Authors: Scott Lynch
“No doubt,” said Magris. “No doubt. A pity that rats cannot speak Therin; I wager
they’d offer forth a very fine testimony.”
“Six white iron crowns,” said Locke. “I can stretch my purse that far. I implore you,
sir …”
“Squeak-squeak,” said Magris. “Squeak-squeak, they would say. And what fat little
rats they would be after all that; what round little miscreants. They would give their
testimony and then beg to be put back on a ship for Talisham, to continue their feasting.
Your Strollo and Sons could have loyal employees for life; though rather small ones,
of course.”
“Master Magris, this is quite—”
“You’re not really from Talisham, are you?”
“Master Magris,
please
.”
“You’re one of Meraggio’s little
tests
, aren’t you? Just like poor Willa got snapped up in last month.” Magris could no
longer contain his mirth; he was obviously very pleased with himself indeed. “You
may inform the good Master Meraggio that my dignity doesn’t flee at the sight of a
little white iron; I would never dishonor his establishment by participating in such
a prank. You will, of course, give him my very best regards?”
Locke had known frustration on many occasions before, so it was easy enough to stifle
the urge to leap over Magris’ desk and strangle him. Sighing inwardly, he let his
gaze wander around the room for a split second—and there, staring out across the floor
from one of the second-level galleries, stood Meraggio himself.
Giancana Meraggio wore a frock coat in the ideal present fashion, loose and open,
with flaring cuffs and polished silver buttons. His coat, breeches, and cravats were
of a singularly pleasing dark blue, the color of
the sky just before Falselight. There was little surface ostentation, but the clothes
were
fine
, rich and subtle in a way that made their expense clear without offending the senses.
It had to be Meraggio, for there was an orchid pinned at the right breast of his coat—that
was Meraggio’s sole affectation, a fresh orchid picked every single day to adorn his
clothes.
Judging by the advisors and attendants who stood close behind the man, Locke estimated
that Meraggio was very close in height and build to himself.
The plan seemed to come up out of nowhere; it swept into his thoughts like a boarding
party rushing onto a ship. In the blink of an eye, he was in its power, and it was
set out before him, plain as walking in a straight line. He dropped his Talishani
accent and smiled back at Magris.
“Oh, you’re too clever for me, Master Magris. Too clever by half. My congratulations;
you were only too right to refuse. And never fear—I shall report to Meraggio himself,
quite presently and directly. Your perspicacity will not escape his notice. Now, if
you will excuse me.…”
AT THE rear of Meraggio’s was a service entrance in a wide alley, where deliveries
came in to the storage rooms and kitchens. This was where the waiters took their breaks,
as well. Newcomers to the countinghouse’s service received scant minutes, while senior
members of the staff might have as long as half an hour to lounge and eat between
shifts on the floor. A single bored guard leaned on the wall beside the service door,
arms folded; he came to life as Locke approached.
“What business?”
“Nothing, really,” said Locke. “I just wanted to talk to some of the waiters, maybe
one of the kitchen stewards.”
“This isn’t a public park. Best you took your stroll elsewhere.”
“Be a friend,” said Locke. A solon appeared in one of his hands, conveniently held
up within the guard’s reach. “I’m looking for a job, is all. I just want to talk to
some of the waiters and stewards, right? The ones that are off duty. I’ll stay out
of everyone else’s way.”
“Well, mind that you do.” The guard made the silver coin vanish into his own pockets.
“And don’t take too long.”
Just inside the service entrance, the receiving room was unadorned, low-ceilinged,
and smelly. Half a dozen silent waiters stood against the walls or paced; one or two
sipped tea, while the rest seemed to be savoring
the simple pleasure of doing nothing at all. Locke appraised them rapidly, selected
the one closest to his own height and build, and quickly stepped over to the man.
“I need your help,” said Locke. “It’s worth five crowns, and it won’t take but a few
minutes.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Locke reached down, grabbed one of the waiter’s hands, and slapped a white iron crown
into it. The man jerked his hand away, then looked down at what was sitting on his
palm. His eyes did a credible imitation of attempting to jump out of their sockets.
“The alley,” said Locke. “We need to talk.”
“Gods, we certainly do,” said the waiter, a bulldog-faced, balding man somewhere in
his thirties.
Locke led him out the service door and down the alley, until they were about forty
feet from the guard, safely out of earshot. “I work for the duke,” said Locke. “I
need to get this message to Meraggio, but I can’t be seen in the countinghouse dressed
as myself. There are … complications.” Locke waved his blank parchment pages at the
waiter; they were wrapped into a tight cylinder.
“I, ah, I can deliver that for you,” said the waiter.
“I have orders,” said Locke. “Personal delivery, and nothing less. I need to get on
that floor and I need to be inconspicuous; it just needs to be for five minutes. Like
I said, it’s worth five crowns. Cold spending metal, this very afternoon. I need to
look like a waiter.”
“Shit,” said the waiter. “Usually, we have some spare togs lying around … black coats
and a few aprons. We could fix you up with those, but it’s laundry day. There’s nothing
in the whole place.”
“Of course there is,” said Locke. “You’re wearing exactly what I need.”
“Now, wait just a minute. That’s not really possible.…”
Locke grabbed the waiter’s hand again and slid another four white iron crowns into
it.
“Have you ever held that much money before in your life?”
“Twelve gods, no,” the man whispered. He licked his lips, stared at Locke for a second
or two, and then gave a brief nod. “What do I do?”
“Just follow me,” said Locke. “We’ll make this easy and quick.”
“I have about twenty minutes,” said the waiter. “And then I need to be back on the
floor.”
“When I’m finished,” said Locke, “that won’t matter. I’ll let Meraggio know you’ve
helped us both; you’ll be off the hook.”
“Uh, okay. Where are we going?”
“Just around the corner here … We need an inn.”
The Welcoming Shade was just around the block from Meraggio’s Countinghouse. It was
tolerably clean, cheap, and devoid of luxuries—the sort of place that hosted couriers,
scholars, scribes, attendants, and lesser functionaries rather than the better classes
of businessfolk. The place was a two-story square, built around an open central space
in the fashion of a Therin Throne villa. At the center of this courtyard was a tall
olive tree with leaves that rustled pleasantly in the sunlight.
“One room,” said Locke, “with a window, just for the day.” He set coins down on the
counter. The innkeeper scurried out, key in hand, to show Locke and the waiter to
a second-story room marked “9.”
Chamber nine had a pair of folding cots, an oiled-paper window, a small closet, and
nothing else. The master of the Welcoming Shade bowed as he left, and kept his mouth
shut. Like most Camorri innkeepers, any questions he might have had about his customers
or their business tended to vanish when silver hit the counter.
“What’s your name?” Locke drew the room’s door closed and shot the bolt.
“Benjavier,” said the waiter. “You’re, ah, sure … this is going to work out like you
say it is?”
In response, Locke drew out his coin purse and set it in Benjavier’s hand. “There’s
two more full crowns in there, above and beyond what you’ll receive. Plus quite a
bit of gold and silver. My word’s as good as my money—and you can keep that purse,
here, as an assurance until I return.”
“Gods,” said Benjavier. “This is … this is all so very odd. I wonder what I’ve done
to deserve such incredible fortune?”
“Most men do nothing to deserve what the gods throw their way,” said Locke. “Shall
we be about our business?”
“Yes, yes.” Benjavier untied his apron and tossed it to Locke; he then began to work
on his jacket and breeches. Locke slipped off his velvet cap.
“I say, gray hair—you don’t look your age, in the face, I mean.”
“I’ve always been blessed with youthful lines,” said Locke. “It’s been of some benefit,
in the duke’s service. I’ll need your shoes, as well—mine would look rather out of
place beneath that finery.”
Working quickly, the two men removed and traded clothing until Locke stood in the
center of the room, fully garbed as a Meraggio’s waiter, with the maroon apron tied
at his waist. Benjavier lounged on one of the
sleeping pallets in his undertunic and breechclout, tossing the bag of jingling coins
from hand to hand.
“Well? How do I look?”
“You look right smart,” said Benjavier. “You’ll blend right in.”
“Good. You, for your part, look right wealthy. Just wait here with the door locked;
I’ll be back soon enough. I’ll knock exactly five times, savvy?”
“Sounds fine.”
Locke closed the door behind him, hurried down the stairs, across the courtyard, and
back out into the street. He took the long way around to return to Meraggio’s, so
he could enter via the front and avoid the guard at the service entrance.
“You’re not supposed to come and go this way,” said the directory guard when Locke
burst into the foyer, red-cheeked and sweating.
“I know, sorry.” Locke waved his blank roll of parchment at the man. “I was sent out
to fetch this for one of the lawscribes; one of the
private gallery
members, I should say.”
“Oh, sorry. Don’t let us keep you; go right through.”
Locke entered into the crowd on the floor of Meraggio’s for the third time, gratified
by how few lingering looks he received as he hurried on his way. He wove deftly between
well-dressed men and women and ducked out of the path of waiters bearing covered silver
trays—he was careful to give these men a friendly, familiar nod as they passed. In
moments, he found what he was looking for—two guards lounging against a back wall,
their heads bent together in conversation.
“Look lively, gentlemen,” said Locke as he stepped up before them; either one of them
had to outweigh him by at least five stone. “Either of you lads know a man named Benjavier?
He’s one of my fellow waiters.”
“I know him by sight,” said one of the guards.
“He’s in a heap of shit,” said Locke. “He’s over at the Welcoming Shade, and he’s
just fucked up one of Meraggio’s tests. I’m to fetch him back; I’m supposed to grab
you two for help.”
“One of Meraggio’s tests?”
“You know,” said Locke. “Like he did to Willa.”
“Oh, her. That clerk in the public section. Benjavier, you say? What’s he done?”
“Sold the old man out, and Meraggio’s not pleased. We really should do this sooner
rather than later.”
“Uh … sure, sure.”
“Out the side, through the service entrance.”
Locke positioned himself very carefully to make it seem as though he was confidently
walking along beside the guards when in fact he was following their lead through the
kitchens, the service corridors, and finally the receiving room. He slipped into the
lead, and the two guards were on his heels as he stepped out into the alley, waving
casually at the lounging guard. The man showed no signs of recognizing him; Locke
had seen dozens of waiters already with his own eyes. No doubt a stranger could pass
as one for quite some time, and he didn’t even need quite some time.
A few minutes later, he rapped sharply on the door of chamber nine at the Welcoming
Shade, five times. Benjavier opened the door a crack, only to have it shoved open
all the way by a stiff arm from Locke, who called up some of the manner he’d used
when he’d lectured Don Salvara as a “Midnighter.”
“It was a loyalty test, Benjavier,” said Locke as he stalked into the room, his eyes
cold. “A
loyalty
test. And you fucked it up. Take him and hold him, lads.”
The two guards moved to restrain the half-naked waiter, who stared at them in shock.
“But … but I didn’t … but you said—”
“Your job is to serve Meraggio’s customers and sustain Master Meraggio’s trust. My
job is to find and deal with men that
don’t
sustain his trust. You sold me your gods-damned uniform.” Locke swept white iron
crowns and the coin purse up from the bed; he dropped the loose coins into the leather
bag as he spoke. “I could have been a thief. I could have been an
assassin
. And you would have let me walk right up to Master Meraggio, with the perfect disguise.”
“But you … oh, gods, you can’t be serious, this can’t be happening!”
“Do these men look less than serious? I’m sorry, Benjavier. It’s nothing personal,
but you made a very poor decision.” Locke held the door open. “Right, out with him.
Back to Meraggio’s, quick as you can.”
Benjavier kicked out, snarling and crying, “No, no, you can’t, I’ve been loyal all
my—” Locke grabbed him by the chin and stared into his eyes.
“If you fight back,” said Locke, “if you kick or scream or continue to raise a gods-damned
fuss, this matter will go beyond Meraggio’s, do you understand? We will bring in the
watch. We will have you hauled to the Palace of Patience in irons. Master Meraggio
has many friends at the Palace of Patience. Your case might fall between the cracks
for a few months. You might get to sit in a spider cage and ponder your wrongdoing
until the rains of
winter
start to fall. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” sobbed Benjavier. “Oh, gods, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.…”
“It’s not me you need to apologize to. Now, like I said, let’s get him back quickly.
Master Meraggio’s going to want a word with him.”