Authors: Scott Lynch
From the quarterdeck, Jean could see the clean white terraces of the city, bulwarked
with thick rows of olive and cypress and witchwood trees, misted with a silver morning
fog that gave him an unexpected pang for Camorr. A blocky stone lighthouse dominated
the city’s waterfront, though at the moment its great golden lanterns were banked
down so that their glow was no more than a warm aura crowning the tower.
Locke leaned against the taffrail, staring at the approaching city, eating cold beef
and hard white cheese he’d piled awkwardly into his right hand. Locke had paced the
great cabin most of the night, unable or unwilling to sleep, settling into his hammock
only to rest his unsteady legs.
“How do you feel?” Patience, wrapped in a long coat and shawl, chose not to appear
out of thin air, but approached them on foot.
“Ill-used,” said Locke.
“At least you’re alive to feel that way.”
“No need to drop hints. You’ll get your command performance out of us, never worry
about that.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she said sweetly. “Here comes our dock detail.”
“Dock detail?” Jean glanced past Patience and saw a long, low double-banked boat rowed
by twenty people approaching behind the last of the fishing boats.
“To bring the
Sky-Reacher
in,” said Patience, “and mind her lines and sails and other tedious articles.”
“Not in the mood to wiggle your fingers and square everything away?” said Locke.
“One of the few things that we agree upon, exceptionalists and conservatives alike,
is that our arts don’t exist for the sake of swabbing decks.”
The dock detail came aboard at the ship’s waist, a very ordinary-looking pack of sailors.
Patience beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow her as two of the newcomers took the
wheel.
“I do assume you’re carrying your hatchets, Jean? And all of the documents I gave
you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you shouldn’t mind going ashore immediately.”
She led them to the
Sky-Reacher
’s larboard waist, where Jean could see four sailors still waiting in the boat. It
was an easy trip down the boarding net, just seven or eight feet. Even Locke made
it without mishap, and then Patience, who evidently required a hoist only when gravity
wasn’t on her side.
“Some of your people are waiting on the pier,” she said as she settled onto a rowing
bench. “They’re all sensible of the urgency of the situation.”
“Our people?” said Locke.
“As of now, they’re entirely
your
people. The arrangement of their affairs is in your hands.”
“And they’ll just do as we say? To what extent?”
“To a
reasonable
extent, Locke. Nobody will fling themselves into the lake at your whim, but you two
are now the de facto heads of the Deep Roots party’s election apparatus. Functionaries
will take your orders. Candidates will kiss your boots.”
The sailors pushed them away from the
Sky-Reacher
and pulled for the lantern-lit waterfront.
“This is the Ponta Corbessa,” said Patience, gesturing ahead. “The city wharf. I take
it neither of you knows much about this place?”
“Our former plan was to avoid Karthain, uh,
forever
,” said Jean.
“Your new associates will acquaint you with everything. Give it a few days and you’ll
be very comfortable, I’m sure.”
“Hrm,” said Locke.
“Speaking of comfort, there is one last thing I should mention.”
“And that is?” said Locke.
“You will of course be free to communicate with Sabetha in whatever fashion she allows,
but collusion will not be acceptable. You are opponents. You will oppose and be opposed,
without quarter. We’re paying you to see a contest. Disappoint us in that regard and
I can assure you, not getting paid will be the least of your worries.”
“Give the threats a rest,” said Locke. “You’ll get your gods-damned contest.”
The longboat drew up against a stone quay. Jean clambered out of the boat and heaved
Locke up after him, then grudgingly offered his arm to Patience. She took it with
a nod.
They were in the shadow of the lighthouse now, on a stretch of cobbled waterfront
backed by warehouses and shuttered shops. A sparse forest of masts rose behind the
buildings—probably some sort of lagoon, Jean thought, where ships could rest in safety.
The area was strangely deserted, save for a small group of people standing beside
a carriage.
“Patience,” said Jean, “what should we— Ah, hell!”
Patience had vanished. The sailors in the longboat pushed off without a word and headed
back toward the
Sky-Reacher
.
“Bitch knows how to make an exit,” said Locke. He popped the last of his meat and
cheese into his mouth and wiped his hands on his tunic.
“Excuse me!” A heavyset young man in a gray brocade coat broke from the group at the
carriage. “You must be Masters Callas and Lazari!”
“We must,” said Jean, flashing a friendly smile. “Pray give us a moment.”
“Oh,” said the man, who possessed the true Karthani accent, which was something like
the speech of a Lashani after a few strong drinks. “Of course.”
“Now,” said Jean quietly, turning to Locke, “who are we?”
“A pair of rats about to stick their noses into a big fucking trap.”
“Characters, you git. Lazari and Callas. We should settle the particulars before we
start talking to people.”
“Ah, right.” Locke scratched his chin. “We’ve got no time to practice Karthani accents,
so to hell with hiding that we’re from out of town.”
“Less work suits me,” said Jean.
“Good. Then we need to decide who’s the iron fist and who’s the velvet glove.”
“Sounds like something you should be hiring a couple of strumpets to help you with.”
“I’d hit you if I thought it would do any good, Jean. You know what I mean.”
“Right. Let’s be obvious. Me brute, you weasel.”
“Agreed. You brute, me charming mastermind. But there’s no sense in setting things
too taut before we even know who we’re dealing with. Be a brute that plays nice until
provoked.”
“So we’re not actually playing characters at all, then?”
“Well, hell.” Locke cracked his knuckles and shrugged. “It’s one less detail for us
to muck up. Anyway, Patience said these people would eat out of our hands. Let’s put
that to the test.”
“Now, then,” said Jean, turning back to the heavyset young man. “Start talking again.”
“I’m delighted to see you alive and well, gentlemen!” The stranger came closer, and
Jean noted his round, ruddy features, the look of a man eager to please and be pleased.
And yet his eyes, behind slender optics, were shrewd and measuring. His hair had failed
to retain any sort of hold on the areas forward of his ears, but he had a thick and
well-tended plait that hung, black as a raven’s wing, to the small of his back. “When
we heard about the wreck, we were distraught. The Amathel is lately so mild, it’s
hard to credit—”
“Wreck,” said Locke. “
Ah
, yes, the wreck! Yes. The terrible, convenient wreck. What else could compel us to
be here without decent clothing or purses? Well, I’m afraid everything happened in
such a terrible rush, but I’m told that we survived.”
“Ha! Splendid. Fear nothing, gentlemen, I’m here to mend your situation in every particular.
My name is Nikoros.”
“Sebastian Lazari.” Locke extended his hand. Nikoros shook it with a look of surprise
on his face.
“Tavrin Callas,” said Jean. Nikoros’ grip was dry and firm.
“Well, I say, thank you, gentlemen, thank you! What an unexpected mark of confidence.
I take it very kindly.”
“Mark of confidence?” said Locke. “Forgive us, Nikoros. We’re new to Karthain. I’m
not sure we understand what we’ve done.”
“Oh,” said Nikoros. “Damned stupid of me. I apologize. It’s just that … well, you’ll
probably think us such a pack of credulous ninnies, but I assure you … it’s tradition.
Here in Karthain we’re close,
extremely
close, with our given names. On account of, you know, the Presence.”
It was easy enough for Jean to hear the capital “P” as Nikoros pronounced the word.
“You mean,” he said, “the Bonds—”
“Yes, the magi of the Isas Scholastica. When we speak of ‘the Presence,’ well—we’re
just being polite. We’re quite used to them, really. They’re not the objects of, ah,
curiosity they might be elsewhere. In fact, I can assure you they look almost like
ordinary people. You’d be amazed!”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Locke. “Well, this is useful stuff. I take it we should withhold
our given names when we’re introduced to Karthani?”
“Well, yes. It’s the hoariest old superstition, but it’s been our custom since the
fall of the old Throne. Most of us use birth-order titles or nicknames. I’m called
Nikoros Via Lupa, since my office is on the Avenue of the Wolves. But plain Nikoros
suits as well.”
“We’re obliged to you,” said Jean. “Now, what is it that you do, exactly?”
“I’m a trade insurer. Ships and caravans. But, ah, more relevantly, I’m on the Deep
Roots party standing committee. I’m sort of a shepherd for party business.”
“You have real authority over party affairs?”
“Oh, quite. Funds and operations, with some latitude. But, ah, when it comes to that,
gentlemen, my most important duty is to carry out your instructions. Once I’ve helped
you settle in, of course.”
“And you understand the nature of our employment,” said Locke. “The
real
nature of it, that is.”
“Oh, oh, quite.” Nikoros tapped the side of his nose with a finger several times and
smiled. “Those of us at the top understand that half the fight is, well, unconventional.
We’re all for it! After all, the Black Iris are out to do the same to us. We think
they might even bring in specialists like yourselves.”
“Be assured they have,” said Locke. “How long have you been involved with all this?”
“Party business, you mean? Oh, ten years or so. It’s the biggest thing going, socially.
More fun than billiards. I worked with our, ah, specialist last election. We pulled
off nine seats, and nearly won! We have such hopes, this time around.”
“Well,” said Jean, “the sooner we’re settled in, the sooner we can nourish those hopes.”
“Right! To the carriage. We’ll get you two wrapped up in something more suitable.”
He beckoned, and a slender blonde woman in a black velvet jacket met them halfway
as they moved toward the carriage. “Allow me to present Seconddaughter Morenna, Morenna
Clothiers.”
“Your servant.” She curtsied, and a brass-weighted measuring line appeared in her
hands as swiftly as an assassin’s knife. “It seems you have a sartorial emergency.”
“Yes,” said Locke. “Circumstance has flung us down and danced upon us.”
“Clothes first,” said Nikoros as he hustled Locke and Jean into the enclosed carriage
box, “then we’ll see to your funds.” Morenna came last. Nikoros drew the door shut
and pounded on the underside of the carriage roof. As it rattled off, Morenna seized
the collar of Locke’s slop jacket and pulled him firmly to a hunched-over standing
position.
“I beg your deepest pardon,” she muttered, plying her measuring line around his neck
and shoulders. “We usually keep a fellow on hand at the shop to take the measurements
of our gentlemen customers, but he’s taken ill. I assure you that I make these intrusions
as impersonally as a physiker.”
“It would never occur to me to be offended,” said Locke in a dazed voice.
“Marvelous. If you’ll excuse me, sir, we’ll just need to have your jacket off.” She
somehow managed to fold, wrench, and twirl Locke within the confined space, removing
his jacket at last and causing a small rain of twice-baked ship’s biscuits to patter
around the carriage interior. “Oh my, I had no idea—”
“Not your fault,” said Locke with an embarrassed cough. “I, uh, like to feed birds.”
Under his arms, around his chest, along the outside of his legs—Morenna took measurements
from Locke with the speed of a fencer scoring touches. Soon it was Jean’s turn.
“Same thing, sir,” she muttered while she fussed with his coat.
“There’s no need—If you’ll give me a moment—” said Jean, but it was too late.
“Heavens,” said Morenna as she pulled his hatchets out of their makeshift hiding place
at the small of his back. “These have seen some use.”
“I’ve had to settle the occasional misunderstanding.”
“Do you prefer to carry them tucked away like this under a coat or jacket?”
“There’s nowhere better.”
“Then I can show you several rigs that could be stitched into your coats. We’ve got
leather harness, cloth straps, metal rings, all reliable and discreet. Tuck a whole
arsenal into your breeches and waistcoats, if you like.”
“You’re my new favorite tailor,” said Jean, contentedly submitting to the darting
play of the measuring line while the carriage rolled along.
THEIR JOURNEY
took about ten minutes, while the sun rose and painted the walls and alleys around
them with warm light. Jean took advantage of his window seat to form several impressions
of Karthain along the way.
The first was that it was a city of tiered heights. As they moved inward from the
waterfront, past the ship-filled lagoon, he saw that the
more northerly sections of the city rose, hills and terraces alike, to a sort of plateau
that must have been several hundred feet above the Ponta Corbessa. Nothing so extreme
as Tal Verrar’s precipitous drops, but it did seem as though the gods or the Eldren
had tilted the city about forty-five degrees toward the water after originally laying
it out.
Furthermore, it seemed to be an unusually well-tended place. Perhaps Nikoros had chosen
a route that would best flatter his city? Whatever the case, Jean couldn’t fail to
note the swept streets, the clean white stone of the newer houses, the neatly trimmed
trees, the smooth bubbling of every fountain and waterfall, or the decorative enamel
mosaics on the cable cars sliding between the taller buildings.