Authors: Scott Lynch
Lamor Acanthus returned! The matter is so huge, I can scarcely begin
to ponder it. This question belongs to us all! I’ll break it wide open in the Sky
Chamber!
NO!
The old man felt beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks and brow. The intensity of
their communication was far beyond the usual light touch of mind-speech.
Patience and Temperance have too much support in the chamber. Providence will take
their side in any argument. You know as well as I that the Falconer’s removal leaves
you short of commanding Speakers. Your followers are dedicated, but your numbers are
too few to broach this matter without preparation
.
If Lamor Acanthus removed his spirit into another body, even an ungifted body, then
he achieved something no other mage in history ever has
.
In disgrace and disaster!
Yes. All the more reason we must examine him collectively, research his processes
exhaustively. The mind and power of one man were not enough to overcome the difficulties.
But what could the minds and powers of a hundred magi do? Or all of us, all four hundred?
That’s how this MUST be approached!
I agree with you. I owe Patience so much; do you think I’d turn on her for anything
less than a truly existential question? Please heed me, Archedama. If you bring this
before the Sky Chamber without preparation it will not go well. You must attack from
a position of real strength. And to do that … I daresay that we must take unprecedented
measures
.
Surely you can’t be suggesting—
Never. No blood must be shed, at least not without provocation. But you must assert
force. You must … take control of Patience and some of her supporters, for a little
while. They count on the balance of power being overwhelmingly in their favor. If
you demonstrate that it is otherwise, you can then introduce the question into a genuinely
receptive environment. Only that can guarantee the honest discussion this situation
demands
.
What you suggest could still be construed as a coup
.
Only a little one
. The old man smiled wryly, and passed the sensation on in his thoughts.
And only for a little while. Our very future is at stake. If we let the five-year
game play itself out, let Patience and her supporters stay distracted, then … then
with my guidance you
can move instantly, decisively. The very night it ends. If we take the other arch-magi
into custody, we demonstrate power. If we then release them unharmed, we demonstrate
good intentions. Then, and only then, do I believe the circumstances will be right
for us to confront the mess that Patience has made, and the secrets she’s unearthed
.
The night of the election, then
.
Yes. The night of the election
.
If you really can serve as our eyes, I promise you I’ll find capable hands to do the
work
.
Archedama Foresight was gone from his mind without a further sentiment, as was her
way. Relieved, he rubbed his hands together to calm their shaking.
It was done, then. It was as it must be, and for the good of all his kind, he reminded
himself. He’d had a long and comfortable life on account of his rings. Surely if anyone
could bear the strain and the burden of what was to come, it was him.
The air of the silent room suddenly seemed to chill against his skin. Coldmarrow decided
that he needed a drink very, very badly.
“
JOVANNO
,”
SAID LOCKE
. “Did you—”
“It was me,” said Jenora, hoarsely. “He tried … he tried …”
“He tried to tear her gods-damned clothes off,” said Jean, putting his arms around
Jenora. “He was on the ground before I got here.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him, but … he’s drunk,” said Jenora. “He put his hands on my
neck. He was choking me.…”
Locke crouched warily over Boulidazi and slid the baron’s knife from its sheath. The
heaving, bleeding man made no effort to stop him. Locke had seen bloody lung-cuts
before, from duels at Capa Barsavi’s court. This was near-certain death, but it wouldn’t
be quick. Boulidazi could have the strength to do them real harm for some time yet.
So why wasn’t he fighting back now? His gaze was distant, his pupils unnaturally wide.
Blood bubbled around the makeshift weapon still jutting from his chest, and this seemed
to be causing him startled bemusement, not mortal panic.
“He’s not just drunk,” said Locke. “It must be whatever you gave him.”
“Shit,” said Sabetha, slumping against the door. “This is all my fault.”
“The hell are you talking about?” said Jean.
“Boulidazi’s drink,” said Calo. “We put something in it. To keep him away from … Verena
and Lucaza.”
“Shit,” repeated Sabetha, and the look on her face was too much for Locke to bear.
“Here now,” he said, “half this gods-damned company has been drunk for weeks. The
twins have been out of their minds on anything that comes in a bottle or a cask. When
did they ever try to rape anyone?” Locke jabbed a finger at Boulidazi. “This is
his
fucking fault, nobody else’s!”
“He’s right,” said Calo, setting a hand on Jenora’s wrist. “You did a Camorri thing.
You did the
right
thing.”
“The
right thing
?” Jenora brushed Calo off and took Jean’s hands. “I’ve hung myself. I’ve spilled
noble blood.”
“It’s not murder yet,” said Galdo.
“It doesn’t matter if he lives or dies,” said Jenora. “They’ll kill me for this. They’ll
kill as many of us as they can, but me for sure.”
“It was clear self-defense,” growled Jean. “We’ll get a dozen witnesses. We’ll get
the whole damn company; we’ll rehearse the story perfectly—”
“And they’ll kill her,” said Sabetha. “She’s right. It won’t matter if we have a hundred
witnesses, Jovanno. She’s a nightskin commoner and we’re foreign players, and now
we’re all party to wiping out the last heir of an Esparan noble house. If we get caught
they’ll grind us into paste and plow us into the fields.”
“As my brother pointed out,” said Galdo, “we don’t have a corpse yet.”
“Yes we do,” said Locke quietly. His hands moved with a decisive steadiness that surprised
his head. He removed Boulidazi’s dirty waist sash and gagged the baron with it. The
wounded man struggled for air, but still didn’t seem to grasp what was happening to
him.
“Gods, what are you doing?” said Jenora.
“What’s required,” said Locke, coldly exhilarated as his oldest reflexes, his Camorri
instincts, shoved aside his muddled feelings of
forbearance and pity. “If he breathes a word of this to anyone we’re doomed.”
“Oh, gods,” whispered Jenora.
“I’ll be happy to do it,” said Jean.
“No,” said Locke. He’d demanded this necessity; Chains would expect him to not pass
the burden. His hands trembled as he unbuckled the baron’s thin leather belt and wound
it around his hands. Then the thought of Jean, Sabetha, and the Sanzas dangling from
an Esparan gibbet flashed into his mind, and his hands were as steady as temple stones.
He slipped the belt over Boulidazi’s neck.
“Wait!” said Sabetha. She knelt in front of Boulidazi, who must now look tragically
ridiculous, Locke realized, with the shears buried in his chest, his own sash gagging
him, and a slender teenager applying a belt to his windpipe. “You can’t crimp his
neck.”
“Watch me,” said Locke through gritted teeth.
“A man can be stabbed for a lot of reasons,” said Sabetha. “But if he’s pricked
and
strangled, it won’t look accidental.”
Her movements were tender as she grasped the shears. Her eyes were pitiless as the
night ocean.
“Just hold him for me,” she whispered.
Locke unwound his hands from the belt and grabbed Boulidazi by his thick upper arms.
Sabetha gave Jenora’s shears a hard shove, upward and inward. Boulidazi groaned and
jerked in Locke’s arms, but without real force. Even at the moment of his death, he
was locked away from the reality of it.
Boulidazi slumped, his legs jerking more and more feebly until at last he was still.
Sabetha settled back on her knees, exhaled unsteadily, and held out her blood-slick
right hand as though unsure how to clean it. Locke loosened the baron’s sash and passed
it to her, then eased Boulidazi’s dead weight to the ground. If they could handle
him carefully, Locke thought they could keep most of the blood within him, or at least
upon him.
Jenora put her face against one of Jean’s arms.
“Now we can make this look like anything,” said Sabetha. “Argument, crime of passion,
anything. We put him somewhere plausible and build a fable. All we’ve got to do is
figure out what. And, ah, do it in the next couple of—”
Someone pounded on the door to the room.
Locke fought to keep control of himself; at the first noise it had felt like his skin
was attempting to leap off his body. A quick glance around the room showed that nobody
else had a firm grip on their nerves, either.
“M’lord Boulidazi?” The muffled voice belonged to Brego, the baron’s bodyguard and
errand-hound. “M’lord, are you in there? Is all well?”
Locke stared at the door, which Sabetha had moved away from in order to finish off
Boulidazi. Calo and Galdo were the closest to it, but even they were three or four
paces away. The door was not bolted; if Brego decided to open it, even a crack, he’d
be looking directly at Boulidazi’s corpse.
SABETHA MOVED
like an arrow leaving a bowstring, and the very first thing she did was tear her
tunic off.
Locke’s jaw hadn’t finished dropping before Sabetha was at the door, landing ghost-light
on her bare feet.
“Oh, Brego,” she said, panting. “Oh, just a moment!”
She gestured at Boulidazi’s corpse. Calo and Galdo sprang forward to help Locke, and
in seconds they managed to push the baron’s body under the bed. Jean slid a blanket
partly over the room’s alchemical lamp, dimming it. A moment later Calo, Galdo, and
Locke squeezed up against the wall just behind Sabetha, out of the visual arc of the
door, provided it wasn’t opened all the way.
Sabetha tousled her hair with one precise head-toss, then cracked the door open to
give Brego an unexpectedly fine view of a preoccupied young woman. Her tunic was pressed
to her chest with one hand to cover an artful minimum of bosom.
“Why, Brego,” she said, mimicking perfect breathlessness, “you dutiful fellow, you!”
“Why, Mistress Verena, I … my lord, is he—”
“He’s busy, Brego.” She giggled. “He’s
very
busy and will be that way for some time. You can wait downstairs, I think. He’s in
the
best
possible hands.”
She didn’t give him time to say anything else, but with a lascivious little wave she
slid the door shut and bolted it.
A few agonizing seconds passed, and then Locke could hear Brego’s boot-steps as he
moved away down the corridor. Sabetha threw her tunic back on, sank down against the
door, and sighed with relief.
“We’re all gonna have gray fuckin’ hair by the time the sun comes up,” said Galdo.
He and Calo had both been holding daggers at the ready; now they hid the slender bits
of blackened steel again. The air in the room suddenly seemed dense with the smells
of blood and nervous sweat.
“Can we get the hell out of here now?” said Jenora.
“Where do you want to go?” said Jean.
“Camorr!” she whispered. “For the gods’ sakes, I know you can do … something! I know
you’re not really just actors.”
“Calm down, Jenora.” Locke stared at one of Boulidazi’s boots, sticking out incongruously
from beneath the bed. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous. How would people not notice
you sneaking off hours before we’re supposed to deliver the play? How could we keep
you hidden on the road?”
“A ship, then.”
“If you run,” said Sabetha, “you’ll tear a hole in whatever story we invent to explain
what’s happened. And you’ll leave your aunt to take all the trouble! If we can’t make
the tale neat and obvious, the countess’ people will be right back to rounding up
scapegoats.”
“Even if you manage to make it neat and obvious,” said Jenora, “we’re all crushed.
We’re liable, remember? To the ditch-tenders, the confectioners, the alemongers, the
cushion-renters. Without the play, we’ll be so far in default to all of ’em we might
as well go turn ourselves in at the Weeping Tower now.”
“What about acts of the gods?” said Calo. “Surely you wouldn’t be liable if a hurricane
blew in. Or the Old Pearl collapsed.”
“Of course not,” said Jenora. “But whatever powers you have, I doubt they extend that
far.”
“Not that far, no,” said Calo. “But the stage is made of wood.”
“A fire! Nice one!” said Galdo. “The two of us could handle it. In, out, like shadows.
Wouldn’t take two hours.”
“The stage timbers are alchemically petrified,” said Jenora. “They
won’t just catch fire. You’d need a dozen cartloads of wood, like engineering a bloody
siege.”
“So we can’t destroy the Pearl,” said Sabetha.
“And we can’t run,” said Jean. “It’d invite all kinds of trouble, and it’s not likely
any of us would make it home.”
“And if we stay but don’t do the play, we all get thrown into chains for debt,” said
Locke. “Debt at the very least.”
“So there’s only one sensible course of action,” said Sabetha.
“Grow wings?” said Calo.
“We have to pretend everything’s normal.” Sabetha counted off items using her fingers
as she spoke. “We have to get Brego out of the damned building so we can have some
room to move. We have to do the play—”
“You’re cracked!” said Jenora.
“… and once we’ve done it,
then
we let the world in on the fact that Boulidazi’s dead, in circumstances that don’t
incriminate anyone we care about.”