Authors: Scott Lynch
“Might I offer you gentlemen some refreshment while the matter is tended to?” Tivoli
glanced at Locke. Were her ears that sharp? “Dark ale? Wine? Pastries?”
“Yes,” said Locke, resenting his weakness but unable to master it. “Yes, anything
solid, that would be ne … nice.” Gods above, he’d almost said “
necessary
.”
“Also,” said Jean, “could we trouble you to have paper, ink, and quills sent out to
our carriage? Nikoros has some scribbling to do.”
Tivoli settled Locke and Jean in one of the alcoves, on chairs that would have been
at home in the suite of false furniture they’d given to Requin. An attendant brought
a tray of flaky brown pastries in the western style, filled with cheese and minced
mushrooms. They were the richest thing Locke had eaten in weeks. Jean and Tivoli took
small cups of dark ale, and watched in joint bemusement as Locke removed the pastries
from existence, rank by rank.
“I’m sorry,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been ill. My stomach might as
well have been locked up on another continent.” He knew he was being less than polite,
but the alternative was to gnaw on more ship’s biscuits, which he had transferred
to an inner pocket of his new coat.
“Think nothing of it,” said Tivoli. “Manners that would keep you starving are no manners
worth respecting. Shall I call for more?”
Locke nodded, and in moments the surviving pastries received reinforcements. These
were followed by an attendant carrying a wooden board with a neatly gridded surface,
on which low stacks of gold and silver coins had been set out. Jean divided this money
into two new leather purses while Locke continued eating.
“Now,” said Tivoli, “I trust there’s little more to say about your personal funds.
The other matter we need to touch upon is a certain sum left in my care with strict
instructions that it remain unrecorded. Before we discuss its handling, I must ask
that you make absolutely no reference to my name in connection with this sum, at any
time, save in the utmost privacy between yourselves. Certainly never in writing.”
“I assure you, madam, that in all matters of discretion not involving food, we make
etiquette tutors look like slobbering barbarians,” said Jean.
“Excellent,” she said, rising from her chair. “Then let me acquaint you with the hundred
thousand ducats I’m not holding on your behalf.”
THE UNRECORDED
sum lay in a windowless cell off an underground hallway guarded by clockwork doors
that must have weighed half a ton apiece. A stack of iron-bound chests was set against
an interior wall, and Tivoli pushed one open to reveal gleaming contents.
“About seven hundred and fifty pounds of gold,” she said. “I can turn a fair percentage
of it into silver without much notice, whenever you require.”
“I … yes, that may indeed be necessary before we’re finished,” said Locke. He felt
a strange tug at his heart. He’d taken the vast fortune of the Gentlemen Bastards
for granted for so long, and now here was another, set out for his disposal, as though
the first had never been lost.
“Is there anyone besides yourselves,” said Tivoli, “that you would wish to have access
to these funds?”
“Absolutely not,” said Jean.
“And that’s never to be countermanded,” added Locke. “
Ever
. No one else will come on our behalf. Anyone who says otherwise will be lying. Any
evidence they produce should be torn up and stuffed down their breeches.”
“We have, from long practice, developed many efficient means of dealing with mischief-makers,”
said Tivoli.
“May my associate and I speak privately?” said Locke.
“Of course.” Tivoli stepped out of the cell and pushed the door half-closed. “This
door will open from your side at just a touch of the silver lever. Take as long as
you require.”
When the door had clattered all the way shut, Jean closed the open chest and sat upon
it. “Your guts doing tumbling exercises like mine?”
“I’d never have credited it,” said Locke, running his fingers over the cool wood of
another strongbox. “All those years we spent stealing bigger and bigger sums. The
money was like a painted backdrop for me. Now that we’ve had a couple fortunes yanked
out from under us, though …”
“Yeah,” said Jean. “It seems dearer, somehow. This Tivoli—how far do you suppose we
can trust her?”
“I think we can afford to assume the best in her case,” said Locke. “Patience sent
us here. Probably means that Sabetha can’t touch our funds at their source, and that
hers are equally beyond our reach. This is ammunition for the game. You’d want it
kept safe for proper use if you were the magi, wouldn’t you?”
“You’ve saved me some explaining.” The voice was deep, cultured, with a languid Karthani
accent, and it came from right behind Locke. He whirled.
A man leaned against the door; he was about Locke’s age and height, wearing a long
coat the color of dried rose petals. His hair and short beard were icy blond. Gloves,
breeches, boots, and neck-scarf were all black, without ornament.
“Gods,” said Locke, regaining control of himself. “I would have opened the door for
a knock.”
“I didn’t choose to wait,” said the man.
“Well, I don’t need to ask to see the rings on
your
wrist,” said Locke. “Who are you, then? With Patience, or against?”
“With. I’ve come for a private word on behalf of all of us you stand to disappoint.”
“We’ve been at work in your interest for about four hours now,” said Locke. “Surely
you could wait a day or two before coming it the total asshole? What do you think,
Jean?”
“Jean is occupied,” said the stranger.
Locke turned to see Jean with his eyes unfocused and mouth slightly open. Save for
the faint rise and fall of his chest, he might have been a well-dressed statue.
“Gods’ truth,” said Locke, turning back to the stranger. “I don’t care who you are,
I am tired of talking to you fucking people under circumstances like—”
Before he finished his sentence, he threw a punch. Without betraying any surprise
or concern, the mage caught Locke’s fist in one of his gloved hands and struck back,
straight to Locke’s midsection. The strength bled from his legs and he went down gasping.
The mage retained his hold on Locke’s hand and used it to wrench him around, until
he was on his knees facing away from his antagonist.
“Just breathe through the pain,” said the mage, casually. “Even for you, that was
arrogant. You’re no threat to anyone in your condition.”
“T-t-Tivoli,” Locke gasped. “Tivoli!”
“Grow up.” The mage knelt behind him, put his left hand on Locke’s jaw, and set the
other in a choking hold. Locke kicked and struggled, but the man effortlessly maintained
control of Locke’s head and tightened the grip. “She can’t hear you, either.”
“Patience,” hissed Locke. “Patience … will … nggghk …”
“This conversation is never going to be any concern of hers. She isn’t hovering over
you like a little cloud. She has people like
me
to do that for her.”
“Ngggh … ygggh … fghkingggh … bastarrrgh!”
“Yes,” said the mage, loosening his choke at last. Locke coughed and sucked air into
his burning lungs. “Yes, I do want for manners, don’t I? And you’re such a gentle
saint-like fellow yourself. Are you ready to listen?”
Locke, relieved to be breathing again and deeply ashamed of his weakened state, said
nothing.
“The message is this,” continued the mage, taking silence for acquiescence. “We want
the contest to be genuine. We want to see you
work
for six weeks. If you make peace with that woman and contrive some sort of dumb-show—”
“Patience already warned me,” coughed Locke. “Gods above, you must’ve known that,
you tedious piece of shit!”
“It’s one thing to be told, it’s another thing to understand. You’ve got a real entanglement
with the woman on the other side. We’d have to be idiots not to allow that you might
be tempted.”
“I’ve already promised—”
“Your promises aren’t worth a dead man’s spit, Camorri. So here’s something tangible.
Make any arrangement with your redheaded friend to fix this contest, in either direction,
and we’ll kill her.”
“You son of a— You can’t—”
“Of course we can. Just as soon as the election is over. We’ll take our time while
you watch.”
“The other mages—”
“You think they give a damn about her? The Falconer’s friends? They hired her to vex
you
. Once the five-year game is over, they’ll be no protection.”
Locke attempted to stumble to his feet, and after a moment the
mage yanked him up by the back of his coat. Locke turned, glared, and made a show
of dusting himself off.
“It’s no use giving me the evil eye, Lamora. Take the warning to heart. You should
be flattered that we understand how useless half-measures are with you.”
“Flattered,” said Locke. “Oh, yeah.
Flattered
. That’s exactly the word that was on the tip of my tongue. Thanks.”
“The woman is a hostage to your good behavior. You don’t get another reminder. And
don’t bother telling Patience about this, either. You’d suffer for it.”
“That all?”
“That’s all the conversation I have in me, friend.”
“Then wake Jean up.”
“He’ll stop daydreaming once I’ve gone.”
“Too chickenshit to say this sort of thing in front of him?”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” said the mage, “that the
last
thing your partner needs is another one of my kind proving just how helpless he is
while he’s awake to bear the disgrace?”
“I …”
“I’m not without my sympathies, Lamora. They just don’t necessarily reside with
you
. Now mind the job we hired you for.”
With a wave of his hand he was gone. Locke swung his arms around the empty air where
the mage had been standing, then patted the nearby wall, then checked to make sure
the door was still tightly closed. He gave a grunt of disgusted resignation and massaged
his neck.
“Locke? Did you say something?”
Jean was back on his feet, looking hale.
“Uh, no, Jean, I’m sorry. I just … uh, coughed.”
“Are you all right?” Jean peered at him over the rims of his optics. “You’re sweating
like mad. Did something happen?”
“It’s just … nothing.” Gods above, the red-coated bastard was right. Jean didn’t need
another reminder of how casually the magi could make a puppet of him. With Locke barely
started on the path to recovery, he needed all of Jean’s confidence and energy, without
distraction. “I’m sure it’s just all this walking about. I’ll get used to it again
soon enough.”
“Well, then, let’s have Nikoros take us to our lodgings,” said Jean.
“We’ve got clothes; we’re in funds. Let’s see to your comfort before we start the
good fight on behalf of Patience and her cohorts.”
“Right,” said Locke, reaching for the lever that would open the cell door. “Last people
in the world I’d want to disappoint.”
“
NIKOROS, WHO
the hell votes in this place, anyway?” asked Locke as the carriage bobbed and weaved
its way across one of the Elderglass suspension bridges, headed northwest for somewhere
Nikoros had called the Palanta District.
“Well, there’s, uh, three ways to earn the right. You can show title to property worth
at least sixty ducats. You can serve in the constabulary for twenty-five years. Or
you can be enfranchised for a lump sum of one hundred and fifty, at any time except
the actual day of an election.”
“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Sounds like an eminently corruptible process. That might be useful.
So how many people in Karthain, and how many can vote?”
“About seventy thousand in the city,” said Nikoros, who was sitting awkwardly indeed,
protecting the stack of parcels with one hand and gently waving a still-drying sheet
of parchment with the other. “Five thousand with voting rights, more or less. I’ll
have more precise figures as the election goes on.”
“That’s what, about two hundred and fifty voters per Konseil seat?” said Jean. “Or
am I wrong?”
“Close enough. You’re allowed to choose one of the two final candidates in whatever
district you live in. Ballots are in writing and you’ve got to be able to sign your
name, too.”
“So, as far as voting goes, we’re not really looking at one big fight, but nineteen
smaller ones.”
“Indeed. I, ah, if I may, I believe this list is dry—”
Jean took it. He scanned the columns of chicken-scratch handwriting (no wonder Nikoros
had a long-standing relationship with a trustworthy scribe), a short list of businesses,
and a longer list of names. “These people make the Black Iris party tick?”
“Our counterparts, yes. They call themselves the Trust. We always refer to ourselves
as the Committee.”
“When can we meet this Committee?” said Jean.
“Well, actually, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind a bit of a get-together this evening.
Just the Committee and select Deep Roots supporters—”
“How many?”
“Not above a hundred and fifty.”
“Gods below,” said Locke. “I suppose we’ll have to do it sooner or later, though.
Where did you want to hold this mess?”
“At your lodgings. Josten’s Comprehensive Accommodations. I’m eager for you to see
it. It’s the best place in the city, our temple for Deep Roots affairs.”
A temple it could have been, given its size. They pulled up before Josten’s just as
the sun was reaching its mild zenith in a sky that was gradually graying over with
clouds. Porters scrambled from the building’s shaded front entrance and took packages
under Nikoros’ direction. Jean hopped out of the carriage before Locke did, and studied
the structure.
It was a sprawling, gabled, three-story affair with at least nine visible chimneys
and several dozen windows. A dozen carriages could have lined up before it with room
to spare.
“Hell of an inn,” said Locke as his shoes hit the cobbles.