Authors: Scott Lynch
Once the wagon was emptied, Jean selected the less healthy pair of horses and with
Jenora’s aid got them stabled. Alondo claimed to have a cousin working as a hostler
near the Jalaan Gate, so Jean enlisted the young actor to help walk the best two horses
back to the caravan staging area for resale.
“Now,” Locke said to Mistress Gloriano, “we need Jasmer back. For that I think we’ll
need a solicitor.”
“I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “I’ve given Jasmer so much slack these past
few years in the hope my investment might find its way home again.”
“Let him have a bit more,” said Locke. “We’re here now, for what it’s worth. And we
need
a Moncraine play. There’s no work for us back home.”
“I had wondered at the nature of your devotion. Jasmer’s a Syresti, you know. Capricious
and moody. Barely reliable! Not an even-tempered Okanti like myself or Jenora. Let
me tell you, boy, if I knew then what a hole I’d be throwing my money down—”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re quite right,” said Locke in a placating tone of voice. “But
a solicitor …?”
“There is a fellow,” said Mistress Gloriano, “back up the avenue the way you came.
Stay-Awake Salvard, he’s called, on account of his peculiar hours. He’s done papers
for me. I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse him of being a gentleman. Works for a lot
of … colorful sorts.”
“That’s good,” said Locke. “That’s great. We’re colorful sorts.”
“
ETIENNE DELANCARRE
Domingo Salvard,” said Sabetha, reading out loud from the lantern-lit plaque beside
the building’s street entrance. “Master solicitor, bonded law-scribe, authorized notary,
executor of wills and estates, Vadran translator and transcriber. Fortunes assured,
justice delivered, enemies confounded. Reasonable rates.”
Locke and Sabetha alone had come on this errand, after washing the smell of the road
from their more accessible parts and swapping their filthy caravan clothes for less
offensive outfits. Salvard’s office was perched on the edge of the increasing desolation
that led to Solace Hill, a way station between the couth and uncouth districts of
the city.
The comfortless wooden furniture and empty walls inside seemed, to Locke’s eye, to
indicate a certain desire to avoid giving rowdy clientele any objects for vandalism.
A thin man with slicked-back hair sat behind a little podium, and near the stairs
on the far side of the room lounged an uncommonly large woman. Her quilted black tunic
had obvious armor panels behind the facing.
“Evening,” said the thin man. “Appointment?”
“Do we really need one?” said Sabetha. “We’re on urgent business.”
“Two coppins consultation fee,” said the thin man, “plus one for expedited consideration.”
“We’re just in from Camorr,” said Locke. “We haven’t changed our money yet.”
“Camorri barons accepted,” said the thin man. “One-for-one basis, plus one for changing
fee.”
Locke shook four copper coins out of his purse. The clerk inked a quill and began
scrawling on a card.
“Names?”
“Verena Gallante,” said Sabetha, “and Lucaza de Barra.”
“Camorri subjects?”
“Yes.”
The clerk set down his quill, slid open a hatch in the wall behind him, placed the
card within this compartment, and turned a hand crank. A miniature dumbwaiter went
up, and a minute later the muffled jingling of a bell could be heard from within the
shaft.
“Weapons not allowed upstairs,” said the clerk, rapping his knuckles on the surface
of his podium. “Cheerfully guarded here. Arms out for search.”
The big woman gave them both a thorough pat-down. A garrote or a fruit-paring blade
might have slipped through, but Etienne Delancarre Domingo Salvard clearly had strong
feelings about allowing anything more conveniently deadly into his presence.
“They’re clean,” said the woman, with a half-smile. “Of weapons, that is.”
“Proceed,” said the clerk, pointing to the stairs. “Pleasant consultation.”
Stay-Awake Salvard sat behind a desk that completely bisected the floor of his office,
ensuring that anyone attempting to leap at him would have one final obstacle to surmount
while he escaped or armed himself. Locke wondered if it was the nature of his clients
or the quality of his advice that had made him such a cautious fellow.
“Have a seat. You two are a bit young to be caught up in the grasping tentacles of
the law, aren’t you?” Salvard was a wiry man in his forties with a leonine mane of
graying hair, swept back as though he’d just spent twenty minutes on a galloping horse.
His nose was built to support the weight of optics much heavier than the dainty piece
actually perched there. Two pipes rested in wooden cradles on his cluttered desk,
framing him in gray pillars of aromatic smoke. “Or is it some matter of a marriage,
perhaps?”
“Certainly not,” said Sabetha. “We have a friend in trouble.”
“Supply the details.”
“He struck a gentleman above his station,” said Sabetha.
“Is your friend taken? Or has he fled?”
“They put him in something called the Weeping Tower,” said Locke.
“Tricky. I’m afraid the weight of the law is against him, and he should expect to
be trimmed like a hedge,” said Salvard. “But these incidents can sometimes be portrayed
in a sympathetic light. What else should I know?”
“He’s a bit of a drunkard,” said Locke.
“Many of my clients have crawled inside a bottle for solace. It’s no unusual challenge.”
“And he’s a member of a night-skinned race,” said Locke. “A black Syresti.”
“A noble people, as ancient as our own, with many admirers at court.”
“Our friend is … next to penniless.”
“Yet obviously he has allies,” said Salvard warmly, extending his arms toward Locke
and Sabetha, “who can be relied upon to take up his interests. My fee schedules are
quite elastic. Anything else?”
“He’s the owner and manager of a theatrical troupe.”
Salvard lost his smile. He took a long pull on his left-hand pipe, set it down, then
smoked its counterpart. He alternated pipes several times, staring at Locke and Sabetha.
Finally, he said, “So, we’re talking about Jasmer Moncraine, then?”
“You know him?” said Locke.
“I should have guessed his identity sooner from the particulars, save for the fact
that you genuinely seemed to want him back. That put me off the true scent. What’s
your interest in his cause?”
“We’re actors, engaged by him for the summer,” said Sabetha. “We’ve only just arrived
in the city.”
“My condolences. I have one piece of relevant advice.”
“Anything,” said Sabetha.
“Many men in low trades adapt to the loss of a hand and wear hooks. In Jasmer’s case,
his vanity will never allow it. If you’re still in Espara next summer as his stump
heals, get him a simple leather cap for it, and—”
“We need him back
now
,” said Sabetha. “We need him out of custody.”
“Well, you won’t get him, not through the workings of anyone in my profession. Now,
now, my dear, it pains me to see that look on your face as much as it pains me to
refuse work, so let me explain. My happy fortune is your hard luck. You must have
heard of Amilio Basanti.”
“Actually, no,” said Locke.
“You truly are fresh off the wagon, aren’t you? Basanti is the impresario of the city’s
other major company of actors, the stable and successful one. In a fortnight, Demoiselle
Amilyn Basanti, his youngest sister, will become Mistress Amilyn
Salvard
.”
“Oh,” said Sabetha.
“If I were to become an advocate for the very rival my future brother-by-bonding loathes
so famously, well, surely you can see that the effect upon my marital relations could
only be … chilling.”
“Can you recommend someone who wouldn’t be at cross-purposes?” said Locke.
“There are five other solicitors-at-law in Espara,” said Salvard, “and none of them
will touch the case. You must understand, if I weren’t taking a bride I’d argue it
for pleasure. I
enjoy
annoying magistrates, and I handle even the lowest and most difficult clients. No
offense. My peers, however, prefer to win their cases, and this one cannot be won.”
“But those excuses you just came up with—”
“Could
mitigate
the situation, perhaps. Surely you understand that those of elevated blood don’t
keep laws on the books that would require them to take abuse from their inferiors.
I wouldn’t cite law; I’d beg for mercy! I’d spin yarns about destitute friends and
children. But since I’m not going to do those things, Moncraine’s trial will last
about as long as this conversation.”
“Do we have any other options?” said Locke.
“Apply to Basanti’s troupe,” said Salvard gently. “At the Columbine’s Petal, up in
Grayside. That’s where they drink. I could mention you to Amilyn. They’d find work
for you, even if it’s just carrying spears. Don’t tie yourselves to Moncraine.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Sabetha, “but if we’d wanted to be part of the scenery
we could have stayed at home. In Moncraine’s company
we can have our pick of roles. In a settled troupe we’ll be at the end of a long line.”
Salvard again smoked his pipes in alternating fashion, then rubbed his eyes. “I suppose
I can’t fault ambition, even if it’s bound to end in tears. But there’s no way Moncraine’s
slipping the hook, children. Not unless one of two miracles occurs.”
“Miracles,” said Locke. “We’re in the market for those. What are they?”
“First, Countess Antonia could issue a pardon. She can do anything she pleases. But
she won’t save him. Moncraine’s far from her good graces. Anyway, she’s more interested
in the advice of her wine steward than her privy council these days.”
“What else?” said Locke.
“The noble that Moncraine attacked could grant a personal pardon by declining to make
a complaint before a magistrate. The case would be dismissed. However, I’m sure you
can imagine how keen bluebloods are to show weakness in front of their peers.”
“Yeah,” said Locke. “Hells. Can we even
talk
to Moncraine?”
“There I can offer some cheer,” said Salvard. “Anyone with a blood or trade connection
to a prisoner can have one audience before a trial. Claim it whenever you like, just
don’t try to give him anything. You’ll share his sentence if you’re caught.”
“An audience,” said Locke. “Good. Uh … where?”
“At the heart of Espara, atop the Legion Steps, look for the black stone tower with
the moat and the hundred terribly serious guards. Can’t miss it, even in the rain.”
A THOUSAND
dead soldiers loomed out of the mist beneath the gathering night as Locke and Sabetha
climbed the heights of the Legion Steps.
The marble marchers, cracked and weathered from their vigil of six hundred years,
wore the armor of Therin Throne legionnaires. Locke recognized the costume from paintings
and manuscripts he’d seen in Camorr. He even recalled a bit of their story—that some
emperor or another, dissatisfied with Espara’s lack of prominent Elderglass
monuments, had commissioned a work of human art to grace the center of the city.
Each statue was said to be a likeness of an actual soldier from a then-living legion,
and it was part of their melancholy fascination that they were not posed in martial
triumph, but with heads down and shields slung, as they might have been seen trudging
along the roads that had once knit the fallen empire together. Now they marched in
place, rank on rank forever, in columns evenly spread across the two-hundred-yard
arc of the stairs.
“We’ve got to find his accuser and arrange to have him forgiven,” said Locke.
“It’s the only chance we seem to have left,” said Sabetha.
“Gods, I wish we had more money,” said Locke. “Going visiting in society on scraps
of a pittance won’t be easy.”
“Tempted to go back on your plan to avoid thieving?”
“Yes,” said Locke. “I won’t do it, though.”
“Just so long as you’re tempted,” she said, smiling.
“Honesty doesn’t suit any of us,” said Locke.
“I know. Isn’t it strange? I keep asking myself how people can stand to
live
like this.”
What Salvard had called a “moat” around the tower of dark stone was actually more
of a gaping jagged-sided pit, at least thirty feet deep, into which drainage channels
were directing streams of gray water. The only way across was a covered, elevated
bridge with a well-lit guardhouse for a mouth. As Locke and Sabetha approached, a
quartet of guards fanned out across the entrance.
Locke picked up immediately on the importance of what these guards weren’t carrying.
They had no batons, no polearms. Those were weapons that could be used gently if the
wielder wished. These guards carried only swords, which had a more straightforward
employment.
“Stand fast,” said a weathered woman, just shy of middle age, her neck and face thick
with scars. All the guards had the look of hard service. The Weeping Tower was no
joke, Locke realized. Trying to bribe or suborn one of these old hounds would be suicide.
“Name your business.”
“Good evening,” said Sabetha, instantly adopting a poise that was
assertive but not imperious. Locke had seen her use it before. “We’re here to speak
with Jasmer Moncraine.”
“Moncraine’s not going to be entertaining for a long time,” said the guard. “What
does a Camorri have to say to him?”
“We’re members of the Moncraine Company, and we need to make business arrangements
now that he’s indisposed. Our solicitor advised us that we’re entitled to one audience
before his trial.”
Gods, as far as Locke was concerned, watching Sabetha handle people was as good as
watching any other girl in the world take off her clothes. The way she chose her words—“
entitled
,” not something meeker like “
allowed
.” And the specific mention of
one
audience—a signal to the guard that the rules had been researched, would be obeyed.
Sabetha had asserted all their wants while giving the firmest support to the notion
that she and Locke were completely enfolded in the power of the law and these guards
that served it.