Authors: Scott Lynch
They’d walked out nonchalantly and claimed the first waiting carriage-for-hire, which
was now rattling toward more friendly territory through the slanting late-afternoon
shadows of the city’s towers.
“I assume you mentioned my sisters?”
“She’ll give them back if I behave.”
“Fine, then.”
Jean’s voice still had an alarming nasal quality, and Locke made a mental note to
have him examined by a physiker whether he liked it or not.
“You’re not mad?” said Locke.
“Of course not. I presume you two idiots hinted to one another about relighting old
fires?”
“That was my distinct impression.”
“Well, assuming you don’t let her drug you again, I’m proud of you. I’m the last man
on earth who’d discourage you from chasing the woman you adore. Believe me. See to
business and then make it as personal as possible.”
“Thanks.” Locke grinned, and enjoyed a brief moment of actual relaxation, one that
ended as soon as he blinked and realized that Patience was seated just across from
him, lips folded into a scowl below her night-dark eyes.
“I’d say you’re placing an alarming emphasis on pleasure over responsibility, wouldn’t
you?” she said.
“Gods above!” Locke edged away from her reflexively, and saw Jean flinch as well.
“Why couldn’t you show up on the street like an ordinary person?”
“I’m no good at being an ordinary person. Your recent behavior has been darkly amusing,
but I must confess that my colleagues and I are starting to worry about the effectiveness
of your overall plan of resistance. If, indeed, such a plan exists.”
“It had to be set aside for a few days,” said Locke. “We did manage to escape
total
humiliation, no thanks to you.”
“How would you know where the thanks should fall?”
“I don’t remember you offering us a spare boat and a hot meal when we were trying
not to drown,” said Jean.
“Unseasonal hard winds blew you off course for most of a week, leaving you within
spitting distance of shore, and you didn’t stop to ponder the implications?”
“Wait,” said Locke. “I thought you were strictly forbidden from—”
“I won’t confirm or refute any conjecture,” said Patience, sounding satisfied as a
cream-fed cat. “I’m merely pointing out that your vaunted imaginations seem to be
flickering rather dimly. Of course it’s possible we aided you. It’s possible the other
side had bent the rules as well, and earned a bit of a rebuke. You’ll never know for
sure.”
“Damn it, Patience,” said Locke, “you were at pains to assure us that the rules of
your stupid contest are ironclad!”
“And you were at pains to insist that you didn’t trust me any farther than you could
throw this carriage.”
“Why the hell are you even here? Do you have some message?”
“The message is this: Mind your task, Locke Lamora. You’re here to win, not to woo.”
“I’m here to do both.
Carte blanche
was the deal. Are you reneging?”
“I’m just relaying—”
“My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it.
Carte blanche
, yes or no?”
“Yes,” she said. “But you should be very, very careful how long you test our forbearance.
When dealing with a horse that won’t make speed, one tends to apply a whip to its
flanks, doesn’t one?”
“You told me you people love to sit back and watch your agents run around entertaining
you. So kindly sit back, shut up, and be entertained.”
“I intend to be,” she said. Between heartbeats she was gone, without so much as a
rustle of fabric.
“Gods
damn
it,” said Locke. “Tell me I wouldn’t be such a tremendous pain in the ass if I had
those powers.”
“You’d be worse,” sighed Jean. “I’d have killed you myself a long time ago. And you
know what else?”
“Hrrrm?”
“Patience can lick scorpions in hell. You and Sabetha take your time and sort out
whatever the last five years have done to you. I’m here to mind the shop whenever
you’re out.”
“
OH, GODS
,” said Nikoros, who was sitting at Josten’s bar behind a half-finished drink that
was a bit too large and a bit too early in the day. “Oh, thank the gods! Where have
you two been?”
“On the road, dear fellow,” said Locke, seizing Nikoros around the shoulders and pulling
him to his feet. Locke ground his teeth as he noticed the sharp smell of something
alchemical on Nikoros’ breath, and his dilated pupils, but there was no time to berate
him just now. “Engaged in terribly important secret affairs! Where do we stand?”
“We’re, uh, beset by unexpected complications,” said Nikoros, bewildered. “We’re getting
our
asses
kicked. The bookmakers are projecting a fourteen-seat Konseil majority for the Black—”
“That’s great,” said Locke, flush with the heady exhilaration that comes from absolute
freedom to bullshit absolutely. “That’s
excellent
. That’s the whole point of the exercise! Master Callas and I have been making careful
arrangements to create the false impression of a
total state of disarray
on our side. Get it? We’ve got the Black Iris right where we want them.”
“Uh … really?” Hope brought new color to Nikoros’ face with startling speed, and Locke
sighed. Between whatever he’d been drinking and the “adjustments” of the Bondsmagi,
Nikoros probably had the free will of a sponge. “That sounds great!”
“Doesn’t it?” said Locke. “Now summon a physiker. Then grab every trustworthy dogsbody
and scribe you can lay hands on and
bring them up to me in the Deep Roots private gallery in five minutes. Go, go, go!
Josten?”
“At your service, Master Lazari.”
“Food for five hungry fat men, in the private gallery, as soon as possible.”
“I gave some orders when I saw you walk in.”
“Bless you. Master Callas will want coffee, too. Hot enough to strip paint. Did you
have any problems while we were away? Security trouble?”
“Your people caught half a dozen folks trying to break in. Sent them off with bad
headaches. They also tell me we’re being watched from several points around the neighborhood.”
“We’ll tend to that soon enough.” Locke beckoned for Jean to follow, and the two of
them passed through the crowd of afternoon businessfolk and traders, exchanging friendly
nods with Deep Roots supporters barely remembered from the night of Nikoros’ party.
In moments they were up in the party’s private gallery, temporarily alone.
“
Is
there an actual plan running around in your head?” wheezed Jean.
“Crap sparks until something catches fire.” Locke settled into a high-backed chair
and brushed dust from his filthy tunic. “Noise and action to keep Sabetha guessing
while we cook up a real scheme. We start with childish pranks and escalate steadily.
Gods, I wish we had some proper urchins, some Right People that knew what they were
doing.”
Camorri outlaws had never thought very highly of their fraternal associates in other
cities, but Karthain was the least-regarded of all. Locke hadn’t once heard of a Karthani
gang that had any reach, any of the savage pride or inventiveness that Camorri, Verrari,
or even Lashani crews took for granted.
“It’s the Presence,” said Jean. “The Bondsmagi have these people tamed.”
Food and coffee were the first of the commanded resources to arrive. Locke scarfed
down meat and bread; neither lingered long enough before his eyes or in his mouth
for full identification. Jean sipped coffee and ate a roll, almost daintily, with
obvious discomfort.
A few moments later, a dark-skinned woman with neat gray hair came up the stairs carrying
a leather bag.
“I’m Scholar Triassa,” she said, frowning at Jean. “And that nose tells quite a story.”
While she began her examination, tactfully saying nothing about the fact that Locke
and Jean smelled like goats, Nikoros and half a dozen scribes and assistants came
up the stairs.
“Good,” said Locke, gulping a last bite of food. “It’s time to give those Black Iris
gits a taste of some friendly piss-artistry. Whet your quills. Scribe everything down
exactly. Give your notes to Nikoros when we’re finished, and he’ll handle the actual
work assignments.
“I want a letter drafted immediately to the chief constable of Lashain, whoever that
is. Tell them that four horses stolen from an armored carriage service bound for Lashain
have been located in the stables at the Sign of the Black Iris in Karthain. Each horse
has a clearly visible brand on its neck. These horses were received as stolen property
and not reported to the Karthani authorities. Sign it ‘a friend’ and get it to the
very next ship crossing the Amathel with mail.”
Jean chuckled, then grunted as Scholar Triassa continued her work. Locke paced back
and forth as he spoke.
“Tomorrow I’ll secure an addition to party funds. I want a thousand ducats handed
out to trustworthy Deep Roots members in increments of five to twenty ducats apiece.
I want them all to go out this week and place bets, with anyone taking them, on the
Deep Roots winning the election. I want a sudden surge of Deep Roots confidence, so
the opposition can have a good hard worry about the possibility that we know something
they don’t.
“I want another thousand spent on cakes and wine, rigged up in baskets with green
ribbons. Complimentary baskets go to the houses of tradesfolk, merchants, alchemists,
scribes, physikers—anyone respectable that
isn’t
already part of the Deep Roots family. Let’s go wooing new voters.”
“That might, uh, cause a problem with some of the, uh, senior party members,” said
Nikoros. “Traditionally we’re very choosy about new members. We have private salons,
by invitation. We don’t, uh, sweep the streets for recruits.”
Locke poured a mug of coffee and took a long sip.
And for those
refined tastes, you idiots have been crowded out hard in the last two elections
, he thought.
“Am I in charge here, Nikoros?”
“Oh, uh, gods yes, absolutely sir. I didn’t mean to imply anything other—”
“We
will
sweep the streets for recruits if it comes to that. I’ll put a bag of gold in the
hands of any brick-witted cross-eyed sheepfucker who can mark a parchment. Anytime
you want to question me, remind yourself that the opposition doesn’t share your delicate
gods-damned traditions. All they care about is winning.”
“Er, of course.”
“The baskets go out. No demands, no obligations, not yet. We just want people thinking
kindly of us. Arm-twisting comes later.
“More quietly,” he continued, “hunt down our party members with debts, troubles in
court, that sort of thing. Give me a list of their little problems and we’ll send
people out to fix them. In exchange, we’ll own their asses and set them toiling.
“Now, conversely. Black Iris party members with weaknesses. Debts, affairs, scandals,
addictions, legal entanglements. I want that list! I want to scratch every wound,
pour vinegar in every cut, pluck every low-hanging fruit. Constant, total harassment,
seizing any opportunity they give us, starting before the sun rises again.”
“As you wish,” said Nikoros.
“To that end … I need a trustworthy alchemist. I need a wagon … a few dozen small
animal cages … as many live snakes as we can get our hands on.”
“Live
snakes
?” said one of the scribes. “You mean—”
“Yeah,” said Locke. “They’ve got scales, they slither around—snakes. Keep up. We only
want ’em if they’re not venomous! That means barn serpents, brown marshies, belt snakes.
Anything else you have in these parts that fits the bill. Use mercenaries, boys, girls,
anyone.… Offer a suitable bounty, but keep it gods-damned quiet. I don’t want word
of this little project going too far. Drop the cages in the cellar and keep the snakes
there until further notice. How’s Master Callas’ nose?”
“Badly set,” said the physiker. “I gather from your rather forthright aroma that you
gentlemen have been unable to rest for several days.”
“Woefully correct,” said Locke.
“It’ll have to be rebroken. It’s plain this isn’t your first such injury, Master Callas,
and you’re developing a breathing obstruction.”
“Then do it,” said Jean.
“I’ll need two cups of brandy, some assistants, and some rope.”
“No time for all that,” growled Jean, “and I want my head clear for work. Just do
it here and now.”
“Your pardon, Master Callas, but I don’t relish the thought of a man your size lashing
out at me—”
“Scholar,” said Locke, “this building is more likely to collapse than my friend is
to lose control of himself.”
“I’m doubling my fee,” said the woman sternly.
“And I’m tripling it,” said Jean. “Go on, snap the damn thing to where it ought to
be. I’ve had worse, and I’ve had it without warning.”
Triassa placed her hands carefully, as though Jean’s head were a clay sculpture and
she meant to pinch the nose off and start over. She applied pressure with one smooth
motion; Jean remained still but did indulge in a long, deep, appropriately theatrical
groan. The sound of whatever was moving or breaking inside the nose itself made Locke
shudder as though his privates had just been dipped in ice water, and a collective
gasp arose from the scribes.
“Perhaps just one small brandy,” rasped Jean, barely moving his lips. Tears ran down
his cheeks. Locke pointed at one of the scribes; the woman nodded and hurried out
of the gallery.
Triassa deftly set Jean’s nose in cream-colored alchemical plasters and wrapped linen
around his head. “Keep this in place,” she said. “You’ve danced this dance before,
so don’t do anything foolish. Brace your head while you sleep. Come see me tomorrow—I’m
across the street.”
“Thanks,” said Jean. A moment later the helpful scribe returned with a glass of caramel-brown
liquor, which Jean poured carefully down his throat.
“Well, then,” said Locke. “Now that we’ve all realized precisely how tough we’ll
never
be, let’s stand on what we have. Pass your lists to Nikoros and he’ll mind the details.”