Authors: Scott Lynch
“
THIS IS
not how I had envisioned passing the small hours of the night,” said Baroness Ezrintaim,
now dressed in boots, lightweight skirt, dark jacket, and visible sword.
Locke and Sabetha, still soot-grimed from fighting the fire, stood at nervous attention
in one of Mistress Gloriano’s rooms, appropriated for a private talk. It was after
midnight. Constables and soldiers in equal number had the place sewn up tight, and
the remnants of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company under guard in the common room. Ezrintaim
had been summoned by a watch commander when the identity of the charred corpse had
become generally known.
Sabetha wore what Locke thought was an excellent expression of sorrow and resignation.
“Is it … are we so certain it’s him?” she said. “The body was …”
“The body was a lump of coal, girl, but we have the signet and the dagger. We know
very well it’s Gennaro lying out there. I realize it can’t be easy for you.” Ezrintaim
rubbed her eyes. “Still, it’s reality, dead under a sheet.”
“Let me help you look for Moncraine,” said Locke, who’d decided that a show of belligerence
was a good contrast to Sabetha’s shock. “Me and all my men. If I find the bastard—”
“This isn’t Camorr, and you are
incognito
,” snapped the baroness.
“You’ve no right to bear arms or dispense justice, and I’ve no inclination to give
you authority I’d have to explain to someone else!”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” said Locke. “I only meant to offer all possible assistance.”
“The best assistance will be to follow my explicit directions,” said Ezrintaim. “Jasmer
Moncraine has murdered an Esparan peer, and he is an Esparan problem to pursue. Gods
and saints, this is going to be a ten-years’ wonder even if it doesn’t get any worse.”
She paced the room several times, staring at them.
“I expect you to leave the city,” she said at last. “Yes, I think that would be for
the best. I’ll secure your safe passage out and have you placed with a caravan. You’re
welcome to return to Espara as your proper selves, after a few years have passed,
but never again as players. Or any other low station!”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Locke.
“And what of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company?” said Sabetha.
“What do you expect, Verena? Boulidazi is dead and Moncraine might as well be. There’ll
be no more performances, of course. Everything with Moncraine’s stink on it will need
to be swept under a rug.”
“I meant the players,” said Sabetha. “They’ve been … most accommodating. That bastard
Moncraine has put them in a very difficult position.”
“It’s the difficult position of Gennaro Boulidazi that will most concern the countess,”
said Ezrintaim. “But as far as I’m concerned, Moncraine’s guilt blazes to the skies.
As long as their stories are consistent and my men don’t find anything interesting
in this rooming house, your associates will live. But the company will be broken up,
have no doubt.”
“Most will end up in chains for debt once the solicitors have finished holding their
feet to the fire,” said Sabetha.
“What’s it to me, my dear?”
“They have given us good service while we’ve been in Espara,” said Locke. “We feel
obligated to plead on their behalf.”
“I see.” Ezrintaim sighed and tapped her fingers against the hilt of her rapier. “Well,
Lord Boulidazi died without heir. No relations beyond Espara that we’re bound to respect,
either. So the countess will
absorb his estates and his countinghouse assets. They’re a pretty enough windfall.
I suppose my mistress can afford to be generous. The company will
absolutely
lose its name and its present operating charter, but I believe I can intercede to
shield them from anything more drastic. I do hope that will assuage your sense of
obligation.”
“Entirely, my lady,” said Sabetha, bowing her head.
“Good. You’ve been foolish and lucky in equal measure, Verena, and I hope you’ll remember
that you’ve benefited much from a series of diplomatic courtesies extended on behalf
of all Espara.”
“Within the family,” said Locke, “we’ll be absolutely forthright about your invaluable
assistance. Given the chance, we shall remember you to the duke.”
“That would be a pleasing gesture,” said Ezrintaim. “Now, do clean yourselves up and
make ready to leave my city so I can begin dealing with this damnable collection of
headaches.”
DARK CLOUDS WERE
rolling in from the north, masking the stars. The Karthenium, palace of the long-deposed
dukes and duchesses of Karthain, rose above the manicured gardens and broken walls
of the Casta Gravina, a dome of rippling jade Elderglass like a jewel in a setting
of human stone and mortar. The late-autumn wind flowed past crenellations and etchings
on the face of the glass, and the eerie music of a lost race sighed into the night,
its meaning unguessable.
Green and black banners fluttered at the edges of every path and courtyard, and a
river of torch and lantern light flowed through the gates of the Karthenium, into
the Grand Salon, where seemingly endless black iron stairs and walkways spiraled up
the underside of the jade dome. Chandeliers the size of carriages blazed, tended by
men and women dangling in harness from anchor points on the walkways.
The murmur of the crowd was like the wash and rumble of the sea within a coastal cave.
Locke and Jean moved warily through the affair, their green ribbons no protection
against being jostled by knots of conversationalists, enthusiasts, and drunks. Black
Iris and Deep Roots
supporters mingled freely and argued freely in a sprawling pageant of Karthain’s rich
and exalted.
In the center of the Grand Salon a raised platform held a number of slate boards and
nineteen black iron posts, each topped by an unlit frosted glass lamp. The stairs
to the platform were guarded by bluecoats, each sweating under the added weight of
a white cloak and mantle trimmed with silver ribbons.
It was the ninth hour of the evening. The last ballots had been cast hours before,
and now the verified and sealed reports from each district were on their way to the
Karthenium.
“Master Lazari! Master Callas!” Damned Superstition Dexa appeared, dragging a muddled
platoon of attendants and sycophants in her wake. Her triple-brimmed hat was topped
with a replica of one of Karthain’s Eldren bridges, the towers sculpted from hardened
leather, each one flying a tiny green flag. Dexa smoked from a double-bowled pipe,
puffing streams of gray-and-emerald smoke from her nose. “Well, my boys, once we’ve
gnawed all the meat off the bones of an election it all comes down to this! Count
the votes, then count the tears.”
“No tears in your district,” said Locke. “If I’m wrong I’ll buy a hat like yours and
eat it.”
“I’d like to see that. But I’d prefer to keep my seat.” Dexa exhaled streamers of
jasmine-scented green and spicy gray past Locke. “Will you gentlemen be near the stage?
Ringside seats as the returns come in?”
“Somewhere less hectic,” said Locke. “We’ll watch from one of the private galleries,
after we’ve had a spin around the floor. Got to make sure everyone’s got their spine
straight and their waistcoat buttoned.”
“Very fatherly of you. Well, then, until the cat’s skinned, my regards to our fellow
travelers.”
True to Locke’s word, he and Jean bounced around the crowd, shaking hands and patting
backs, laughing at bad jokes and offering some of their own, spouting reasoned and
logical-sounding analysis on demand. Most of it was bullshit fried in glibness with
a side of whatever the listener yearned to hear.
What does it matter?
thought Locke. One way or another, they were vanishing from Karthain’s political
scene tonight and would never be held accountable.
Vast basins of punch made from pale white and bruise-purple
wines were being stirred to foam by clockwork paddle mechanisms, operated by impeccably
dressed children walking slowly inside gilded treadwheels. Attractive attendants of
both sexes worked behind velvet ropes to fill goblets and hand them out. Locke and
Jean armed themselves with punch, along with steaming buns stuffed with brined pork
and dark vinegar sauce.
Jean spotted Nikoros hovering miserably on the periphery of a pack of Deep Roots notables
and pointed him out to Locke. Via Lupa had shaved, which mostly served to highlight
his unhealthy pallor and the fresh lines on his visibly leaner face. Unexpected pity
stung Locke’s heart. Here was no triumphant traitor, but someone thoroughly roasted
on the rack of misery.
Well, what was the use of being able to lie with impunity if you couldn’t use it to
take a weight off the shoulders of such a plainly unhappy bastard?
“Look, Nikoros,” said Locke, pressing his untouched goblet of punch into the Karthani’s
hand. He spoke softly, for Nikoros alone. “I think it’s time for me to say that I
know what it’s like, being pressed by something that rules your conscience against
your will.”
“Ah, M-master Lazari, I don’t … that is, what do you mean?”
“What I’m trying to tell you,” said Locke, “is that I know. And I have known for some
time.”
“You … know?” Nikoros’ eyebrows went up so far and fast Locke was surprised not to
see them go sailing off like catapult stones. “You
knew
?”
“Of course I did,” said Locke, soothingly. “It’s my job to know things, isn’t it?
Only thing I couldn’t figure out is what the lever was. It’s obvious that you’re not
exactly a willing turncoat.”
“Gods! I, uh, it was my alchemist. My … dust alchemist. Receiving it’s as bad as selling
it. I got caught, and this woman … well, I eventually f-figured out who she must be.
I’m sorry. She offered me a deal. Otherwise I lose everything. Ten years on a penance
barge, then exile.”
“Hell of a thing,” said Locke. “I’d try to avoid that too, if I could.”
“I’ll resign after tonight,” muttered Nikoros. “I’d wager I’ve, ah, done more
damage
to the Deep Roots than any committee member in our g-gods-damned history.”
“Nikoros, you haven’t been listening to me,” said Locke. “I told you I
knew
.”
“But how does that—”
“You’ve been my agent more than theirs. Delivering exactly what I wanted the Black
Iris to hear from a source they considered impeccable.”
“But … but I’m
certain
some of what I had to give them was … it was real, and it was damaging to us!”
“Naturally,” said Locke. “They wouldn’t have listened to you if you hadn’t delivered
real goods most of the time. I wrote the real stuff off as the price of feeding them
the crucial bullshit. So don’t resign a damn thing. If the Black Iris lose tonight,
it’s because you were in a position to serve as my weapon against them. Will that
help you sleep a little better at night?”
“I, uh, I hardly know what I should say.” The loosening of the lines of tension on
his face was immediate and obvious.
“Don’t say anything. Just drain that goblet and enjoy the show. This conversation
will stay our little secret. Have a good long life, Nikoros. I doubt you’ll ever see
us again.”
“Unless our employers want to bring us back for the next round, five years hence,”
muttered Jean as they walked away.
“Maybe if they all want to end up in a fucking coma like the shit-bucket with the
bird,” said Locke.
“And not that I’m against trying to settle the poor fellow down, but how do you think
Nikoros will feel about himself if the Black Iris
win
?”
“Gods damn it, I was just trying to do what I could for the wretched bastard. At least
now he can believe I chose to use him as a calculated risk. Come on; let’s find this
Sable Chamber and get out of the public eye.”
SIX STAIRCASES
and three conversations with only partially helpful attendants later, they found
Sabetha waiting for them in a balcony room overlooking the south side of the Grand
Salon. Some long-dead nobleman stared eerily from a wall fresco, gazing out at a
scrollworked metal screen that allowed a fine view of the crowd and the stage below.
Sabetha wore another ensemble more in the fashion of a riding outfit than a ball gown,
a tight red velvet jacket with slashed sleeves over a dress of black silk panels embroidered
in scarlet astronomical signs. Locke pieced them together in his head and realized
she was wearing a sunrise and moonrise chart for this very day, month, and calendar
year.
“Like it?” she said, spreading her arms. “In accordance with the instructions of my
principals, I did my bit to spend every last copper they gave me.”
“Dutiful to authority, that’s you every time,” said Locke. She offered her hand, and
he wasn’t shy in kissing it. The trio made themselves comfortable at a little table
provisioned with almond cakes, brandy, and four red crystal snifters. Locke took the
lead and seized the bottle.
“A glass poured to air for absent friends,” he said as he filled the fourth snifter
and pushed it aside. “May the lessons they taught us give everyone a hell of a show
tonight.”
“Here’s to living long enough to appreciate whatever happens,” said Jean.
“Here’s to politics,” said Sabetha. “Let’s never hop in bed with it again.”
They touched glasses and drank. The stuff had a pale caramel color and washed Locke’s
throat with sweet, welcome heat. Not an alchemical brandy, but one of the old-fashioned
western styles with hints of peach and walnut woven into its vapors.
“Here comes the verdict,” said Sabetha.
Down on the floor the crowd parted for a troop of bluecoats, escorting somberly dressed
officials carrying wooden chests and huge brass speaking trumpets like blossoming
tulips. These trumpets were secured to projections on the stage, and the wooden chests
were set down behind them. A petite woman with thick gray curls cut short at the neck
stepped up to one of the speaking trumpets.