Authors: Scott Lynch
“I can recommend a solicitor that would suit, for such a case.” Previn opened a desk
drawer and began hunting through the parchments that lay within. “You could bring
the tavern-master before the Common Claims court at the Palace of Patience; it might
take as little as five or six days, if you can get an officer of the watch to corroborate
your story. And I can draw up all the documents necessary to—”
“Master Previn, forgive me. That is a wise course of action; in most other circumstances
I would gladly pursue it, and ask you to draw out whatever forms were required. But
I don’t have five or six days; I fear I have only hours. The dinner, sir, is this
evening, as I said.”
“Hmmm,” said Previn. “Could you not reschedule the dinner? Surely your associates
would understand, with you facing such an extremity.”
“Oh, if only I could. But Master Previn, how am I to appear before them, asking them
to entrust tens of thousands of crowns to the ventures of my combine, when I cannot
even be entrusted to vouchsafe my own
wardrobe? I am … I am most embarrassed. I fear I shall lose this affair, let it slip
entirely through my fingers. The don in question, he is … he is something of an eccentric.
I fear he would not tolerate an irregularity such as my situation presents; I fear,
if put off once, he would not desire to meet again.”
“Interesting, Master Callas. Your concerns may be … valid. I shall trust you to best
judge the character of your associates. But how may I be of assistance?”
“We are of a like size, Master Previn,” said Locke. “We are of a like size, and I
very much appreciate your subtle eye for cuts and colors—you have a singular taste.
What I propose is the loan of a suitable set of clothing, with the necessary trifles
and accoutrements. I shall give you five crowns as an assurance for their care, and
when I am finished with them and have returned them, you may keep the assurance.”
“You, ah … you wish me to
loan
you some of my clothes?”
“Yes, Master Previn, with all thanks for your consideration. The assistance would
be immeasurable. My combine would not be ungrateful, I daresay.”
“Hmmm.” Previn closed the drawer of his desk and steepled his fingers beneath his
chin, frowning. “You propose to pay me an assurance worth about one-fourth of the
clothing I would be loaning you, were you to be attending a dinner party with a don.
One-fourth, at a minimum.”
“I, ah, assure you, Master Previn, that with the sole exception of this unfortunate
theft, I have always thought of myself as the soul of caution. I would look after
your clothing as though my life depended upon it—indeed, it
does
. If these negotiations go amiss, I am likely to be out of a job.”
“This is … this is quite unusual, Master Callas. Quite an irregular thing to ask.
What combine do you work for?”
“I—I am embarrassed to say, Master Previn. For fear that my situation should reflect
poorly on them. I am only trying to do my duty by them, you understand.”
“I do, I do, and yet it must be plain to you that no man could call himself wise who
would give a stranger thirty crowns in exchange for five, without … something more
than earnest assurances. I do beg your pardon, but that’s the way it must be.”
“Very well,” said Locke. “I am employed by the West Iron Sea Mercantile Combine, registered
out of Tal Verrar.”
“West Iron Sea Mercantile … hmmm.” Previn opened another desk drawer and flipped through
a small sheaf of papers. “I have Meraggio’s Directory for the current year, Seventy-eighth
Year of Aza Guilla, and yet … Tal Verrar … there is no listing for a West Iron Sea
Mercantile Combine.”
“Ah, damn that old problem,” said Locke. “We were incorporated in the second month
of the year; we are too new to be listed yet. It has been such a bother, believe me.”
“Master Callas,” said Previn, “I sympathize with you, I truly do, but this situation
is … you must forgive me, sir, this situation is entirely too irregular for my comfort.
I fear that I cannot help you, but I pray you find some means of placating your business
associates.”
“Master Previn, I beg of you, please—”
“Sir, this interview is at an end.”
“Then I am doomed,” said Locke. “I am entirely without hope. I do beseech you, sir,
to reconsider.…”
“I am a lawscribe, Master Callas, not a clothier. This interview is over; I wish you
good fortune, and a good
day
.”
“Is there nothing I can say that would at least raise the possibility of—”
Previn picked up a small brass bell that sat on one edge of his desk; he rang it three
times, and guards began to appear out of the nearby crowd. Locke palmed his white
iron piece from the desktop and sighed.
“This man is to be escorted from the grounds,” said Previn when one of Meraggio’s
guards set a gauntleted hand on Locke’s shoulder. “Please show him every courtesy.”
“Certainly, Master Previn. As for you, right this way, sir,” said the guard as Locke
was helped from his seat by no fewer than three stocky men and then enthusiastically
assisted down the main corridor of the public gallery, out the foyer, and back to
the steps. The rain had ceased to fall, and the city had the freshly washed scent
of steam rising from warm stones.
“It’d be best if we didn’t see you again,” said one of the guards. Three of them stood
there, staring down at him, while men and women of business made their way up the
steps around him, patently ignoring him. The same could not be said for some of the
yellowjackets, who were staring interestedly.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, and he set off to the southwest at a brisk walk. He
would cross one of the bridges to the Videnza, he told himself, and find one of the
tailors there.…
THE WATER-CLOCK was chiming the noon hour when Locke returned to the foot of Meraggio’s
steps. The light-colored clothing of “Tavrin Callas” had vanished; Locke now wore
a dark cotton doublet, cheap black breeches, and black hose; his hair was concealed
under a black velvet cap, and in place of his goatee (which had come off rather painfully—someday
he would learn to carry adhesive-dissolving salve with him as a matter of habit) he
now wore a thin moustache. His cheeks were red, and his clothing was already sweated
through in several places. In his hands he clutched a rolled parchment (blank), and
he gave himself a hint of a Talishani accent when he stepped into the foyer and addressed
the guards.
“I require a lawscribe,” said Locke. “I have no appointment and no associates here;
I am content to wait for the first available.”
“Lawscribe, right.” The familiar directory guard consulted his lists. “You might try
Daniella Montagu, public gallery, desk sixteen. Or maybe … Etienne Acalo, desk thirty-six.
Anyhow, there’s a railed area for waiting.”
“You are most kind,” said Locke.
“Name and district?”
“Galdo Avrillaigne,” said Locke. “I am from Talisham.”
“You write?”
“Why, all the time,” said Locke, “except of course when I’m wrong.”
The directory guard stared at him for several seconds until one of the guards standing
behind Locke snickered; the symptoms of belated enlightenment appeared on the directory
guard’s face, but he didn’t look very amused. “Just sign or make your mark here, Master
Avrillaigne.”
Locke accepted the proffered quill and scribed a fluid, elaborate signature beside
the guard’s
GALLDO AVRILLANE
, then strolled into the countinghouse with a friendly nod.
Locke rapidly cased the public gallery once again while he feigned good-natured befuddlement.
Rather than settling into the waiting area, which was marked off with brass rails,
he walked straight toward the well-dressed young man behind desk twenty-two, who was
scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment and currently had no client to distract
him. Locke settled into the chair before his desk and cleared his throat.
The man looked up; he was a slender Camorri with slicked-back brown hair and optics
over his wide, sensitive eyes. He wore a cream-colored coat
with plum purple lining visible within the cuffs. The lining matched his tunic and
his vest; the man’s ruffled silk cravats were composed in layers of cream upon dark
purple. Somewhat dandified, perhaps, and the man was a few inches taller than Locke,
but that was a difficulty relatively easily dealt with.
“I say,” said Locke in his brightest, most conversational I’m-not-from-your-city tone
of voice, “how would you like to find your pockets laden down with five white iron
crowns before the afternoon is done?”
“I … that … five … sir, you seem to have me at a disadvantage. What can I do for you,
and indeed, who are you?”
“My name is Galdo Avrillaigne,” said Locke. “I’m from Talisham.”
“You don’t say,” said the man. “Five crowns, you mentioned? I usually don’t charge
that much for my services, but I’d like to hear what you have in mind.”
“Your services,” said Locke, “your professional services, that is, are not what I’ll
be requiring, Master …”
“Magris, Armand Magris,” said the man. “But you, you don’t know who I am and you don’t
want my—”
“White iron, I said.” Locke conjured the same piece he’d set down on Koreander Previn’s
desk two hours before. He made it seem to pop up out of his closed knuckles and settle
there; he’d never developed the skill for knuckle-walking that the Sanzas had. “Five
white iron crowns, for a trifling service, if somewhat unusual.”
“Unusual how?”
“I have had a streak of rather ill fortune, Master Magris,” said Locke. “I am a commercial
representative of Strollo and Sons, the foremost confectioner in all of Talisham,
purveyor of subtleties and sweets. I took ship from Talisham for a meeting with several
potential clients in Camorr—clients of rank, you understand. Two dons and their wives,
looking to my employers to liven up their tables with new gustatory experiences.”
“Do you wish me to draw up documents for a potential partnership, or some sale?”
“Nothing so mundane, Master Magris, nothing so mundane. Pray hear the full extent
of my misfortune. I was dispatched to Camorr by sea, with a number of packages in
my possession. These packages contained spun sugar confections of surpassing excellence
and delicacy; subtleties the likes of which even your famed Camorri chefs have never
conceived. Hollow sweetmeats with alchemical cream centers … cinnamon tarts with the
Austershalin brandy of Emberlain for a glaze … wonders. I was to dine
with our potential clients, and see that they were suitably overcome with enthusiasm
for my employer’s arts. The sums involved for furnishing festival feasts alone, well … the
engagement is a very important one.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Magris. “Sounds like very pleasant work.”
“It would be, save for one unfortunate fact,” said Locke. “The ship that brought me
here, while as fast as had been promised, was badly infested with rats.”
“Oh dear … surely not your—”
“Yes,” said Locke. “My wares. My very excellent wares were stored in rather lightweight
packages. I kept them out of the hold; unfortunately, this seems to have given the
rats an easier time of it. They fell upon my confections quite ravenously; everything
I carried was destroyed.”
“It pains me to hear of your loss,” said Magris. “How can I be of aid?”
“My wares,” said Locke, “were stored with my clothes. And that is the final embarrassment
of my situation; between the depredations of teeth and of, ah, droppings, if I may
be so indelicate … my wardrobe is entirely destroyed. I dressed plainly for the voyage,
and now this is the only complete set of clothes to my name.”
“Twelve gods, that is a pretty pickle. Does your employer have an account here at
Meraggio’s? Do you have credit you might draw against for the price of clothes?”
“Sadly, no,” said Locke. “We have been considering it; I have long argued for it.
But we have no such account to help me now, and my dinner engagement this evening
is most pressing; most pressing indeed. Although I cannot present the confections,
I can at least present myself in apology—I do not wish to give offense. One of our
potential clients is, ah, a very particular and picky man.
Very
particular and picky. It would not do to stand him up entirely. He would no doubt
spread word in his circles that Strollo and Sons was not a name to be trusted. There
would be imputations not just against our goods, but against our very civility, you
see.”
“Yes, some of the dons are … very firmly set in their customs. As yet I fail to see,
however, where my assistance enters the picture.”
“We are of a similar size, sir, of a fortuitously similar size. And your taste, why,
it is superlative, Master Magris; we could be long-lost brothers, so alike are we
in our sense for cuts and colors. You are slightly taller than I am, but surely I
can bear that for the few hours necessary. I would ask, sir, I would
beg
—aid me by lending me a suitable set of clothing. I must dine with dons this evening;
help me to look the part, so that my employers might salvage their good name from
this affair.”
“You desire … you desire the loan of a coat, and breeches, and hose and shoes, and
all the fiddle-faddle and necessaries?”
“Indeed,” said Locke, “with a heartfelt promise to look after every single stitch
as though it were the last in the world. What’s more, I propose to leave you an assurance
of five white iron crowns; keep it until I have returned every thread of your clothing,
and then keep it thereafter. Surely it is a month or two of pay, for so little work.”
“It is, it is … it is a very handsome sum. However,” said Magris, looking as though
he was trying to stifle a grin, “this is … as I’m sure you know, rather odd.”
“I am only too aware, sir, only too aware. Can I not inspire you to have some pity
for me? I am not too proud to beg, Master Magris—it is more than just my job at stake.
It is the reputation of my employers.”