Authors: Scott Lynch
“What?”
“No lines. He just wants to dress up and get stabbed, he says.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t expect to get paid,” said Sabetha.
“Not in anything except hangovers,” said Jean. “I do notice you haven’t dragged a
large Syresti impresario back with you.”
“That game’s afoot,” said Locke. “Come spill your purse. Asino brothers! On your feet
a moment, we’d have a word concerning finance.”
“Oh let them stay,” said Sylvanus. “This is the fun side of the room, and our young
hostler was about to take hoof for more wine.”
“You’re not finished with the three bottles you have,” said Locke.
“They’re writing farewell notes to their families,” said Sylvanus. “Their holes are
already dug in the ground. Oh, I suppose I really must get up before I piss, mustn’t
I?” He rolled sideways in the vague direction of the door that led back to the soaked
inn-yard. “Give us a hand, hostler, give us a hand. I shall go on all fours to make
use of your expertise.”
“Marvelous,” said Locke, pulling Calo and Galdo to their feet. “Lovely. Are you two
following Sylvanus down the vomit-strewn path?”
“We may be sociably fuzzed,” said Calo.
“A little blurry at the edges,” said Galdo.
“That’s probably for the best. I need you to come over here and dump out your purses.”
“You need us to do what now?”
“We need a flash bag,” said Sabetha.
“What the hell’s a flash bag?” said Jenora, wandering by at a moment precisely calculated
to overhear what the huddled Gentlemen Bastards were up to.
“Since you ask,” said Jean, “it’s a purse of coins you throw together to make it look
like you’re used to carrying around big fat sums.”
“Oh,” she said. “That must be a nice thing to have.”
Using a spare table, the five Camorri dumped out their personal funds, to which Jean
added the take from the horses and Locke mixed in the remnants of the purse Chains
had given them. Camorri barons, tyrins, and solons clattered against Esparan fifths
and coppins.
“Get all the coppers out of the pile,” said Locke. “They’re as useless as an Asino
brother.”
“Suck vinegar from my ass-crack,” said Calo.
Five pairs of hands sifted through the coins, pulling coppers aside, leaving a diminished
but gleaming mass in the center.
“Copper gets split five ways so everyone’s got something,” said Locke. “Gold and silver
goes in the purse.”
“Do you want Auntie to change any of that Camorri stuff for you?” said Jenora, peering
over Jean’s right shoulder.
“No,” said Locke. “For the moment, it’s actually a point in our favor. What’s the
flash count?”
“Five crowns, two tyrins,” said Sabetha. “And two royals, one fifth.”
“That’s more money than any of Auntie’s customers have seen in a
long
time,” said Jenora.
“It’s shy of what I want,” said Locke. “But it might be convincing. No journeyman
actor carries around a year and a half’s pay.”
“Unless they’re not getting paid a damn thing,” said Jenora.
“We’ll deal with that tomorrow,” said Locke as he cinched the flash bag tightly closed.
“Hopefully with Moncraine listening very attentively.”
“Where are you going now?” said Jean.
“To see Moncraine’s punching bag,” said Sabetha. “And if that Syresti son of a bitch
can teach us better acting than what we’ll need to pull
this
off, he’ll actually deserve this rescue.”
“Want an escort?” said Jean.
“Based on what you’ve seen tonight,” muttered Locke, “who needs it more, Sabetha and
me or the twins?”
“Good point.” Jean polished his optics against the collar of his tunic and readjusted
them on his nose. “I’ll keep them out of trouble, and see if I can trick Sylvanus
into sleeping indoors.”
“Where’s Palazzo Corsala?” said Sabetha to Jenora.
“That’s on the north side, the swell district. Can’t miss it. Clean streets, beautiful
houses, people like Sylvanus and Jasmer beaten on sight.”
“We’ll spring for a hired coach,” said Locke. “We won’t look respectable enough without
one.”
“Shall we go call on Baron Boulidazi, then?” said Sabetha.
“Yes,” said Locke. “
No
. Wait. We’ve forgotten one terribly important thing. Let’s run back up to Stay-Awake
Salvard and hope he’s still feeling sympathetic.”
“
TRADESFOLK ENTRANCE
is around back,” growled the tree trunk of a man who opened Boulidazi’s front door.
“Tradesfolk hours are—”
“What kind of tradesman hires a coach-and-four to make his rounds?” said Locke, jerking
a thumb over his shoulder. Their hired carriage was waiting beyond the rows of alchemically
miniaturized olive trees that screened Boulidazi’s manor from the street. The driver
hadn’t liked their clothes, but their silver had vouched for them quite adequately.
“Pray give your master this,” said Sabetha, holding out a small white card. This had
been scrounged from the office of Stay-Awake Salvard, who had bemusedly agreed to
charge them a few coppins for it and some ink.
The servant glanced at the card, glared at them, then glanced at the card again. “Wait
here,” he said, and closed the door.
Several minutes went by. The slow drip of water from the canvas awning above their
head became a soft, steady drumbeat as the rain picked up again. At last, the door
creaked open and a rectangle of golden light from inside the house fell over them.
“Come,” said the bulky servant. Two more men waited behind him, and for an instant
Locke feared an ambush. However, these servants wielded nothing more threatening than
towels, which they used to wipe Locke and Sabetha’s shoes dry.
Baron Boulidazi’s house was unexceptional, among those of its type that Locke had
seen. It was comfortable enough, furnished to show off disposable wealth, but there
was no grand and special something, no “hall-piece” as they were often called, to
evoke wonder from freshly arrived guests.
The servant took them out of the foyer, through a sitting hall, and into a warmly
lit room with felt-padded walls. A blandly handsome man of about twenty, with neck-length
black hair and close-set dark eyes, was leaning against a billiards table with a stick
in his hands. The white card was on the table.
“The Honorable Verena Botallio and companion,” said the servant without enthusiasm.
He left the room immediately.
“Of the Isla Zantara?” said Boulidazi, more warmly. “I’ve just read your card. Isn’t
that part of the Alcegrante?”
“It is, Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, giving the slight nod and half-curtsy that
was usual in Camorr for an informal noble reception. “Have you ever been there?”
“To Camorr? No, no. I’ve always wanted to visit, but I’ve never had the privilege.”
“Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, “may I present my cousin, the Honorable Lucaza Botallio?”
“Your cousin, eh?” said Boulidazi, nodding as Locke bowed his head. The Esparan lord
offered his hand. As they shook, Locke noted that Boulidazi was solidly built, much
the same size as Alondo’s hostler cousin, and he didn’t hold back the strength in
his grip.
“Thank you for receiving us,” said Locke. “We would have both sent our cards, but
only Verena is carrying one, I’m afraid.”
“Oh? You weren’t robbed or anything, I suppose? Is that why you’ve come dressed as
you are? Forgive my mentioning it.”
“No, we haven’t been mistreated,” said Sabetha. “And there’s nothing to forgive; we’re
not traveling in our usual capacity. We’re incognito, with just a bodyguard and a
pair of servants, though we’ve left them behind for the moment.”
“Incognito,” said Boulidazi. “Are you in some sort of danger?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Sabetha with a laugh. She then turned and feigned surprise
(Locke was confident that only long familiarity
allowed him to spot the fact that it was a willful change) at the sight of a saber
resting in its scabbard on a witchwood display shelf. “Is that what I think it is?”
“What, exactly, do you think it is?” said Boulidazi, and it seemed to Locke that he
was a touch more curt than before.
“Surely it’s a DiVorus? The seal on the hilt—”
“It is,” said Boulidazi, instantly losing his tone of impatience. “One of his later
blades, but still—”
“I trained with a DiVorus,” said Sabetha, poising one hand above the hilt of the saber.
“The
Voillantebona
rapier. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t mine. My instructor’s. I still remember the
balance, and the patterns in the steel … your hilt looks honorably stained. I assume
you practice with it?”
“Often,” said Boulidazi. “This one’s called
Drakovelus
. It’s been in my family for three generations. It suits my style—not the fastest
on the floor, but when I do move I can put a bit of strength behind it.”
“The saber rewards a sturdy handler,” said Sabetha.
“We’re neglecting your cousin,” said Boulidazi. “Forgive me, Lucaza, please don’t
allow my enthusiasms to shove you aside from the conversation.”
“Not at all, Lord Boulidazi. I’ve had my years with the fencing masters, of course,
but Verena’s the connoisseur in the family.”
Boulidazi’s heavy servant returned and whispered into the baron’s ear. Locke silently
counted to ten before the servant finished. The big man withdrew again, and the baron
stared at Locke.
“You know, I just now recall,” he said. “Botallio … isn’t that one of the Five Towers
clans?”
“Of course,” said Sabetha.
“And yet you give your address as the Isla Zantara,” said Boulidazi.
“I’m fond of Grandfather,” said Sabetha. “But surely you can understand how someone
my age might prefer a little manor of her own.”
“And your grandfather …” said Boulidazi expectantly.
“Don Enrico Botallio.”
“Better known as Count Blackspear?” said Boulidazi, still cautiously.
“Verena’s father is Blackspear’s eldest son,” said Locke. “I’m the son of his youngest.”
“Oh? I believe I might have heard something of your father, Lucaza,” said the baron.
“I do hope that he’s well?”
Locke felt a surge of relief that they’d pretended to be from a family Sabetha had
knowledge of. Boulidazi obviously had access to some sort of directory of Camorri
peers. Locke allowed himself to look crestfallen for just an instant, and then put
on an obviously forced smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must inform you that my father died several years ago.”
“Oh,” said Boulidazi, visibly relaxing. “Forgive me. I must have been thinking of
someone else. But why didn’t the pair of you simply give the name of the count when
you—”
“Noble cousin,” said Sabetha, shifting instantly into her excellent Throne Therin,
“the name of Blackspear commands instant attention in Camorr, but surely you wouldn’t
think us so vulgar as to try and awe you with it in Espara, as the freshest of acquaintances,
as guests in your house?”
“Oh—vulgar, oh
no
, never!” said Boulidazi in the same language. Anyone of breeding was expected to
endure years of tutelage in it, and he’d clearly done his time in the purgatory of
conjugation and tenses. “I didn’t mean that I expected anything uncouth of you!”
“Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke, returning the conversation to plain Therin, “we’re the
ones who should be apologizing, for imposing ourselves upon you in our present state.
We have our reasons, but you needn’t regret being cautious.”
“I’m glad you understand,” said the baron. “Tymon!”
The large servant, who must have been lurking just past the door, stepped inside.
“It’s all right, Tymon,” said the baron. “I think our guests will be staying for a
while. Let’s have some chairs.”
“Of course, my lord,” said the servant, relaxing out of his cold and intimidating
aspect as easily as removing a hat.
“I hope you don’t mind if we talk in here,” said Boulidazi. “My parents … well, it
was just last year. I can’t really think of the study as
my
room quite yet.”
“I know how it is,” said Locke. “You inherit the memories of a house as well as its
stones. I didn’t touch anything in my father’s library for months.”
“I suppose I should call you Don and Dona Botallio, then?” said the baron.
“Only if you want to flatter us,” said Locke with a smile.
“While Grandfather still holds the title,” said Sabetha, “my father, as direct heir,
is called Don. But since we’re two steps removed, we are, at present, just a pair
of
Honorables
.”
Tymon returned, along with the shoe-towelers, and three high-backed chairs were set
down next to the billiards table.
Boulidazi seemed reasonably convinced of their authenticity now, and Locke felt a
pang of mingled awe and anxiety. Here was a lord of the city, capable of putting them
in prison (or worse) with a word, opening to their false-facing like any common shopkeeper,
guard, or functionary. Chains was right. Their training
had
given them a remarkable freedom of action.
Still, it seemed wise to seal the affair as tightly as possible.
“Gods above,” said Locke. “What a boor I’ve been! Lord Boulidazi, forgive me. Is it
usual in Espara to give a consideration to house servants—
damn!
”
Locke pulled out his purse and made what he thought was an excellent show of stumbling
toward the withdrawing Tymon. He fell against the billiards table, and a stream of
clinking gold and silver just happened to scatter across the felt surface.
“Are you all right?” The baron was at Locke’s side in an instant, helping him up,
and Locke was satisfied that Boulidazi had a full view of the coins.
“Fine, thank you. I’m such a clumsy ass. You can see all the grace in the family wound
up on Verena’s side.” Locke swept the coins back into the purse. “Sorry about your
game.”
“It was just a solitary diversion,” said Boulidazi, as he helped Sabetha into a chair.
“And yes, on holidays, we do give gratuities to the help, but there’s a little ceremony
and some temple nonsense. You needn’t worry about it.”