Authors: Scott Lynch
“That won’t bring my four good men and women back, will it?” Stragos put his hands
behind his back. “And with that, we’re done. The sound of your voice, the tone of
your arrogance, the sheer
effrontery
contained within that tongue of yours … you are sharkskin on my eardrums, Master
Kosta, and you murdered honest soldiers of Tal Verrar. You will have no priest, no
ceremony, and no grave. Sergeant, give me your sword.”
The sergeant of the arresting Eyes stepped forward and drew his blade. He turned it
hilt-first toward the archon.
“Stragos,” said Jean. “One last thing.”
Locke turned toward him, and saw that he was smiling thinly. “I’m going to remember
this moment for the rest of my gods-damned life.”
“I—”
Stragos never finished his sentence, since the Eye sergeant suddenly drew back his
sword arm and slammed the hilt of the weapon into the archon’s face.
THEY DID it like this.
The Eyes removed Locke and Jean from Requin’s courtyard and shoved them into a heavy
carriage with iron-barred windows. Three entered the
compartment with them, two rode up top to tend the horses, and three stood at the
sides and rear, as outriders.
At the end of the street atop the highest tier of the Golden Steps, where the carriage
had to turn left to take the switchback ramp down to the next level, another carriage
suddenly blocked its way. The Eyes yelled threats; the driver of the other carriage
apologized profusely and shouted that his horses were uncommonly stubborn.
Then the crossbow strings began to snap, and the drivers and outriders toppled from
their places, caught defenseless in a storm of quarrels. Squads of constables in full
uniform appeared on the street to either side of the carriage, waving their staves
and shields.
“Move along,” they shouted at the wide-eyed bystanders, the wisest of whom had already
ducked for cover. “Nothing to see here. Business of archon and Council.”
As the bodies hit the cobblestones outside the carriage, the door flew open and the
three inside made a futile attempt to aid their fallen comrades. Two more squads of
constables, with help from a number of private individuals in plain dress who just
happened
to get involved at the same signal, charged and overpowered them. One fought back
so hard that he was slain by accident; the other two were soon forced down beside
the carriage, and their bronze masks removed.
Lyonis Cordo appeared, wearing the uniform of an Eye, complete in every detail save
for the mask. He was followed by seven more men and women in nearly complete costumes.
With them was a young woman Locke didn’t recognize. She knelt in front of the two
captured Eyes.
“You I don’t know,” she said to the one on the right. Before the man had time to realize
what was happening, a constable had passed a dagger across his throat and shoved him
to the ground. Other constables were quickly dragging the rest of the bodies out of
sight.
“You,” said the woman, regarding the sole surviving Eye. “Lucius Caulus. You I know.”
“Kill me now,” said the man. “I’ll give you nothing.”
“Of course,” said the woman. “But you have a mother. And a sister, who works in the
Blackhands Crescent. And you have a brother-by-bonding on the fishing boats, and two
nephews—”
“Fuck you,” Caulus said. “You wouldn’t—”
“While you watched. I would. I
will
. Every single one of them, and you’ll be in the room the whole time, and they’ll
know that you could save them with a few words.”
Caulus looked at the ground and began to sob. “Please,” he said. “Let this stay between
us—”
“Tal Verrar remains, Caulus. The archon isn’t Tal Verrar. But I don’t have time to
play games with you. Answer my questions or we will find your family.”
“Gods forgive me,” said Caulus, nodding.
“Were you given any special code phrases or procedures to use when reentering the
Mon Magisteria?”
“N-no …”
“What, exactly, were the orders that you heard given to your sergeant?”
When the brief interrogation was over, and Caulus carted off—alive, to keep him in
fear of consequences should he be leaving anything out—along with the bodies, the
false Eyes armed themselves with the weapons and harnesses of the real thing, and
drew on the brass masks. Then the carriage was off again, speeding on its way to the
boat waiting at the inner docks, lest any of Stragos’ agents should get across the
bay in time to warn of what they’d seen.
“That was about as good as we could hope for,” said Lyonis, sitting inside the carriage
with them.
“How good are those fake uniforms?” asked Locke.
“Fake? You misunderstand. The uniforms weren’t the hard part; our sympathizers in
Stragos’ forces supplied us with these some time ago. It’s the masks that are damned
difficult. One per Eye, no spares; they keep them like family heirlooms. And they
spend so much time looking at them even a close copy would be noticed.” Cordo held
up his mask and grinned. “After tonight, hopefully, we’ll never see the damned things
again. Now what the hell is in those oilcloth tubes?”
“A gift from Requin,” said Locke. “Unrelated personal business.”
“You know Requin well?”
“We share a taste for the art of the late Therin Throne period,” said Locke, smiling.
“In fact, we’ve even exchanged some pieces of work recently.”
AS LYONIS knocked the archon to the ground, the other false Eyes tore their masks
off and took action. Locke and Jean slid out of the purely decorative knots at their
wrists in less than a second.
One of Lyonis’ men underestimated the skills of the real Eye he faced;
he fell to his knees with most of his left side sliced open. Two more Priori pretenders
closed in and harried the Eye until his guard slipped; they knocked him down and stabbed
him several times. The other tried to run and fetch aid, but was slain before he could
take five steps.
Merrain and the alchemist looked around, the alchemist far more nervously than Merrain,
but two of Lyonis’ people put them at swordpoint.
“Well, Stragos,” said Lyonis, hauling the archon back to his knees, “warmest regards
from the House of Cordo.” He raised his arm, sword reversed to strike, and grinned.
Jean grabbed him from behind, threw him to the ground, and stood over him, seething.
“The
deal
, Cordo!”
“Yeah,” said Lyonis, still smiling where he lay on the ground. “Well, it’s like this.
You’ve done us quite a service, but we don’t feel comfortable having loose ends running
around. And there are now seven of us, and two of—”
“You
amateur
double-crossers,” said Locke. “You make us professionals cringe. You think you’re
so fucking clever. I saw this coming about a hundred miles away, so I had a mutual
friend offer an opinion on the subject.”
Locke reached into his boot and pulled out a slightly crumpled, moderately sweaty
half-sheet of parchment, folded into quarters. Locke passed this to Lyonis and smiled,
knowing as the Priori unfolded it that he would read:
I WOULD TAKE IT AS A PERSONAL AFFRONT IF THE BEARERS OF THIS NOTE WERE TO BE HARMED
OR HINDERED IN ANY WAY, ENGAGED AS THEY ARE UPON AN ERRAND OF MUTUAL BENEFIT. THE
EXTENSION OF EVERY COURTESY TO THEM WILL BE NOTED AND RETURNED AS THOUGH A COURTESY
TO MYSELF. THEY BEAR MY FULL AND ABSOLUTE TRUST.
R
All, of course, above Requin’s personal seal.
“I know that you yourself are not fond of his chance house,” said Locke. “But you
must admit that the same is not generally true among the Priori, and many of your
peers keep a great deal of money in his vault—”
“Enough. I take your point.” Cordo rose to his feet and all but threw the letter back
at Locke. “What do you ask?”
“I only want two things,” said Locke. “The archon and his alchemist. What you do with
this gods-damned city is entirely your business.”
“The archon must—”
“You were about to gut him like a fish. He’s my business now. Just know that whatever
happens to him won’t be an inconvenience for you.”
The sound of shouting arose from the other side of the gardens. No, Locke corrected
himself—the other side of the fortress.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
“We have sympathizers at the Mon Magisteria’s gate,” said Cordo. “We’re bringing people
in to prevent anyone from leaving. They must be making their presence known.”
“If you try to storm—”
“We’re not storming the Mon Magisteria. Just sealing it off. Once the troops inside
comprehend the new situation, we’re confident they’ll accept the authority of the
councils.”
“You’d better hope that’s the case across Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “But enough of
this shit. Hey, Stragos, let’s go have a chat with your pet alchemist.”
Jean hoisted the archon—still clearly in shock—to his feet, and began to haul him
over to where Merrain and the alchemist were standing under guard.
“You,” said Locke, pointing at the bald man, “are about to start explaining a hell
of a lot of things, if you know what’s good for you.”
The alchemist shook his head. “Oh, but I … I …”
“Pay close attention,” said Locke. “This is the end of the archonate, understand?
The whole institution is getting sunk in the harbor once and for all tonight. After
this, Maxilan Stragos won’t have the power to buy a cup of warm piss for all the gold
in Tal Verrar. That will leave you with
nobody
to go crawling to as you spend the rest of your short, miserable life answering to
the two men you fucking poisoned. Do you have a
permanent
antidote?”
“I … I carry an antidote for every poison I use in the archon’s service, yes. Just
in case.”
“Xandrin, don’t—,” said Stragos. Jean punched him in the stomach.
“Oh, no.
Do
, Xandrin, do,” said Locke.
The bald man reached into his satchel and held up a glass vial, full of transparent
liquid. “One dose is what I carry. This is enough for one man—
do not
split it. This will cleanse the substance from the humors and channels of the body.”
Locke took the vial from him, his hand trembling. “And this … how much will it cost
to have another alchemist make more?”
“It’s impossible,” said Xandrin. “I designed the antidote to defy reactive
analysis. Any sample subjected to alchemical scrutiny will be ruined. The poison and
its antidote are my proprietary formulation—”
“Notes,” said Locke. “Recipes, whatever you call the damn things.”
“In my head,” said Xandrin. “Paper is a poor keeper of secrets.”
“Well then,” said Locke, “until you cook us up another dose, it looks like you’re
fucking well coming with us. Do you like the sea?”
MERRAIN MADE her decision then. If the antidote couldn’t be duplicated, and she could
knock the vial to the ground … the troublesome anomalies Kosta and de Ferra were as
good as dead. That would leave only Stragos and Xandrin.
If they were dealt with, all those with any direct knowledge of the fact that she
served a master beyond Tal Verrar would be silenced.
She moved her right arm slightly, dropping the hilt of her poisoned dagger into her
hand, and took a deep breath.
Merrain moved so fast that the false Eye standing to her side never even had the chance
to raise his sword. Her sideways stab, not preceded by any telltale glance or lunge,
took him in the side of the neck. She slid the blade sideways as she withdrew, tearing
whatever she could in case the poison took a few extra seconds to do its work.
MERRAIN’S FIRST victim had just uttered a gasp of surprise when she moved again, slashing
across the back of Xandrin’s neck with a knife she’d produced from nowhere. Locke
stared for a split second, startled; he counted himself fast, but if she’d been aiming
for him he realized that he never would have seen the blow coming in time.
As Xandrin cried out and stumbled forward, Merrain kicked at Locke, a fast attack
rather than a solid one. She caught his arm and the vial flew from his fingers; Locke
barely had time to yell, “Shit!” before he was diving after it, heedless of the gravel
he was about to skin himself against or anything else Merrain might care to do to
him. He plucked the still-intact vial off the ground, uttered a whisper of thanks,
and was then knocked aside as Jean rushed past, arms extended.
As he hit the ground with the vial clutched to his chest, Locke saw Merrain wind up
and hurl her knife; Jean struck her at the moment of release,
so that rather than impaling Stragos through the neck or chest as she’d clearly intended,
she bounced her blade off the gravel at his feet. The archon flinched away from the
weapon nonetheless.
Merrain, improbably, put up an effective struggle against Jean; she freed one arm
from his grasp somehow and elbowed him in the ribs. Lithe and no doubt desperate as
all hell, she kicked his left foot, broke his grip, and tried to stumble away. Jean
retained enough of a hold on her tunic to tear off her left sleeve all the way to
the shoulder; thrown off balance as it gave way, he fell to the ground.
Locke caught a flash of an elaborate, dark tattoo against the pale skin of Merrain’s
upper arm—something like a grapevine entwined around a sword. Then she was off like
a crossbow bolt, darting into the night, away from Jean and the false Eyes who chased
her in vain for a few dozen steps before giving up and swearing loudly.
“Well what the—oh, hell,” said Locke, noticing for the first time that the false Eye
Merrain had stabbed, along with Xandrin, was writhing on the ground with rivulets
of foaming saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. “Oh, shit, shit,
hell
,” Locke shouted, bending helplessly over the dying alchemist. The convulsions ceased
in just a few seconds, and Locke stared down at the single vial of antidote in his
hands, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.