Authors: Scott Lynch
“What are we going to do with the son-of-a-bitch’s corpse?” Galdo kicked the nearest
boot for emphasis. “You know what it’ll smell like if we treat it as a keepsake until
tomorrow night.”
“And it’s gonna be ass-ugly,” said Calo. “Any dullard will see the wound’s not fresh.”
“
That’s
where fire comes in,” said Locke. “We can burn him! Cook him until nobody can tell
whether he died an hour or a week ago.”
“How can we control it?” said Jean. “If we burn him beyond recognition …”
“No worries.” Locke held up the knife he’d taken from Boulidazi, the same one the
baron had set against his cheek. Its blade was all business, but the hilt was set
with black garnets and a delicate white iron cloisonné. “This and all his other baubles
will make his identity very plain.”
“Where are we hiding it … I mean, him?” said Jenora.
“No, you mean
it
,” said Jean, smiling grimly.
“For the smell … I suppose I have pomanders and some rose dust we can douse the body
with.” Jenora was still far from settled, but her resolve seemed to be strengthening.
“That should help it keep. For a day, at least.”
“Good thought,” said Calo. “As for where, I suppose it’s too easy just to keep him
shoved under this bed?”
“Out of the gods-damned question!”
“We could have Sylvanus sit on it all night,” said Locke. “He wouldn’t notice a damn
thing until he’d sobered up again. Alas, everyone else would. Let’s hide him with
the props and costumes.”
“Let’s hide him
as
a prop,” said Sabetha. “We’ve got a play full of corpses. Cover him in something
suitable, throw a mask on him, and as far as anyone knows, he’s just scenery! That
way we can keep him with us—”
“… and not have to worry about anyone finding him while we’re away at the Pearl!”
said Locke. “Yeah. That leaves one last problem.… He’s got a pile of gentlemen and
retainers expecting to share his company at the play.”
“Hate to add turds to the shit-feast,” said Calo, “but that’s
not
the last problem. What do we tell the rest of the troupe about this?”
“
Why
do we tell the rest of the troupe about this?” said Jenora.
“I’m not best pleased to say it, but we’ve got to bring them in,” said Sabetha. “They’ll
be everywhere, in and amongst the props and costumes. If we don’t have their cooperation,
we’re sunk.”
“How do we make them cooperate?” said Jean.
“Make them
complicit
,” said Sabetha. “Make sure they understand it’s their necks in the noose as well,
because it is.”
“
Singua solus
,” said Galdo.
“Just the thing.” Sabetha put one ear against the door and listened carefully for
a moment. “
Singua solus
.”
“What’s that?” said Jenora.
“It’s an old Camorri tradition for when a bunch of people are planning something stupid,”
said Locke. “Actually, we have a lot of traditions for that. You’ll find out.”
“Giacomo, Castellano,” said Sabetha, “how drunk are you?”
“Nowhere near drunk enough,” said Calo.
“We’ve been in here long enough,” said Sabetha, “so you two get down to the common
room and round up all the company members. Slap their drinks out of their hands if
you have to. Get them off to bed. We need them as right and rested as possible when
we spring this surprise on them.”
“Take drinks away from Jasmer and Sylvanus,” sighed Galdo. “Right. And while we’re
at it, we’ll run off to Karthain and learn sorcery from the—”
“Get,” said Sabetha. “I’ll peek outside first in case Brego’s still lurking.”
It was another ominous sign of the depths of the waters they were swimming in that
neither of the Sanzas had any further quips or complaints. Sabetha eased the door
open, scanned the hallway, and nodded. The twins slipped out in a flash.
“Jenora,” said Sabetha, “in the company’s papers, do you have anything signed by Boulidazi?
Anything he scrawled on?”
“Why, yes … yes.” She pointed at a leather portfolio in a far corner. “All the papers
assigning his shares in the company, and some notes of instruction. He is …
was
literate. He liked to make a show of it.”
“I know.” Sabetha snatched up the portfolio and tossed it onto the bed next to Jean
and Jenora. “Sift through it and get those papers for me. I don’t have much time to
practice, but I should be able to scribble something close to his hand. He’s supposed
to be drunk anyway. And … exhausted.”
“It seems the dead can speak,” said Locke, embarrassed he hadn’t thought of forging
notes from the baron himself.
“Well enough to get rid of Brego,” said Sabetha. “And modify the baron’s instructions
to his household so they don’t expect him until long after the play tomorrow night.
Now, Jenora—are your pomanders with the other props?”
“Yes.”
“Thank the gods for small favors. All we have to do, then, is move him once and get
him perfumed, and we should be safe enough until we assemble the company tomorrow.”
Locke nodded. It was three doors down to the room where the good props were being
kept. Assuming Jean helped, they could heave even a sack of muscle like Boulidazi
that far in seconds. But what a crucial few seconds! Locke took up a tattered blanket
from the bed to use as a shroud.
Jean seemed to follow his thoughts. He hugged Jenora, and whispered something in her
ear.
“No,” she said. “No, I’ll not be made a child on account of that …
that fucking pig. Let me help you.” With Jean’s aid, she stumbled shakily to her feet
and made an effort to straighten her torn tunic.
A few moments later they made the move. Jenora led the way, with Locke and Jean hauling
the shrouded corpse, and Sabetha covering the rear, light-footed and wide-eyed. The
sounds of shouting and carousing echoed from the common room. Jean bore Boulidazi’s
weight with ease, but Locke was straining and red-faced by the time Jenora swung the
prop-room door open for them.
Another instant and it was done. Locke tore the blanket from the corpse and wadded
it up before it could soak up too much blood. Boulidazi lay there with the strange
limpness of the freshly dead, like a sand-filled mannequin with a dumbstruck expression
on its face.
“One of us has to stay,” said Locke, reluctantly. “This is too dangerous to leave
lying around unguarded. One of us has to bar the door and spend the night.”
“Look,” said Jean, “I would, but—”
“I understand.” Locke stifled a groan as he realized there was only one candidate
for the job he proposed. “You should be with Jenora. Get out of here, both of you.”
Jean squeezed his shoulder. Jenora, carefully avoiding even brushing against the baron’s
corpse, reached past Locke and drew a battered alchemical globe out of a pile of cloth
scraps. She shook it to kindle a dim light, then handed it to him. In a moment she
and Jean were gone.
“Thank you,” whispered Sabetha. The sympathy and admiration in her eyes were too much
for Locke to bear. He turned away and scowled at Boulidazi’s corpse, then found himself
unable to resist as Sabetha drew him back for a brief, tight embrace. She touched
her lips to his for the length of a heartbeat.
“I’ve got notes to write,” she said, “but you haven’t escaped. This is just a postponement.
We’ll have another chance.
Another
another chance.”
He wanted to say something clever and reassuring, but he felt distinctly wrung dry
of wit, and managed only a forlorn wave before she slid the door quietly shut. Locke
bolted it with a sigh.
Finding Jenora’s supply of rose dust and pomanders took only a few moments, as most
of the costumes and junk in the room had been
organized for easy packing. Locke gagged and stifled a sneeze as he shook a few puffs
of sweet-scented alchemical powder onto the baron’s body.
“Pleased with yourself now, shitbag?” Locke whispered. His anger grew, and with a
snarl he kicked Boulidazi’s corpse, raising another faint puff of rose dust. “Even
dead you’re still fucking with my intimate affairs!”
Locke put his back to a wall and slowly sank down, feeling the strength ebb from his
legs along with his fury. What a place to spend a night! A dozen
phantasma
masks stared down at him from the walls. A dozen imaginary dead forming a court for
one very real corpse.
Locke closed his eyes and tried to blot the image of the death-masks from his mind.
Under the cloying odor of roses, he could still make out the faintest scent of Sabetha,
clinging to his lips, hair, and skin.
Groaning, he settled in for the worst night of so-called rest he’d had in years.
“
WHAT IN
all the shit-heaped hells have you yanked us out of bed for, Camorri?”
Jasmer Moncraine looked rather trampled at the tenth hour of the following morning.
Sylvanus was only a certain percentage of a human being, Donker seemed to be silently
praying for death, and Bert and Chantal were using one another as buttresses. Only
Alondo, of all the night’s ardent revelers, seemed to be mostly intact.
The company was gathered in Mistress Gloriano’s largest room. The Gentlemen Bastards
had spent the better part of an hour chasing wastrels, prostitutes, parasites, and
curiosity-seekers out of the inn. The company’s bit players had been given stern instructions
to gather at the Pearl itself. With a barred door and a nearly empty building, their
privacy for the next few minutes was as certain as it could be.
“Our lord and patron has done something we need to discuss,” said Sabetha. She and
the other Camorri, along with Jenora, formed a wall between everyone else and the
room’s table. On that table rested a shrouded and scented object.
“What’s he done, commanded us to pour rose dust down our tunics? Gods’ privates, that’s
some reek,” said Moncraine.
“What we have to show you,” said Jenora, her voice quavering, “is the most important
thing in the world.”
“On your honor,” said Locke, “on your promises to one another, on your souls, you
must
swear not to scream or shout. I’m deadly serious. Your lives are at stake.”
“Save the drama for the stage, and for after noon,” yawned Chantal. “What’s this about?”
Locke swallowed the dry air of his suddenly spitless mouth and nodded. The human wall
in front of the shrouded corpse broke up; Jean and the Sanzas pushed through the company
and took up a new guard position at the door. When they were in place, Locke uncovered
the baron’s body in one smooth motion.
There was dead, ghastly silence, an all-devouring vacuum of dread. Moncraine’s face
did things that Locke would have sworn were beyond the powers of even a veteran actor.
Donker stumbled into a far corner of the room, braced himself against the wall, and
threw up.
“What have you done?” whispered Moncraine. “My gods, gods of my mother, you’ve fucking
killed us. You fucking little Camorri murderers—”
“It was an accident,” said Jenora, wringing her hands together so hard that Locke
could hear her knuckles cracking.
“An
accident
? What, what, he … stabbed himself in the gods-damned heart?”
“He was drunk,” said Sabetha. “He tried to rape Jenora, and she defended herself.”
“You
defended
yourself?” Moncraine peered slack-jawed at Jenora, as though she’d just then appeared
out of thin air. “You witless cunt, you’ve done for us all. You should have enjoyed
it as best you could and let him stumble on his way!”
Sabetha glared, Chantal blinked as though she’d been slapped, and Jenora took an angry
step forward. Curiously enough, the fist that slammed into Moncraine’s jaw half a
second later belonged to Sylvanus.
“You forget yourself,” the old man barked. “You who might have
killed the useless boor weeks ago, if you’d had anything but empty air in your hands!
You faithless fucking peacock!”
Sylvanus moved past Jasmer, who was holding a hand to his jaw and staring wide-eyed
at the old man. Sylvanus gathered spit with a phlegmy rumbling noise, then spat a
pinkish gob on the dead baron’s breast.
“So it’s our death lying here before us,” he said. “So what? There’s few advantages
to being a friend of Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, but at least there’s this. If you
say you had to do it, Jenora, I believe you. If you killed the miserable shit to keep
your honor, I’m proud of you for it.”
Jenora seized the old man in a hug. Sylvanus sighed reflectively and patted her on
the back.
“Jenora,” said Moncraine. “I’m … I’m sorry. Andrassus is right. I did forget myself.
Gods know I’ve got no business talking about restraint in the face of … provocation.
But now we’ve got to scatter. We’ve got two or three hours, at best. There’s hundreds
of people expecting us to be at the Pearl by midafternoon.”
“I can’t run,” gasped Donker, rising from his misery and wiping his mouth on a tunic
sleeve. “I can’t leave Espara! This is madness! I’m not even … let’s explain ourselves,
let’s say it was all an accident, they’ll understand!”
Locke took a deep, steadying breath. Donker was the one he’d been afraid of; with
him it all came down to how much he truly cherished his cousin.
“They won’t understand a damned thing,” growled Bert. “They’ve got a heap of foreigners,
players, and nightskins to punish at will.”
“Djunkhar, Bert’s right. They don’t have to
care
if anyone’s innocent,” said Locke. “So nobody’s running or confessing. We have a
plan, and you’re all going to swear an oath by it if you want to be free and alive
at the end of the day.”
“Not me. I’m leaving,” said Jasmer. “Dressed as a priest, dressed as a horse, dressed
as the fucking
countess
if I must. There’s ways out of the city that aren’t past guarded gates, and unless
your plan involves a Bondsmage, I’m for them—”
“Then we’ll have two corpses to lie about instead of one,” said Sabetha.
Calo and Galdo reached into their tunic sleeves, taking care to be as obvious as possible.