Authors: Scott Lynch
“Refugees with money, you say,” interrupted Jean. “Looking for new homes. Which is
to say,
potential voters in need of immediate assistance
.”
“Hells yes,” shouted Locke. “Horses, Nikoros! Three of them, now! Have a scribe and
a solicitor follow us. We scoop up anyone who can pay for enfranchisement; then we
find them permanent accommodations in districts where we most need the votes!”
“And they’ll be Deep Roots for life,” said Jean with a grin. “Or at least the next
couple of weeks, which is all we give a damn about.”
“I, uh … I will come, sirs, I just …” Nikoros gulped and wrung his hands together.
“I need a few minutes of privacy, first, if I might. I’ll, uh, meet you downstairs.”
THE NIGHT
was cool. They rode through pale wisps of fog coiling off cobblestones like unquiet
spirits, past black banners and green banners fluttering limply from balconies, through
stately quiet until they reached the Court of Dust. There they found the mess Nikoros
had promised.
Bluecoats were out in force, and Locke saw at once how nervous they were, how unaccustomed
they must be to real surprises. Wagons were lined up haphazardly, horses snorting
and flicking their tails while teamsters and stable attendants haggled. Lamps were
lit in every inn and tavern bordering the court; knots of conversation and argument
stood out everywhere in the uneasy crowds.
“Where the hells are we meant to go, then?” shouted a long-coated carriage hand at
a tired-looking hostler. His Therin was fair, but his accent was obvious. “All these
taverns are full up, now you tell me this bloody Josten’s place is closed off for
your damn—”
“Your pardon, my good man,” said Locke, reining in beside the fracas. “If you have
persons of quality seeking accommodations, I can be of immediate assistance.”
“Really? Who the devils might you be, then?”
“Lazari is my name.
Doctor
Sebastian Lazari.” Locke flashed a grin,
then shifted to his excellent Vadran. “Your masters or mistresses have all my sympathies
for the circumstances of their displacement, but they’ll soon find they’re not without
friends here in Karthain.”
“Oh, bless the waters deep and shallow,” answered the carriage hand in the same tongue.
“I serve the honorable Irina Varosz of Stovak. We’ve been five days on the road since—”
“You’re all but home,” said Locke. “Josten’s is the place for you. Josten’s Comprehensive.
I can arrange chambers; pay no heed to what you’ve been told. My man Nikoros will
handle the details.”
Nikoros, barely in control of his skittish horse, approached at the snap of Locke’s
fingers.
“I’m, uh, not entirely sure where I’m meant to put them,” he whispered.
“Use the chambers I’ve kept empty for security reasons,” said Locke. “We can find
other places for them after a few days. Rack your brains for anyone in the party who’s
got empty rooms on their hands. Hell, there’s one manor up in Vel Verda that springs
to mind immediately. Might as well get some joy out of the damn place.”
Jean was already off plying his own friendly Vadran to other guards, other footmen,
other curious and well-dressed strangers with road dust on their cloaks. For perhaps
twenty minutes he and Locke worked together smoothly, directing minor cousins of nobility
and merchants of assorted quality to Nikoros and thence to Josten’s and the bosom
of the Deep Roots party.
There was a fresh stir at the southern edge of the Court of Dust. Massed hooves rang
on the cobbles as some two dozen men and women in black livery rode in, led by Vordratha
and a few of the bravos Locke had seen hanging around the Sign of the Black Iris.
“That’s a pain in the precious bits,” muttered Locke to Nikoros. “I was hoping for
a little more time alone to make new friends. Who told these assholes to get out of
bed?”
“Oh, uh, I’m sure it was only a, uh, matter of time,” coughed Nikoros.
“You’re probably right.” Locke cracked his knuckles. “Well, now we play suitors in
earnest. Here come that scribe and solicitor I wanted, at least. You ride like hell
back to Josten’s and help him stack our friends from the north like books on shelves!”
IT WAS
past the ninth hour of the morning when Jean’s nagging sense of duty pulled him back
to the waking world, feeling like dough just barely baked long enough to resemble
bread. He made his toilet indifferently, merely taming and oiling his hair before
donning a fresh Morenna Sisters ensemble. Optics in place, nose plaster adjusted,
he used his suite’s little mirror to affirm that his powerful need for coffee was
plainly visible. Alas. They’d done good work the night before, and their reward for
that work would be yet more work today.
Jean pushed the door to the main suite open and found Locke perched over a writing
desk, looking even more ragged than Jean felt.
“I would inquire if you’d slept,” said Jean, “but I’ve learned to recognize silly
questions before I ask them.”
Locke was surrounded by the detritus of personal and party business: stacks of papers
in Nikoros’ handwriting, small avalanches of notes and receipts spilling from leather
folios, several plates of half-eaten and now desiccated biscuits, a collection of
burnt-out tapers and dimly phosphorescent alchemical globes. Crumpled sheets of parchment
littered the floor. Locke peered at Jean like some sort of subterranean creature roused
from contemplation of secret treasures by a mortal intruder.
“I don’t much feel like sleep,” he muttered. “You can go ahead and have mine if you
like.”
“If only it worked that way,” said Jean, moving to loose one of the window-shades.
“Gods, you’ve got these things plugged up tight enough to keep out water, let alone
an autumn morning.”
“
Please
don’t touch that!” Locke shook his quill, and Jean noted that it was distinctly shorter
than it had been when he’d trundled off to bed. “Open that window and I’ll burst into
flame.”
“What’s got you so exercised?” Jean left the curtains alone and settled into a chair.
“Anything to do with the new friends we swept up last night?”
“No.” Locke did favor him with a satisfied grin. “The count, by the way, is seventy-two
eligible adults. I’ve got the solicitors lined up to discuss terms with them. Nice
and simple. We’ll take them to the relevant offices in groups, hand over a little
sweetener money with the
fees, and get them registered. They’ll be seventy-two lawful voters by nightfall,
and then we’ll decide which districts to settle them in.”
“How many fresh faces did the Black Iris snatch up?”
“Half what we got.” More teeth appeared within Locke’s grin. “I’ve left a reception
committee at the Court of Dust to keep the party rolling, and I sent out a little
expedition to survey the road. The opposition will still get some, of course, but
I think we can safely say that the majority of Vadran expatriate votes will be for
the Deep Roots.”
“Splendid,” said Jean. “Now, what’s the business that’s been wearing that quill down?”
“Oh, it’s, you know.” Locke gestured at the arc of crumpled parchment sheets on the
floor. “It’s a letter. My letter. To, uh, her. My response. It has a few, uh, sentiments
and delicacies yet to be straightened out. I suppose by ‘few’ I mean ‘all of them.’
Say, can I ask you to undertake an embassy to the Sign of the Black Iris when it’s
finished?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Jean, “because I really was hoping to get into another punch-up
with Sabetha’s boys and girls as soon as possible, thanks.”
“They won’t hurt you,” said Locke. “Nor make you hurt them. It’s me Vordratha’s got
it in for.”
“Of course I’ll carry a token of your obsession into hostile territory for you,” said
Jean. “But there’s one condition. Put yourself in your bed and use it for its intended
purpose, right now.”
“But—”
“You’ve got bags under your eyes like crescent pastries,” said Jean, feeling that
he was being very kind. “You look like Nikoros, for the Crooked Warden’s sake. Like
you ought to be crouched in a gutter somewhere catching small animals and eating them
raw. You need rest.”
“But the letter—”
“I’ve got a sleeping draught right here, ready to administer.” Jean curled the fingers
of his right hand into a fist and shook it at Locke. “Besides, how could a nap to
clear your head do anything but improve this epistolary endeavor?”
“Hey,” said Locke, scratching his stubble absently with his quill. “That sounds suspiciously
like wisdom, damn your eyes. Why must you always flounce about being wiser than me?”
“Doesn’t require much conscious effort.” Jean pointed toward Locke’s room with mock
paternal sternness, but Locke was already on his way, stumbling and yawning. He was
snoring in moments.
Jean surveyed the wreckage of Locke’s attempts at letter-writing, wondering at the
contents of the crumpled sheets. He settled his left hand in a coat pocket and ran
his thumb round the lock of hair concealed therein. After a moment of contemplation,
he gathered the balled-up parchments, piled them in the suite’s small fireplace, and
set them alight with an alchemical twist-match from an ornate box on the mantel. Locke
snored on.
Jean slipped out and quietly locked the door behind him.
Josten’s was in a fine bustle. Well-dressed new faces were everywhere in the common
room, and the babble was as much Vadran as Therin. Diligence Josten, jaunty as a general
of unblooded troops, was lecturing a half-dozen staff. He clapped his hands and shooed
them to their tasks as Jean approached.
“Master Callas,” said Josten, “my procurer of strange clientele! You look like a man
in search of breakfast.”
“I have only two wishes,” said Jean. “The first is for strong coffee, and the second
is for stronger coffee.”
“Behold my
jask
.” Josten pointed to an ornate, long-handled copper pot simmering on a glowing alchemical
stone behind the bar counter. “My father’s
jask
, actually. Secret of the Okanti hearth. You poor bastards were still steeping your
coffee in wash-tubs when we came along to rescue you.”
The coffee Josten decanted from the
jask
was capped with cinnamon-colored foam. Jean felt less than civilized gulping it,
but his wits needed the prodding, and the blend of fig and chicory flavors hit his
throat in a satisfying scalding rush. The room was already looking brighter when he
reached the dregs of the small cup.
“Lights the fires, doesn’t it?” said Josten, smoothly refilling Jean’s cup. “I’ve
been pouring it into Nikoros for days, poor bastard. He’s, ah, lost a personal buttress,
that one.”
“I know,” said Jean. “Can’t be helped.”
Josten politely refused to let Jean go about his business on a breakfast of nothing
but coffee. A few minutes later, Jean climbed the stairs to the Deep Roots private
section carrying a bowl heaped with freshwater
anchovies, olives, seared tomatoes, hard brown cheese, and curls of bread fried with
oil and onions.
Nikoros was sprawled in a padded chair, surrounded by an arc of papers and empty cups
resembling the mess that had grown around Locke. His stubble looked sufficient to
scrape barnacles from ship hulls, and his lids lifted over bloodshot eyes as Jean
approached.
“In my dreams I sign chits and file papers,” Nikoros muttered. “Then I awake to sign
real chits and file real papers. I imagine my grave marker will be carved as a writing
desk. ‘Here lies Nikoros Via Lupa, wifeless and heirless, but gods how he could alphabetize!’ ”
“We’ve overworked you,” said Jean. “And you still coming down off that shit you were
shoving up your nose! Hard old days. We’ve been thoughtless, Master Lazari and I.
Here, take some breakfast.”
Nikoros was hesitant to do so at first, but his interest grew rapidly, and soon he
and Jean were racing one another to finish the contents of the bowl.
“You’re the sinews of this whole affair,” said Jean. “It’s not the Dexas and the Epitaluses
that hold things together. Not even Lazari and me. It’s been you, it is you, and it
will be you, long after we’re gone.”
“Long after this disaster is past us,” said Nikoros, “and gods grant that we still
have any Konseil seats at all five years from now.”
“Here, now,” said Jean. “We’re in the thick of it, no lie. You can’t see the direction
of the battle because you’re in the mud and the mess with all the other poor bastards,
but it has a direction. You must accept my assurances that I can see a little farther
than you can.”
“The Black Iris,” said Nikoros, looking away from Jean, “this time, they’ve … they’ve
got … well, they have advantages. At least that’s how it seems to me.”
“They have some,” said Jean with a nod. “We have others. And we’ve come off rather
well in this new game of displaced northerners, haven’t we? Six dozen fresh voters
to seed wherever we need them. The Black Iris can work whatever cocksuckery they like
upon us, but in the end it all comes down to names on ballots.”
“You’re being poorly served by me,” said Nikoros, almost too softly to hear.
“Nonsense.” Jean raised his voice and gave Nikoros a careful,
friendly squeeze on the arm. “If you weren’t meeting our expectations, don’t you think
we’d have packed you off somewhere out of the way?”
“Well, thank you, Master Callas.” Nikoros smiled, but it was a wan formality.
“Gods, it must be my week to be confessor to the heartsick and weary,” sighed Jean.
“You could do with a few more hours of sleep, I think. The sort not spent jammed into
a chair. Off to your chambers, and don’t let me see you again until—”
A woman with short curly black hair pounded up the stairs. She wore a traveling coat
and mantle, as well as a courier’s pouch and a sheath knife.
“Sirs,” she said, “I’m sorry to come rushing back like this, but I didn’t know where
else to go.”
“This is Ven Allaine,” said Nikoros, rising. “Ven for ‘Venturesome.’ She’s one of
our troubleshooters. Ven, I’m sure you know who Master Callas is.”