officer.
“Please listen carefully,” shouted Locke. The dull roar of the waterfall high above
echoed throughout the cavern, and there was no room for error. “We have a message
for the waiting lady.”
Their boat bumped up against the edge of the landing. It was disconcerting, thought
Locke, having so many crossbows large and small dedicated to their intimidation. However,
the Eye officer stepped over and knelt beside them. His voice echoed metallically
through the speaking holes of his featureless mask.
“You’re here on the waiting lady’s business?”
“We are,” said Locke. “Tell her precisely this: ‘Two sparks were kindled, and two
bright fires returned.’ ”
“I shall,” said the officer. “In the meantime …”
After carefully setting their crossbows down, half a dozen Eyes stepped out from behind
their shields to haul Locke and Jean out of their boat. They were restrained and patted
down; their boot daggers were confiscated, along with Locke’s bag of gold. An Eye
examined it, and then passed it to the officer.
“Solari, sir. Confiscate it?”
“No,” said the officer. “Take them to the waiting lady’s chamber, and give it back.
If money alone could kill the Protector, the Priori would have already done it, eh?”
“YOU DID
what to the Red Messenger
?”
Maxilan Stragos was red-faced with wine, exertion, and surprise. The archon was dressed
more sumptuously than Locke had ever seen him, in a vertically striped cape of sea-green
silk that alternated with cloth-of-gold strips, over a coat and breeches that also
gleamed gold. He wore rings on all ten of his fingers, set alternately with rubies
and sapphires, very close approximations
of the Tal Verrar colors. He stood before Locke and Jean in a tapestry-walled chamber
on the first floor of the Mon Magisteria, attended by a pair of Eyes. If Locke and
Jean had not been granted chairs, neither had they been trussed up. Or placed in the
sweltering chamber.
“We, ah, used it to initiate successful contact with pirates.”
“By
losing
it to them.”
“In a word, yes.”
“And Caldris is dead?”
“For some time.”
“Now tell me, Lamora, just what sort of reaction were you hoping for when you brought
me this news?”
“Well, a fucking heart attack would have been nice, but I’d settle for a bit of patience
while I explain further.”
“Yes,” said the archon. “Do.”
“When the
Messenger
was taken by pirates, all of us aboard were made prisoners.” Locke had decided that
the specific details of injuries and scrub watches and so forth could be safely left
out of the story.
“By whom?”
“Drakasha.”
“Zamira lives, does she? With her old
Poison Orchid
?”
“Yes,” said Locke. “It’s in fine condition, and in fact it’s currently riding at anchor
about two miles, um …” He pointed with a finger at what he believed to be south. “… that
way.”
“She dares?”
“She’s practicing an obscure technique called ‘disguise,’ Stragos.”
“So you’re … part of her crew now?”
“Yes. Those of us taken from the
Messenger
were given a chance to prove our intentions by storming the next prize Drakasha took.
You won’t see the
Messenger
again, as it’s been sold to a sort of, um, wrecker baron. But at least now we’re
in a position to give you what you want.”
“Are you?” The expression on Stragos’ face went from annoyance to plain avarice in
an eyeblink. “How … refreshing to hear you deliver such a report, in lieu of vulgarity
and complaint.”
“Vulgarity and complaint are my special talents. But listen—Drakasha has agreed to
drum up the scare you want. If we get our antidote tonight, by the end of the week
you’ll have reports of raids at every point of the compass. It’ll be like dropping
a shark in a public bath.”
“What do you mean, precisely, by ‘Drakasha has agreed’?”
Improvising a fictional motive for Zamira was elementary; Locke could have done it
in his sleep. “I told her the truth,” he said. “The rest was easy.
Obviously, once our job is done, you’ll send your navy south to kick sixteen shades
of shit out of every Ghostwind pirate you find.
Except
the one that actually started the mess, who will conveniently hunt elsewhere for
a few months. And once you’ve got your grand little war sewn up, she goes back home
to find that her former rivals are on the bottom of the ocean. Alas.”
“I see,” said Stragos. “I would have preferred not to have her aware of my actual
intentions—”
“If there are any survivors in the Ghostwinds,” said Locke, “she can hardly speak
of her role in the matter to them, can she? And if there are
no
survivors … who can she talk to at all?”
“Indeed,” muttered Stragos.
“However,” said Jean, “if the two of us don’t return quite soon, the
Orchid
will head for the open sea, and you’ll lose your one chance to make use of her.”
“And I will have wasted the
Messenger
, and poisoned my reputation, and endured the abuse of your company, all for nothing.
Yes, Tannen, I’m well aware of the angles of what you no doubt believe to be a terribly
clever argument.”
“Our antidote, then?”
“You’ve not earned a final cure yet. But you’ll have the consequences further postponed.”
Stragos pointed to one of the Eyes, who bowed and left the room. He returned a few
moments later and held the door open for two people. The first was Stragos’ personal
alchemist, carrying a domed silver serving tray. The second was Merrain.
“Our two bright fires
have
returned,” she said. She was dressed in a long-sleeved gown that matched the sea-green
portions of Stragos’ cape, and her slender waist was accented by a tight cloth-of-gold
sash. Threaded into her hair was a circlet of red and blue rose blossoms.
“Kosta and de Ferra have earned another temporary sip of life, my dear.” He held out
his arm and she crossed over to him, taking his elbow in the light and friendly fashion
of a chaperone rather than a lover.
“Have they, now?”
“I’ll tell you about it when we return to the gardens.”
“Some sort of Festa Iono affair, Stragos? You’ve never struck me as the celebratory
type,” said Locke.
“For the sake of my officers,” said Stragos. “If I throw galas for them, the Priori
spread rumors that I am profligate. If I do nothing, they whisper that I am austere
and heartless. Regardless, my officers suffer far more in society
when they have no private functions from which to exclude their jealous rivals. Thus
I put my gardens to use, if nothing else.”
“I weep again for your hardship,” said Locke. “Forced by cruel circumstance to throw
garden parties.”
Stragos smiled thinly and gestured at his alchemist. The man swept the dome from the
silver tray, revealing two white-frosted crystal goblets full of familiar pale amber
liquid.
“You may have your antidote in pear cider tonight,” said the archon. “For old times’
sake.”
“Oh, you funny old bastard.” Locke passed a goblet to Jean, emptied his in several
gulps, and then tossed it into the air.
“Heavens! I slipped.”
The crystal goblet struck the stone floor with a loud clang rather than a shattering
explosion into fragments. It bounced once and rolled into a corner, completely unharmed.
“A little gift from the master alchemists.” Stragos looked extraordinarily amused.
“Hardly Elderglass, but just the thing to deny rude guests their petty satisfactions.”
Jean finished his own cider and set his glass back down on the bald man’s serving
tray. One of the Eyes fetched the other goblet, and when they were both covered by
the silver dome once again, Stragos dismissed his alchemist with a wave.
“I … um …,” said Locke, but the man was already out the door.
“This evening’s business is concluded,” said Stragos. “Merrain and I have a gala to
return to. Kosta and de Ferra, you have the most important part of your task ahead
of you. Please me … and I may just yet make it worth your while.”
Stragos led Merrain to the door, turning only to speak to one of his Eyes. “Lock them
in here for ten minutes. After that, escort them back to their boat. Return their
weapons and see that they’re on their way. With haste.”
“I … but …
damn
,” Locke sputtered as the door slammed closed behind the two Eyes.
“Antidote,” said Jean. “That’s all that matters for now. Antidote.”
“I suppose.” Locke put his head against one of the room’s stone walls. “Gods. I hope
our visit to Requin goes more smoothly than this.”
“SERVICE ENTRANCE, you ignorant bastard!”
The Sinspire bouncer came out of nowhere. He doubled Locke over his knee, knocking
the wind out of him in one cruel slam, and hurled him back onto the gravel of the
lantern-lit courtyard behind the tower. Locke hadn’t even stepped inside, merely approached
the door after failing to spot anyone he could easily bribe for an audience with Selendri.
“Oof,” he said as the ground made his acquaintance.
Jean, guided more by loyal reflex than clear thinking, got involved as the bouncer
came forth to offer Locke further punishment. The bouncer growled and swung a too-casual
fist at Jean, who caught it in his right hand and then broke several of the bouncer’s
ribs with the heel of his left. Before Locke could say anything, Jean kicked the bouncer
in the groin and swept his legs out from beneath him.
“Urrrrgh-
ack
,” the man said as the ground made his acquaintance.
The next attendant out the door had a knife; Jean broke the fist that held it and
bounced the attendant off the Sinspire wall like a handball from a stone court surface.
The next six or seven attendants who surrounded them, unfortunately, had short swords
and crossbows.
“You have no idea who you’re fucking with,” said one of them.
“Actually,” came a harsh feminine whisper from the service entrance, “I suspect they
do.”
Selendri wore a blue-and-red silk evening gown that must have cost as much as a gilded
carriage. Her ruined arm was covered by a sleeve that led down to her brass hand,
while the fine muscles and smooth skin of her other arm were bare, accentuated by
gold and Elderglass bangles.
“We caught them trying to steal into the service entrance, mistress,” said one of
the attendants.
“You caught us getting
near
the service entrance, you dumb bastard.” Locke rose to his knees. “Selendri, we need
to—”
“I’m sure you do,” she said. “Let them go. I’ll deal with them myself. Act as though
nothing happened.”
“But he … gods, I think he broke my ribs,” wheezed the first man Jean had dealt with.
The other was unconscious.
“If you agree that nothing happened,” said Selendri, “I’ll have you taken to a physiker.
Did anything happen?”
“Unnnh … no. No, mistress, nothing happened.”
“Good.”
As she turned to reenter the service area, Locke stumbled to his feet, clutching his
stomach, and reached out to grab her gently by the shoulder. She whirled on him.
“Selendri,” he whispered, “we cannot be seen on the gaming floors. We have—”
“Powerful individuals rather upset about your failure to give them a return engagement?”
She knocked his hand away.
“Forgive me. And yes, that’s exactly it.”
“Durenna and Corvaleur are on the fifth floor. You and I can take the climbing closet
from the third.”