Authors: Scott Lynch
They kissed one another for a very long time, alone in the office once the Priori
had left in various states of bemusement, worry, and aggravation. As he usually did,
Requin removed his gloves to run the brown, pocked skin of his hands over her, over
the matching scar tissue on her left-hand side as well as the healthy flesh on her
right.
“There you are, my dear,” he said. “I know you’ve been chafing here for some time,
running up and down these tower steps, fetching and bowing for drunkards of quality.”
“I’m still sorry for my failure to—”
“Our failure was entirely shared,” said Requin. “In fact, I fell for Kosta and de
Ferra’s line of bullshit harder than you did—you retained your suspicion the whole
way. Left to your own devices, you would have thrown them out the window early on
and avoided the entire mess at the end, I’m sure.”
She smiled.
“And those smirking Priori assume I’m inflicting one last grand sinecure on them where
you’re concerned.” Requin ran his fingers through her hair. “Gods, are they in for
a surprise. I can’t wait to see you in action. You’ll build something that will make
my little coteries of
felantozzi
look tawdry.”
Selendri stared around at the wreckage of the office. Requin laughed. “I
suppose,” he said, “that I have to admire the audacious little shits. To spend two
years planning such a thing, and then the business with the chairs … and with my seal!
My, Lyonis was throwing a fit.…”
“I’d have thought you’d be furious,” said Selendri.
“Furious? I suppose I am. I was rather fond of that suite of chairs.”
“I know how long you worked to acquire those paintings—”
“Ah, the paintings, yes.” Requin grinned mischievously. “Well, as for that … the walls
have been left somewhat underdecorated. How would you like to go down to the vault
with me to start fetching out the real ones?”
“What do you mean, the real ones?”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘reproductions’?”
Locke sat in a comfortable, high-backed wooden chair in the study of Acastus Krell,
Fine Diversions dealer of Vel Virazzo. He wrapped both hands around his slender glass
of lukewarm tea to avoid spilling it.
“Surely you can’t be unfamiliar with the term, Master Fehrwight,” said Krell. The
old man would have been sticklike if not for the grace of his movements; he paced
his study like a dancer in a stage production, manipulated his magnifying lenses like
a duelist striking a pose. He wore a loose brocaded gown of twilight-blue silk, and
as he looked up now the hairless gleam of his head emphasized the eerily penetrating
nature of his stare. This study was Krell’s lair, the center of his existence. It
lent him an air of authority.
“I am,” said Locke, “in the matter of furniture, but as for paintings—”
“It’s a rarer thing, to be sure, but there can be no doubt. I have never actually
seen the original versions of these ten paintings, gentlemen, but there are
critical
incongruities in the pigments, brushstrokes, and general weathering of their surfaces.
They are not genuine art objects of the Talathri Baroque.”
Jean absorbed this morosely, hands folded before him, saying nothing and ignoring
his tea. Locke tasted bile in the back of his throat.
“Explain,” he said, struggling to keep his temper in check.
Krell sighed, his own aggravation clearly tempered by sympathy for their situation.
“Look,” he said, carefully holding up one of the paintings
they’d stolen, an image of Therin Throne nobles seated at a gladiatorial game, receiving
the tribute of a mortally wounded fighter. “Whoever painted this is a master artisan,
a fantastically patient and skillful individual. It would have required hundreds of
hours per painting, and the work must have been done with full access to the originals.
Obviously, the … gentleman from which you procured these objects had qualms about
exposing the originals to danger. I’d wager my house and all of its gardens that they’re
in his vault.”
“But the … incongruities. How can you know?”
“The master artists patronized by the last court of the Therin Throne had a secret
means to distinguish their works from those produced by artists serving lesser patrons.
A fact not known outside the emperor’s court until years after it fell. In their paintings,
Talathri’s chosen masters and their associates would deliberately create a very slight
visual flaw in one corner of the work, by using brushstrokes whose size and direction
jarred with those immediately surrounding them. The imperfection that proclaims perfection,
as it were. Like the beauty mark some Vadrans favor for their ladies.”
“And you can tell this at a glance?”
“I can tell well enough when I find no hint of it anywhere, on any of these ten works.”
“Damnation,” said Locke.
“It suggests to me,” said Krell, “that the artist who created these—or their employer—so
genuinely admired the original works that they refused to counterfeit their hidden
marks of distinction.”
“Well, that’s very heartwarming.”
“I can tell you require further proof, Master Fehrwight, and fortunately what remains
is even clearer. First, the brightness of these pigments is impossible, given the
state of alchemy four hundred years ago. The vibrancy of these hues bespeaks a contemporary
origin. Lastly, and most damningly, there is no veneer of age upon these works. No
fine cracks in the pigment, no discoloration from mold or sunlight, no intrusion of
smoke into the overlying lacquers. The flesh of these works, as it were, is as distinct
from the genuine article as my face would be from that of a ten-year-old boy.” Krell
smiled sadly. “I have aged to a fine old state. These have not.”
“So what does this mean, for our arrangement?”
“I am aware,” said Krell, settling into the chair behind his desk and setting the
painting down, “that you must have undergone extraordinary hardship in securing even
these facsimiles from the … gentleman in Tal Verrar. You have my thanks, and my admiration.”
Jean snorted and stared at the wall.
“Your thanks,” said Locke, “and your admiration, however well meant—”
“Are not legal tender,” said Krell. “I’m not a simpleton, Master Fehrwight. For these
ten paintings, I can still offer you two thousand solari.”
“Two?” Locke clutched the armrests of his chair and leaned forward. “The sum we originally
discussed was
thirty thousand
, Master Krell!”
“And for originals,” said Krell, “I would have gladly paid that original sum; for
genuine artifacts of the Last Flowering, I would have had buyers in distant locations
completely unconcerned with the … potential displeasure of the gentleman in Tal Verrar.”
“Two,” muttered Locke. “Gods, we left more than that sitting at the Sinspire. Two
thousand solari for two years is what you’re offering us.”
“No.” Krell steepled his spindly fingers. “Two thousand solari for ten paintings.
However much I regret what you might have endured to recover these objects, there
were no hardship clauses in our agreement. I am paying for goods, not the process
required to retrieve them.”
“Three thousand,” said Locke.
“Twenty-five hundred,” said Krell, “and not a centira more. I
can
find buyers for these; each of them is still a unique object worth hundreds of solari,
and well worth possessing or displaying. If pressed, after time passes, I can even
attempt to sell them back to the gentleman in Tal Verrar, claiming that I procured
them in some distant city. I don’t doubt that he would be generous. But if you don’t
wish to accept my price … you are free to take them to a market square, or a tavern,
perhaps.”
“Twenty-five hundred,” said Locke. “Damn it all to hell.”
“So I suspect we shall be, Master Fehrwight, in our own good time. But now I’d like
a decision. Do you accept the offer?”
“TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED,” said Locke for the fifteenth time as their carriage rattled
toward Vel Virazzo’s marina. “I don’t fucking believe it.”
“It’s more than a lot of people have, I suppose,” muttered Jean.
“But it’s not what I promised,” said Locke. “I’m sorry, Jean. I fucked up again. Tens
of thousands, I said. Huge score. Put us back at the top of our games. Lashani noblemen.
Gods above.” He put his head in his hands. “Crooked Warden, why the hell do you ever
listen to me?”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Jean. “We did pull it off. We did get out with everything
we planned. It’s just … it was the wrong everything. There was no way we could know.”
“Shit,” said Locke.
Their carriage slowed, then creaked to a halt. There was a clatter and a scrape as
their footman placed a wooden step, and then the door opened into daylight. The smell
of the sea flooded into the compartment, along with the sound of crying gulls.
“Do you still … want to do this?” Locke bit his lip at Jean’s lack of reaction. “I
know … that she was meant to be here with us. We can just forget about it, leave it
where it is, take carriages—”
“It’s fine,” said Jean. He pointed at the burlap bag on the seat beside Locke. The
bag seemed to be undulating, possessed by a motive force within itself. “Besides,
we went to the trouble of bringing a cat this time.”
“I suppose we did.” Locke poked the bag and smiled thinly at the resulting attack
from inside. “But still, you—”
Jean was already rising to leave the carriage.
“MASTER FEHRWRIGHT! So pleased to finally make your acquaintance. And yours as well,
Master—”
“Callas,” said Locke. “Tavrin Callas. Forgive my friend; he’s had a trying day. I’ll
conduct our business.”
“Of course,” said the master of Vel Virazzo’s private yacht harbor. Here the pleasure
barges and day-sailing vessels of Vel Virazzo’s notable families—who could be counted
on two hands without using all the available fingers—were kept under constant guard.
The harbormaster led them to the end of one of his docks, where a sleek one-masted
sailing vessel rocked gently on the swells. Forty feet long, lacquered teak and witchwood,
trimmed with brass and silver. Her rigging was the finest new demi-silk, and her furled
sails were the white of clean beach sand.
“Everything prepared according to your letters, Master Fehrwight,” said the harbormaster.
“I apologize for the fact that it required four days rather than three—”
“No matter,” said Locke. He passed over a leather satchel containing solari he’d counted
out in the carriage. “Balance of payment, in full, and the promised three-day bonus,
for your work party. I’ve no reason to be stingy.”
“You are entirely too kind,” said the harbormaster, bowing as he accepted the heavy
purse. Nearly eight hundred solari gone already.
“And the provisions?” asked Locke.
“Complete as specified,” said the harbormaster. “Rations and water for
a week. The wines, the oilcloaks and other emergency gear—all there, and checked by
myself.”
“Our dinner?”
“Coming,” said the harbormaster. “Coming. I expected a runner several minutes ago.
Wait—here’s the boy now.”
Locke glanced back toward their carriage. A small boy had just appeared from behind
it, jogging with a covered basket larger than his chest cradled in his arms. Locke
smiled.
“Our dinner concludes our business,” he said as the boy approached and handed the
basket up to Jean.
“Very good, Mater Fehrwight. Tell me, will you be putting out—”
“Immediately,” said Locke. “We have … a great many things to leave behind.”
“Will you require assistance?”
“We had expected a third,” said Locke quietly. “But the two of us will suffice.” He
stared at their new boat, at the once-alien arrangement of sails, rigging, mast, tiller.
“We’re always sufficient.”
It took them less than five minutes to load the boat with their baggage from the carriage;
they had little to speak of. A few spare clothes, work tunics and breeches, weapons,
and their little kit of thieves’ conveniences.
The sun was settling into the west as Jean began to untie them from the dock. Locke
hopped down onto the stern deck, a room-sized space surrounded by raised gunwales,
and as his last act before their departure he opened the burlap sack and released
the contents onto the boat.
The black kitten looked up at him, stretched, and began to rub himself against Locke’s
right boot, purring loudly.
“Welcome to your new home, kid. All that you survey is yours,” said Locke. “But this
doesn’t mean I’m getting attached to you.”
THEY ANCHORED a hundred yards out from the last of Vel Virazzo’s lantern towers, and
beneath their ruby light they had the dinner that Locke had promised.
They sat on the stern deck, legs folded, with a small table between them. They each
pretended to be absorbed in their bread and chicken, in their shark fins and vinegar,
in their grapes and black olives. Regal attempted to make war on their meal several
times, and only accepted an honorable peace after Locke bribed him with a chicken
wing nearly the size of his body.
They went through a bottle of wine, a nondescript Camorri white, the sort of thing
that smooths a meal along without becoming its centerpiece. Locke tossed the empty
bottle overboard and they started another, more slowly.
“It’s time,” Jean said at last, when the sun had moved so low in the west that it
seemed to be sinking into the starboard gunwale. It was a red moment, all the world
from sea to sky the color of a darkening rose petal, of a drop of blood not yet dry.
The sea was calm and the air was still; they were without interruptions, without responsibilities,
without a plan or an appointment anywhere in the world.
Locke sighed, removed a glass vial of clear liquid from his inner coat pocket, and
set it on the table.