Authors: Scott Lynch
“Lukas,” said Doña Sofia, “have you had enough food for the time being?”
“I believe I shall keep rather well, my lady.”
“Good! Why not hunt down Doña Vorchenza with me; she’s hiding down on one of the other
galleries, hunched over her knitting. If she’s lucid today, you’ll love her, I guarantee
it.”
“Doña Vorchenza,” said Reynart, “is in the northernmost apartment of the western gallery,
two floors down. Do you know the place I speak of?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sofia. “What do you say, Lukas? Let us pay our respects; Lorenzo can
circulate and work on the
important affairs
he should be looking into.”
“The matter has not slipped my mind, darling,” said Don Lorenzo with mock irritation.
“Master Fehrwight, I for my part hope the old doña is speaking Therin this evening;
you may find yourself being introduced to the equivalent of a stone statue. Or perhaps
she merely behaves that way when I’m in the room.”
“I wish I could say that it was entirely an affectation, my lord Salvara,” said Reynart.
“I should circulate for a while and try to look as though I’m actually on duty. Give
my affection to Doña Vorchenza, my lady Sofia.”
“Of course, Captain. Are you coming, Lukas?”
The doña led him to one of the wide Elderglass staircases with lacquered wooden banisters.
Softly glowing alchemical lamps in ornate casings
gleamed at the foot of the stairs; they would be lovely after dark. The layout of
the floor was the same as that of the one above; there was another fifty-foot banquet
table crowded with delicacies and wonders, and one of the strangely beautiful glass-and-gold
pyramids had been set down beside it.
Curious
, thought Locke.
“My lady Salvara,” he said, smiling and pointing, “perhaps a few attendants could
be convinced to borrow one of those sculptures when we leave, and you could have your
peek inside?”
“Oh, Lukas. If only—but one does not repay the duke’s hospitality by borrowing his
decorative fixtures on a whim. Come, we need to go down to the next level. Lukas?
Lukas, what’s the matter?”
Locke had frozen, looking straight at the staircase that led down to the level below.
Someone was just coming up that staircase—a lean and fit-looking man in a gray coat,
gray gloves, and gray breeches. His vest and four-cornered hat were black, his neck-cloths
were rich scarlet, and on his left hand he wore a very familiar ring, over the leather
of his glove; Barsavi’s ring, the black pearl of the Capa of Camorr.
Locke Lamora matched gazes with Capa Raza, his heart beating like a war galley’s drum.
The lord of Camorr’s underworld halted, dumbfounded; sheer bewilderment fluttered
across his face—a look that made mirth rise up from the bottom of Locke’s soul. Then
for the briefest second there was hatred; Raza ground his teeth together and the lines
of his face tautened. Finally he seemed to have control of himself. He twirled a gold-capped
swagger stick of lacquered black witchwood, stuck it beneath his left arm, and strolled
casually toward Locke and Doña Sofia.
“SURELY,” SAID Capa Raza, “surely, you must be a doña of Camorr; I do not believe
I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, gracious lady.” He swept off his hat
and bent from the waist at the ideal angle, right foot out before his left.
“I am Doña Sofia Salvara, of the Isla Durona,” she said. She held out her hand; he
took it and kissed the air above it.
“Your servant, my lady Salvara. I am Luciano Anatolius; charmed, my lady, quite charmed.
And your companion? Have we met?”
“I do not believe so, sir,” said Locke. “You look strangely familiar, but I’m sure
I would recall if we had met before.”
“Master Anatolius, this is Lukas Fehrwight, a merchant of Emberlain,
of the House of bel Auster,” said Sofia. “My personal guest here at the duke’s feast.”
“A merchant of Emberlain? Greetings to you, sir; why, you must be very
resourceful
, to make it all the way up here, into such rarefied circles.”
“I do what I must, sir, I do what I must. I have some unusually good friends in Camorr;
they often bring me unexpected advantages.”
“I don’t doubt it. The House of bel Auster, you say? The famous liquor merchants?
How
grand
; I’m as fond of a good draught as the next man. In fact, I prefer to make all of
my purchases by the cask.”
“Indeed, sir?” Locke smiled. “Why, that is the specialty of my firm; a great many
wonderful and surprising things come out of our casks. We pride ourselves on always
giving satisfaction—on always delivering full value for value received. Like for like,
if you take my meaning.”
“I do,” said Capa Raza, with a grim smile of his own. “An admirable business practice;
one near to my own heart.”
“But surely,” said Locke, “I remember now why you must be familiar, Master Anatolius.
Do you not have a sister? Perhaps a pair of them? I seem to recall having met them,
at some occasion—the resemblance seems
very
striking.”
“No,” said Capa Raza, scowling, “I’m afraid you’re very much mistaken; I have no sisters.
Doña Sofia, Master Fehrwight, it has been a distinct pleasure making your acquaintance,
but I fear I have pressing business elsewhere; I wish you both much pleasure at the
feast this evening.”
Locke held out his hand and put on an innocent friendly smile. “It is always a pleasure
to make new acquaintances, Master Anatolius. Perhaps we shall see each other again?”
Capa Raza glared down at Locke’s outstretched hand, then seemed to remember himself;
he could hardly refuse such a courtesy without causing a great stir. His strong hand
clasped Locke’s forearm, and Locke returned the gesture. The fingers of Locke’s other
hand twitched; if only his stiletto had not been inconveniently hidden in a boot,
he would now be tempted beyond all rational thought. “You are very good, Master Fehrwight,”
said Capa Raza with a placid face, “but I
very
much doubt it.”
“If I have learned anything about this city, Master Anatolius,” said Locke, “I have
learned that it is quite full of surprises. A very good evening to you.”
“And to you,” said Raza, “merchant of Emberlain.”
He moved quickly away into the crowd; Locke watched him all the way.
Raza turned once and their eyes locked yet again, and then the Capa was gone, up the
stairs to the next level, gray coat fluttering in his wake.
“Lukas,” said Doña Sofia, “did I miss something?”
“Miss something?” Locke gave her another innocent Fehrwight smile. “I don’t believe
so, my lady. It is just that that man greatly resembled someone I once knew.”
“A friend from Emberlain?”
“Oh no,” said Locke. “Not a friend. And the man in question is dead—he is very, very
dead.” Aware that he was clenching his teeth, he let ease return to his countenance.
“Shall we go find your Doña Vorchenza, my lady?”
“Why, yes,” said Sofia. “Yes, let’s be about it. Do follow me.”
She led him down the stairs Raza had come up, down to yet another gallery packed rim
to rim with the quality: “blue bloods and gold bloods,” as Father Chains might have
put it. Instead of a banquet table, this level held a bar—forty feet of polished witchwood
staffed by two dozen men and women in the duke’s livery. Behind them, on tables and
shelves, rose thousands upon thousands of glass bottles. Alchemical lamps had been
placed behind them, and they bathed the gallery in cascading ribbons of color. Huge
pyramids of wineglasses and beer glasses were set off to the sides of the bar, cordoned
off behind velvet ropes; one unprofessional gesture would send hundreds of crowns
worth of fine crystal crashing to the floor. Blackjackets stood at stiff attention
beside the glass-pyramids, as an added assurance. And speaking of pyramids—another
one of the lovely pyramid sculptures had been set out here, a few feet to the right
of the bar, behind one of the velvet ropes.
Doña Sofia led him to the west, past the bar and the long line of nobles waiting to
take in the liquid courage of their choice; some of them were already obviously impaired
in the fine art of standing up straight. On the western wall of the gallery there
was a heavy witchwood door bearing the silver seal of Duke Nicovante’s personal arms.
Doña Sofia pushed this door open and led him into a curving hallway lit by the soft
silver glow of alchemical lanterns. There were three doors in this hall, and Doña
Sofia brought him to the one at the far end, near what Locke supposed was the northern
wall of the tower.
“Now,” said Doña Sofia with a smirk, “it will either be Doña Vorchenza, or it will
be a pair of young people doing something they should not.…”
She slid the door open and peeked inside, and then tugged on Locke’s sleeve. “It’s
quite all right,” she whispered. “It’s her.”
Locke and Sofia were looking into a nearly square chamber with a slightly curved outer
wall; unlike the public galleries, the Elderglass surface in this part of the tower
was opaque. A single window was on the northern wall, its wooden shade cracked open
to let in the sunlight and the warm air of the late afternoon.
There was a single tall-backed wooden chair in the room, and it held a single hunchbacked
old lady; she was bent over a pair of glittering needles, utterly fixated on the unidentifiable
object that was flowing into her lap from her efforts. A few rolls of black wool yarn
lay at her feet. She was eccentrically dressed, in a man’s black coat and a pair of
dark purple pantaloons such as cavalry officers traditionally wore; her little black
slippers curved up at the ends like something from a fairy story. Her eyes seemed
to be clear behind her half-moon optics, but they didn’t look up from her knitting
when Doña Sofia led Locke into the center of the room.
“Doña Vorchenza?” Sofia cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Doña Vorchenza?
It’s Sofia, my lady.… I’ve brought someone for you to meet.”
Snick-snick, went Doña Vorchenza’s needles, snick-snick. But those eyes did not look
up.
“Doña Angiavesta Vorchenza,” said Sofia to Locke, “dowager countess of Amberglass.
She, ah … she comes and goes.” Sofia sighed. “Might I beg you to stay here with her
for just a moment? I’m going to the bar; she often takes white wine. Perhaps a glass
of it will bring her back to us.”
“Of course, Doña Sofia,” said Locke cheerfully. “I would be very honored to wait on
the countess. Fetch her whatever you feel proper.”
“Can I bring you anything, Lukas?”
“Oh, no, you are too kind, my lady. I shall have something later, perhaps.”
Sofia nodded and withdrew from the room, closing the door with a click behind her.
Locke paced for a few moments, hands behind his back.
Snick-snick, went the needles, snick-snick. Locke raised an eyebrow. The object flowing
forth from those needles remained a perfect mystery. Perhaps it wasn’t yet near completion.
He sighed, paced a bit more, and turned to stare out the window.
The green-and-brown hills spread out to the curving horizon north of the city; Locke
could see the brown lines of roads, and the particolored roofs of small buildings,
and the gray-blue of the Angevine, all fading into heat-haze and distance. The sun
suffused everything in hot white light; there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.
There was a sudden vicious stabbing pain at the back of his neck, on the left side.
Locke whirled and slapped a hand to the site of the pain; there was a bit of wetness
beneath his fingers. Doña Angiavesta Vorchenza, dowager countess of Amberglass, stood
before him, drawing back the knitting needle she had just plunged into the back of
his neck. Now her eyes were lively behind those half-moon optics, and a smile broke
out of the network of lines on her lean face.
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaah-
owwwwww
!” He rubbed at the back of his neck and maintained his Vadran accent only with the
greatest difficulty. “What the
hell
was that?”
“Grief-willow, Master Thorn,” said Doña Vorchenza. “The poison of the grief-willow
tree, which I’m sure you’ve heard of. You have but a few minutes to live … and now
I should very much like to spend them speaking to you.”
“YOU … YOU …”
“Stabbed you in the neck. Yes, well, I must confess it gave me pleasure, dear boy.
What can I say? You have led us on a
trying
chase.”
“But … but … Doña Vorchenza, I do not understand. How have I given offense?”
“You may abandon the Vadran accent. It’s excellent, but I’m afraid you won’t be able
to smile and bluff your way out of this one, Master Thorn.”
Locke sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Doña Vorchenza, if that needle was really poisoned,
why the
hell
should I bother telling you anything?”
“Now that’s a sensible question.” She reached down the front of her tunic and drew
out a little glass vial, capped with silver. “In exchange for your cooperation, I’m
prepared to offer you the antidote. You will, of course, come peacefully with me.
You’re hundreds of feet in the air, and every one of my Midnighters is currently here,
dressed as staff. You’d be rather ignominiously treated if you tried to run so much
as ten feet past that hallway.”
“Your … Midnighters … You mean—you must be fucking kidding.
You’re
the
Spider
?”
“Yes,” she said, “and by the gods, it feels good to finally fling that in the face
of someone who can appreciate it.”
“But,” said Locke, “the Spider is … or at least I thought the Spider was—”
“A man? You and all the rest of this city, Master Thorn. I have always found the presumptions
of others to be the best possible disguise—haven’t you?”
“Hmmm.” Locke chuckled morosely. A tingling numbness was spreading around the wound;
it definitely wasn’t just his imagination. “Hanged by my own rope, Doña Vorchenza.”
“You must be brilliant, Master Thorn,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I shall give you that;
to do what you’ve done, to keep my people guessing these past few years … Gods, I
wish I didn’t have to put you in a crow’s cage. Perhaps a deal could be arranged,
once you’ve had a few years to think it over. It must be very new, and very odd, to
finally have someone spring such a trap on
you
.”